critique

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word count: 490 words

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i hope this isn't too nitpicky, and that it is satisfactory ^^
for: babyoda1546

I walk up to the casket.

I like the idea of your opening, it sets the tone perfectly. However, I would mention how your character approaches the casket in order to show their emotional state. Do they hesitate before every step? Are they tired? Do they focus on the sky or anything else, trying to avoid the casket? It might tell us more about the personality of the character, other than their grief.

Tears fall down my face like miniature waterfalls. I had hoped this day would never come, but unfortunately, all good things come to an end. I had hoped my suspicion was wrong. For once in my life, I wanted more than anything to be proven wrong! But no. Life had other plans. Regrets fill my head. There’s so many of those. I wish I had spent more time with him. He deserved my time. He didn’t deserve this. I would do anything just to have him back. I wish I could have another grandpa hug. Those were the best kind. I wish we could have written our story. I always promised him that I’d work on it. I’d come up with ideas, but I never did.

I like how the thoughts feel fragmented, rushed even. But, some of them could be combined/shortened to have a bit more impact. For example:

• Countless regrets fill my head. (or something along those lines) instead of Regrets fill my head. There’s so many of those.

• He deserved my time, not this. instead of He deserved my time. He didn’t deserve this.

I take a deep breath and reach for his hand. When I take his hand, a dreadful feeling enters me.

Instead of “When I take his hand,” you could say:

• When I touch his cold skin,

• When I brush my fingers against his,

This is simply to avoid repetition of the word hand, and adds some more detail.

I remember how invested you were when I talked about school or softball. You were a great listener. You would always praise me and tell me how brilliant I was or give me tips for softball. I remember our swimming lessons. I always loved those.

So this is less the narration of the event and more the character's thoughts, as the body is now referred to as “you” and not “him.” However, it isn't properly distinguished. You can put the character's thoughts in italics to make the shifts more clear.
Also, I'd add the “tips for softball” part to the first sentence, as it makes sense to branch of that train of thought rather than the third one.

The first flower, a forget-me-not. A promise that I will never forget you. That I will hold your memory close to heart. That I will remember to write our book. That I will remember the dad jokes, the hugs, and the encouragement. A promise that I will remember. I lay the forget-me-not on his chest.
 
The second flower is a yellow tulip. In remembrance of your smile and laughter. I can’t help but smile when I think of you. Your terrible dad jokes always got a groan out of the family. I remember every time I gave you a hug, you’d always tease me and say how it wasn’t tight enough. I lay the tulip on his chest.

I would combine these two paragraphs and connect them, because to the character, they prompt some of the same memories. The dad jokes, the hugs. They repeat after both flowers are introduced.

These five flowers are the pain I feel now that you’re gone.

I believe this is a typo, because it was four flowers.

I want to believe you’ll pop out from behind a chair and yell “APRIL FOOLS!!!" but that won’t happen.

The all-caps is a bit jarring with the sombre tone of the piece, and the verb “yell” implies a loud noise so it isn't necessary. And here, you could break it up as:

• I want to believe you’ll pop out from behind a chair and yell, “April Fools!" But that won’t happen. It can't

Both for the friendship-like bond we shared. We had a lot in common. You were like the friend I could never have.

So a little contradictory, because your character states that their bond was “friendship-like” yet, they could never be friends. If the bond is similar to that of friends, why was it impossible for them to be so? That might be plot relevant, I might be missing something, or I've misunderstood (sorry about that then!)

Then I grab a lavender flower. It represents the relief I feel knowing you are no longer hurting. You are in heaven with your parents and grandma’s parents and God. I’m glad that you are no longer in pain. I lay the lavender down on his chest.

Since the character so far has shown desperation in having their family member stay, I think there should be conflict here.

Overall:

Really nice piece, and you've conveyed the emotions really well! I wish you described the physical environment and body-language of the character more, because that would add to the atmosphere of the piece. There is quite a bit of repetition, which I understand can be a stylistic thing and also used well in an intense moment like this, but you should be careful not to overdo it. It was a pleasure reading this, good luck with the writing competition!

character questionnaire
swc march '25

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word count: 723

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bear with me everyone i like this concept and it might be a bit lengthy and complicated, but im having so much fun so i hope yall like it as much as i do

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secret identity
name: qui
age: older teen
pronouns: any
job: student, works part time as waiter at a small café.
looks: medium brown skin, slightly wavy black hair in a shaggy and short wolf-cut, a slightly hooked nose, down-turned brown eyes, around 175 cm tall, a lean and slightly toned build.

personality: (would like to clarify this isn't like me lol, trying to have fun with a character for writing that isn't a self-insert) a very observant and soft-spoken individual. hates being the centre of attention. a witty, more sarcastic sense of humour. a very supportive and group-focused person. would make a good leader but tends to stray away from any position that requires agency. once someone gets to know them, they loosen up a bit and get a bit more assertive and opinionated. keen on making friends but isn't great at it. very compassionate and gullible, will try to find the best in people and hang onto that.

habits: fidgets with the neckline of any piece of clothing they have, wears a bunch of beaded bangles all the time (likes the sound of them), fiddles with their earrings and tends to wear large ones, either standing with arms crossed or shoved into their pockets. always sitting with their legs crossed, even on chairs.

spidersona name:

the weaver

reasoning
so the weaver's has two main jobs in combat: sniping and immobilising. i'll elaborate when discussing their powers, but essentially this means they use A LOT of web. so the place ends up looking like it's covered in white thread, and they tend to be very elaborate when immobilising their opponents.

spider powers

okay so it says two, but im listing three because one is not really a power.

1. * higher than average web output - qui biologically shoots webs (like the older spidermen if im not wrong), and their capacity for web production is pretty high. this is why they have their insanely web-reliant fighting style.

2. razor web - they can choose to make their web sharp, which is how they snipe opponents. this takes a bit more effort and can tire them out, so its not their go-to option.

3. very acute spatial awareness - with a quick scan of a location, they can memorise what all objects are present, their dimensions, locations and distances from each other. this applies to both people and inanimate objects. naturally, they are pretty good at tracking the changes in location of these objects, but that can get overwhelming.

weaknesses

1. close-range combat - they're not used to it at all, so besides basic training, they've got no practice at all. so if the opponent gets too close and qui can't get out of short-range, they're gonna have to focus on survival because there's no chance of winning.

2. water - this is very much a sensory thing. when not in full spider-person mode, qui does have a problem with water. it gets much more heightened in combat, and becomes insanely overwhelming. it leads to them losing their focus and becoming panicky.

3. clutter - too many people and too many objects gives them a massive headache, just making them much less useful in combat. they're constantly keeping track of objects whether they like it or not, so if its beyond their comfort level, it becomes borderline physically painful. they're constantly trying to improve this comfort level (now that they've got to work with a large team) but its very much a work in progress.

spider suit

their suit is all black with deep red accents around the eyes and wrists. on the wrists, its a thick band resembling meenakari bangles (just print, in a monochromatic colour scheme). they have a small red bindi in the shape of a diamond. the spider on their chest is in the silhouette of a arrowhead orbweaver in the same dark red as their bindi. their stripes are barely noticeable in a pale, almost dusty read. they've not got a border around their mask, which seems to (somehow) be darker than their suit.

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writing for foss
swc march '25

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word count: 136

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Qui's mind had been racing for a while, having been waterboarded with some insane information over the past few minutes. The forest wasn't a welcome change of scenery. Something about the sheer amount of objects was . . . annoying. They felt way more aware than—

A sudden jolt. They assumed it was the nerves. They reached behind their ear, searching for the strands of hair that they usually wrapped around their fingertips. Instead, they felt the brush of . . . was that a curl? Their brows furrowed, mood souring even more than—

Wait . . . that does not look like their hand.

Qui looked down to find an entirely new set of clothes. Oh, never mind that . . . they've got a whole new body! What in the sick, twisted world of—

swc daily - 2
swc march '25

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word count: 304
words: deceive, masquerade, ruin, ash, velvet

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Qui had three tasks right now: lurk around, find a good spot to hide, and not cause a scene. Dressed in an uncomfortably expensive suit, they had never looked better and never felt worse. The last mission hadn't gone . . . well, to put it nicely. Having injured more teammates than opponents, their confidence today wasn't high. When was it ever?

“You don't even need to deceive anyone, so calm down,” They mumbled, “You can't afford to ruin this, either.”

They've been over the plan a million times. The task at hand was simple. There were only about fifteen important people to keep track of, four of whom would cause a scene in the next twelve minutes. The teachers would take that as their cue to sneak off with Alexander to steal some data, and Qui would neutralise any threats from above.

The ballroom was glamorous, part of a hotel likely owned by some big-shot corporate psychopath. The music was timid, easily overwhelmed by hollow chitchat and plastic laughter. Qui was perched on the second floor, arms crossed, back pressed against the intricate railing. It was a masquerade event, which translated into extravagant clothes and ridiculous masks. Why were kids even allowed here?

Qui glanced at their suit again. It was made of black velvet and paired with an ash-coloured silk shirt. Its simplicity helped them remain in the shadows, but gosh, they might just bake to death. With their spider suit beneath, this outfit was a death wish. A necessary sacrifice for the cause, they supposed?

“Not your most convincing argument,” They mused.

They turned around just in time to find Ms.Ris making her way across the floor, dressed in an emerald dress that was made of frills. Qui's brows furrowed, wondering why they were moving ahead of schedule. Had something—

Crash.

event - 1
swc march '25

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word count: 486

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Qui was slouched against a tree, pinching the bridge of their nose, sporting a scowl. The pose seemed particularly snobbish, but they couldn't bring themselves to do anything about it. A headache ravaged any sense of calm they had a few minutes ago. Their fingers found their way to the neckline of their shirt, rubbing the fabric between them. While everyone was swinging around like circus performers, Qui was falling victim to dehydration. That's true hero material.

A person was approaching on their right. Wait, how did they know that?

“Hiding in plain sight, I see.” A familiar voice spoke, and Qui could hear her smile. They turned to face Ms.Kenzie, their gaze apologetic.

“Less hiding, more grimacing.” They responded.

“I see. You're not joining the others?” She said, gesturing to a figure passing overhead. Qui promptly shook their head, arms crossed, as they stared at their sneakers.

“My head hurts. It's a lot, sorry.” They replied, hoping not to disappoint their teacher.

“What are you apologising for? I understand; don't worry. This whole situation is a lot,” She said, gently placing a hand on their shoulder. Qui gave her a small, thin-lipped smile.

“It's not just the information,” They said hesitantly, “I feel like I know everything around me, if that makes sense?”

Ms.Kenzie hummed, her brows furrowed as she formulated her response. “You were always pretty observant. Perhaps the spider made it more intense?” She proposed.

“That makes sense,” They mumbled with a shrug. She flashed them a bright smile.

“We're making progress! No need for you to sulk here anymore.” She beamed. Qui frowned once again, avoiding her hopeful gaze.

“Isn't that, I don't know, kind of lame?” They asked, voice small.

“No! No, of course not.” She stated swiftly, giving them a gentle pat on the back.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure we've got someone shooting lasers out of their eyes. And a body swapper, which is so freaky! And I've got . . . how do I put it? It feels like I'm a budget Sherlock Holmes.“ Qui clarified, immediately regretting their rambling.

Before they could manage to blurt out an apology, Ms.Kenzie burst out laughing. Qui grew even more awkward, which shouldn't have been possible.

”Qui, there's a lot to unpack there. Good thing we've got time, eh? Now, you need slingers?“ She asked between giggles.

”Slingers, ma'am?“ Qui repeated.

”Oh, if you don't produce web, we've got some fancy tech. A true commitment to the whole spider theme, if you get what I mean.“ She said.

”Oh, I think I got that covered,“ Qui replied, flicking their wrists. A thin stream of web stretched towards a nearby branch. They did not want to know how that worked, intently avoiding the sight of their arms.

”Fascinating! Now, why don't we get some water?" Ms.Kenzie said, to which Qui answered with a curt nod.

What had they got themselves into?

weekly - 1
swc march '25

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Part One - Language and Culture

word count: 398

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Wersha is a world built on bl00d and perfunctory alliances. However, pockets among the fridges face hardships far too dire for one to care for urban discriminatory philosophies. We look at the village of Teer, home to three main sects: the weavers, merchants and blacksmiths.

The weavers find themselves concentrated on the slopes of the nearby mountains. However, many have begun to trickle into the heart of the city. They tend to speak at a lower volume, and are known to prefer lengthy anecdotes as a way to convey affection. Due to their borderline obsession with family and familiar organisation, they tend to be paranoid towards anyone not related to them by bl00d. This lack of trust faded away as villages such as Teer began to pop up, and their bond with merchants strengthened. Weavers appreciate labour and handmade items, no matter how poorly made. It is the sentiment that matters. Their language is melodic, and only through practice can one figure out where one word starts and another ends. It consists of predominantly nasal and hissing sounds.

The merchants that live in villages such as Teer tend to be urban failures, but many seek temporary residence in the cheap inns due to their nomadic lifestyle. Teeran merchants have worked honestly for generations in order to gain the trust of the inhabitants, a significant distinction from their urban counterparts. However, many things have remained. They are often individualistic and materialistic, which earns some disdain from the weavers up above. Merchants tend to foster ambition and wit into their youth. Intellect can earn you a massive amount of respect amongst merchants, irrespective of whether your personality is deserving of it. Cunning and methodical, merchants make it their responsibility to make travellers' time in Teer quite the adventure.

The blacksmiths don't often exist in such a sizeable population outside of the larger cities of Wersha, but Teer seems to be the exception. They are a tight-knit community, loving all members regardless of lineage. Honesty, loyalty and camaraderie are pillars of their culture. Act against these values, and their love is no longer unconditional. A great respect for the past exists among them. The blacksmiths speak in short phrases, deep and often constituted of consonant sounds (T, H, S, R, to be specific). A large amount of communication takes place through facial expressions and body language, making inference an essential skill.


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Part Two - Geography and Memorable Locations









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Part Three - Technology

word count: 512

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Yerkhan R'eh created Keshmet's disc out of love, and, though she'd never admit it, boredom. Named after her son, the device was a disc of metal with a hole in the centre, and his name was inscribed along the edge. The creation was of no value other than its sentimentality, yet the bl0 0dshed that followed seems to prove otherwise.

The disc gained popularity due to its simplicity. Young blacksmiths found it an excellent starting point while transitioning into more complicated works. Eventually, the toy became a standard gift, with short messages inscribed instead of a name. Exchanged by l0 vers, family, friends and such, Wershans often owned several of them, and the blacksmiths' pockets were never empty.

However, things changed in the seaside city of Perkha. Often blanketed with smog, Perkha is dull and blue, with its people sharing its silent and ominous personality. Besides the bustling ports and dockyards, the only other place of fervent activity is the Te Herkhanan Castle. Monarch Fresha had a dense network of spies all across Wersha, and decided to use the discs to her advantage. She developed a code similar to the blacksmiths' script and hired a few from neighbouring allies.

Perkha grew in power and influence, much to their rivals' dismay. Ge'Rhena and Hersh were severely weakened as Perkhan nobility trickled into the upper class and gained more control over their political systems. When Ge'Rhena's leader, Herthan The Bold, managed to capture several spies, he finally discovered the actual use of the discs.

Ge'Rhena and Hersh joined forces to (_) out Perkhan spies, resulting in a brutal mil!tary rule in both cities. Innocent Perkhan merchants, businessmen and sailors faced the brunt of v!olence while the spies fled back to Perkha. Fresha waged war against Herthan and Yikh (the newly crowned king of Hersh).

The w@r lasted about a decade, with both sides facing far more losses than victories. Ge'Rhena k!l led Perkhans by the hundreds and pillaged nearby villages to gain more power and security. Furthermore, the execution of prominent nobles made the political atmosphere more turbulent than ever. Herthan tried to impose his will on Yikh, deeming him gullible due to his young age, but Hersh chose to set itself apart from its v!olent ally.

Hersh focused on reformist policies and chose to imprison the Perkhans. Their military rule was incredibly harsh, but the bl00dshed was far less compared to that of Ge'Rhena. This resulted in a more sympathetic relationship between Yikh and Monarch Fresha and, in the future, between Yikh and Monarch Ureshat.

The tide changed when Hersh betrayed Ge'Rhena, having been offered an excellent diplomatic trade deal by the placid ruler of Perkha, Monarch Ureshat. Enraged by Yikh's betrayal, Herthan attempted to invade Hersh. Now backed by the robust Perkhan army, Hersh stood its ground. In the counteroffensive, Ge'Rhena was decimated and looted, engulfed in an orange blaze that outshined the stars. The surviving inhabitants fled to the nearby plains and founded the humble yet large village of Weshkan. Hersh and Perkha remain allies, and the disc has returned to its original use.

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Part Four - Incorporating Your World Into Your Writing

word count: 1000

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Kishmet's brows furrowed as Terrilk marched towards her, his hands clenched around a bouquet of scrolls. Sweat raced down the length of his thick arms, and she eyed his bare wrists and unpainted nails.

“Not feeling fancy today, are we?” She called out loud and booming to cover the distance between them. She scanned the crowd behind them in search of Usma's head of brown hair.

“Huh?” He asked, finally standing beside her with his arms crossed and shifting his weight onto his left leg. She towered over his hunched frame, looking down to meet his gaze. He smiled and reached for her pocket. He stuffed his hand in, earning a startled squeal, and drew out a crumbled cloth the colour of rust. Just as she was about to protest, he brought it to his forehead and let out a sigh. She scowled at the now damp cloth.

“Weather's been quite horrible, hasn't it? I've been meaning to visit Usma's place to escape the heat.” He chided, standing on his toes to get a better view of the crowd. The two of them were standing just outside the school gates, a few steps away from the bustling crowd of students celebrating someone's birthday, or something. Kishmet couldn't care less. Terrik adjusted his purple trousers and coffee blouse. He brushed his hands against the geometric embroidery on the sleeves and shoved his hands and Kishmet's cloth into his pockets. Well, now it was all his.

Kishmet stood still, much more used to the heat than her short friend. Usma was probably going to wish the stranger out of courtesy, which was stupid, but so was Usma.

“What's in your hand?” Kismet questioned, brow raised. Terrik grinned and shoved them against her chest.

“I'm going to Perkha with Jannik next week!” He beamed, unfurling the sheets of paper to show an ugly poster for some event. She wasn't fluent in their dialect of nur but could make out some of the stalls. She recognised Jannik's name amongst several others and expected she'd be selling her trademark Teeran cloth. Perkhans loved it; she'd heard from Tresh.

“Guys!” A nasal voice called out, and the two of them turned to face a frantic Usma. They were running towards Terrik and Kishmet, arms flailing and mouths hanging open. Kishmet struggled to contain her laugh while Terrik's smile widened.

“Oh look, it's my favourite person in all of Wersha!” Terrik said, looking Kishmet straight in the eye and engulfing Usma in a painful hug. Usma forced a thin smile, having grown used to Terrik's very physical displays of affection. Kishmet smiled at Usma, warm and sympathetic.

“Hi Terrik, hey Kish. Also, all of Wersha? Seriously?” Usma mumbled and recoiled from Terrik. They were wearing a lilac blouse with subtle embroidery all over and a faded blue skirt with a golden hem.

“You're wearing Tresh's clothes?” Usma asked Kishmet, grabbing the sleeve of their copper shirt. The fabric was rough and worn, probably given away its age. Her dad had made the buttons, and as she squinted at them, she noticed a small ‘T’ engraved into them. Oh, that's what gave it away.

“Not his trousers, though,” Kishmet said, pointing at her new pair. They were the colour of the night sky, with small specks of silver scattered throughout. The silver matched her earrings, which resembled some flower her father had come up with. Perhaps it was real; who knows?

Usma hummed, and Terrik shoved the poster in their face. Usma stepped back, eyes wide in surprise, unable to read anything from that close.

“Terrik is going to Perkha,” Kishmet explained, and Usma nodded.

“During this season?” Usma asked, brows raised, swatting the poster to the side. Terrik frowned, clearly having not thought of that before. Kishmet smirked to his dismay, angering him further.

“Oh, shut up, Kishy. Who cares if it's dull? I mean, it's always dull in Perkha!” He argued.

“True,” Usma chirped.

“I didn't even say anything,” Kishmet drawled, her smirk remaining.

“Shut up. Now, can we go meet your dad?” He asked, giving Kishmet an affectionate shove on her broad back. Usma twirled a lock of hair around her nimble finger absentmindedly.

“What for?” Kishmet whined. She was certain Terrik preferred her father's company to hers. Usma's head perked up at the proposition, too.

“I've got a little gift for him!” He exclaimed, walking away from the school to the shade of a nearby tree. He rummaged through his many pockets, and after a minute, he victoriously pulled out a thin bronze disc. It looked pretty grimy and old, which confused Kishmet.

“You plan on insulting my father?” Kishmet mused, and Usma stifled a giggle. Terrik glared at both of them, letting out a dramatic huff.

“No! Harrent brought it from Perkha; he reached yesterday, remember? It's from the war we learnt about,” Terrik explained. Kishmet's eyes widened, curious how Herrent got his hands on the thing. Usma gasped, hands covering her mouth. The war led to the formation of Weshkan, a neighbouring village much larger than Teer. It was primarily inhabited by farmers, if Kishmet wasn't wrong. How was she forgetting the stuff she learnt today? Tresh could never know. He'd never let her hear the end of it.

“No way!” Usma said, in awe of the formerly unimpressive slab of metal. Kishmet tried to grab it from Terrik's grasp, but Terrik manoeuvred it out of her reach with aggravating ease.

“No! You can take it after I give it to your father! You're the least trustworthy person in all of Teer. Wait, not even all of Teer, all of Wersha!” He said, picking up the pace and putting some distance between them.

“Oh, that's mean, Terrik,” Usma said, giving Kishmet an apologetic look.

“Whatever, tiny boy,” Kishmet said.

“I'm not tiny!” He protested, still refusing to turn behind and meet Kishmet's eyes.

“Want to stand beside me and check?”

“Shut up, you boulder!”

“Oh, quit it, you id!ots,” Usma sighed, exasperated.

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total word count: 398+512+1000 = 1910

spidey suit (cabin wars)
swc march '25

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word count: 521

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Qui examined the 3-D model of their spider suit, eyeing it up and down, trying to absorb everything Ms.Kenzie was saying like a sponge. She was rambling about how sturdy the material was, how to put it on, the nanotech behind how it functioned, etc. While boring in theory, Qui knew they didn't have a choice but to pay attention. Plus, it was Ms.Kenzie. Her enthusiasm for all things mundane was infectious. But did a spider-themed costume for spider-people count as mundane? They supposed not.

They scanned the luminous model again, observing the patterns along the wrists and the spider sprawled across the chest. The whole thing . . . quite suited them. No pun intended.

“You've done a good job with the design, Qui. I made some minor adjustments, but everything is as you had envisioned. That works?” Ms.Kenzie asked, brows raised in anticipation. Qui nodded, unable to keep themselves from grinning. It would be impossible not to feel awesome in that thing.

“So, does this help with any of my abilities?” They asked. Ms.Kenzie nodded, running a hand through her rich brown hair.

“So, to account for what your job will be, we've made the suit somewhat camouflaging. Not explicitly, but it can slightly shift saturation and hue to make it less noticeable. Your lenses are a little fancy, enabling you to see in the dark, and it's got some heat sensing, too. Anything that will help you notice stuff from your little nest, understood?” Ms.Kenzie clarified, tone a little more stern than before. They assumed she was probably visualising their role in a serious mission or something. Oh gosh, they were dreading the missions.

“Understood, ma'am” They mumbled.

“Excellent. Now, I'm going to talk to you a little about the stuff we're going to do outside of our headquarters.” Ms.Kenzie continued, tone softening. Probably to ease Qui, but it didn't quite work. They frowned despite their best efforts to appear neutral.

“I'm going to be very honest, you're gonna have a bumpy ride.” Ms.Kenzie began, speaking slowly as she placed a hand on their shoulder. The model switched off, the room darkening without its dull blue glow. “I think there's more to your abilities, stuff that will only bubble to the surface in moments of danger. Which means it's going to take a few tries for you to reach your potential, okay?”

Qui knew what she meant: they were going to disappoint her in the first few missions. How was Qui supposed to be okay with that?

Ms.Kenzie seemed to notice their frustration and promptly added, “But that's alright! I promise, okay. Trust me, we've all messed stuff up. God, the number of burns I've given Ris and Ayla!” She chuckled, gently nudging Qui. Qui forced a smile, arms crossed, nails digging into the flesh of their biceps.

“Clear as day,” Qui said, mustering up as much confidence as they could. They still sounded hesitant, but the response seemed to satisfy their teacher. They left the room, Qui trailing behind Ms.Kenzie, trying impossibly hard to remain optimistic. How bad it could possibly go?

Very. The answer is very.

nature's child (cabin wars)
swc march '25

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word count: 299

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The variations of hue in the sky were subtle but enough to take her breath away. Clouds streaked across the baby blue and lilac, sharing these slight variations in colour. The skyline was a jagged, imperfect little thing, with buildings jutting out of the ground in unimaginative rectangles. She could see the glass windows — thousands of little eyes staring right back at her. There are so many, and in each one, a story lies. A story so complicated and personal and isolated. She found it almost as breathtaking as the sky. Almost.

Plumes of green stretched in thin lines between concrete homes, lush and inviting. She wonders how they have the heart to take an axe to them. The last one they brought down was god-like, the kind you see in movies, with leaves cascading down branches like water. It seemed as if nature had draped the n(_)ked wood with foliage, carefully and skilfully. She noticed a pair of men walking along the now barren land, their bicycle leaving a thin trail in the dry mud. They laugh and cheer in their pale shirts among what remains of that glorious testament to nature. A few neglected branches remain, still dressed as a sign of protest. It's beautiful, but she forces herself to look away.

She cranes her neck up once more, gaze fixed upon the clouds that patiently drift by. It's so slow out here. Unlike the cars she watches on the television, or the people who sprint to school, or her mother slaving away over the stove. Unlike herself, when she talks and thinks and walks and sings and moves. So she stays for a moment in the slowness of it all, lost in the chirping of the birds overhead and the rumble of the engines below.

critique

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

word count: 652 (total), 585 (critique)
for: CleverComment

note: So I've not looked at any grammar and spelling (though it may appear that way because I tend to be very line-specific), however I did some suggestions on word choices in reference to personality, tone, and clarity. At the end I've given a general thoughts that's less specific ^^ I had a really fun time reading your piece, I'm SO SO invested in Hugo's story <33

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Hugo didn’t want to become a map-maker, yet it is what he ended up doing.

Okay, strong beginning but cliché. That is not an issue because his detachment from his job is pretty pivotal to the character, but I would remove “yet it is what he ended up doing” for two reasons:

• One: It is repeated at the end of the para. That is redundant, and you could remove the mention from the ending (Yet decision led to decision, and over the course of a few years, Hugo became a map-maker.) but I prefer the secong introduction to his circumstance rather than the beginning.
  

• Two: It is implied. This is a cliché beginning, readers will assume that the only reason it's been brought up is because that's what his job is now. Most readers, at least.
  

He learned of the stories that could be told with the placement of landmarks; of the journey of cities and forests and rivers and mountains; and of the compass rose at the bottom-right, guiding users to their ending.

Two things:

• The “journey of cities” sounds odd. I understand it with rivers and mountains (because journey suggests a trail, if you get what I mean? And these things tend to resemble paths) but with cities, I would use something less organic and continuous. Clusters, speckles, and constellations even (for some little foreshadowing, but not my preferred option out of those three) might be more effective.
  

• “guiding users to their ending” is again redundant. That's what compasses do, your reader can infer that. Instead, I would add an adjective before ‘compass rose.’ Intricate, perhaps?
  

One day. Hugo was approached by Nicolas, a frequent commissioner for his creations. But something in Nicolas’s eyes revealed that this commission was going to be different.

Pretty solid introduction of Nicolas, however ‘for his creations’ is not needed. And since you have commissioner stated in the previous sentence, the ‘this commission’ is again, just repetition. This is very nitpicky, but I would just say something like:

• his request today
  

He was a short, portly man who always had something to say. He might as well have been a schoolboy if you didn’t look at the faint wrinkles on his face.

Hugo smiled politely and returned the greeting. He didn’t know what to expect - Nicolas was about as predictable as the weather.

“So.” Nicolas said, putting his palms on the table where Hugo sat. “I have a proposition for you, and it’s going to be a little different than the usual ones.”

• “if you didn't look at the faint wrinkles” is not a great choice. People are always looking at them, they just don't notice. So I would use a verb that conveys that instead.
  

• I would like to see Hugo's greeting, and convey his hesitation through that rather than telling us that he was suspicious of whatever Nicolas was going to propose.
  

“France’s capital — Paris. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course,” Hugo replied. Everybody nearby was talking about Paris recently; people had been moving there lately — more than ever, so naturally, talk spread around.

“I want you to make me a map of it.”

It took a minute for the words to register. Paris — the city? One of, if not the most, populated cities in the world? The capital of France, with its beautiful architecture? “You mean,” Hugo said, “you want me to make a map of Paris?”

Nicolas nodded, grinning with his teeth wide. “You heard me. I met some government officials; they wanted to spread the word of the city around Europe. Specifically, they wanted a map to be made. So I told them of the best map-maker I knew, and that’s you.” Nicolas looked down at Hugo’s drawing desk, a sparkle in his eyes.

• With Nicolas' “France’s capital — Paris. Have you heard of it?” Is he trying to be condescending? Again, its established later that Paris is pretty well-known, I cannot think of another reason to ask that question. If that is your intention, add an adverb or something about his tone / body language to convey same because I like the idea of a condescending yet cordial relationship.
  

• Instead of 'talk spread around, I think using a simile to add a bit more character is a good idea. Perhaps ink bleeding through paper? Something related to his job.
  

• “a sparkle in his eyes” slightly unclear who that's referring to, but not a major thing.
  

This was the thing that would satisfy the part of him that yearned for something more: the ability to change the world.

I think you can end this sentence at ‘yearned for something more’ because his ambition to change the world is already established.

The two shake hands.

The previous para ends with them shaking hands (described differently) so I think a better use of this beat is to add a short yet impactful emotional description.

other:

• I like the idea behind the ending, very lovely!
  

• I would like a bit more character through dialogue. Is Nicolas very pretentious in how he talks, how formal is Hugo with this commissioners, etc? This could've been explored more to depict more personality.
  

• I love your writing style! I think the pacing is very solid, I love the concept and you've got great variety in your sentences. You are also very good at introducing the setting through dialogue and thoughts. I think you just need to work on editing, and perhaps and character voice atmosphere (though this is very minor). Great stuff Clever!
  

weekly - 4
swc march '25

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

note: imagine like small time gaps between each prompt pls

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

unexpected scenario (390/200)

Orric's morning couldn't have possibly been worse. His robes had been decimated by some six-legged nuisances, his informants had come back empty-handed, Amyntas was whining like a child, and Krygus was nowhere in sight. Nyra scowled as he stormed into her room, interrupting her elaborate morning ritual.

“Gods, did you sleep beside a swarm of bees?” she mumbled, brow raised, halfway through braiding her hair. She was seated at her smaller desk, the dark wood covered in an assortment of things. An impressive collection of combs stood out, most of which Orric had gifted her.

“Where's Krygus?” he demanded, not bothering to keep his tone level. He and Nyra were well past that stage. His hands froze momentarily, just long enough for him to notice. Her shoulders tensed as she turned to face him. The silence between them was devoid of its usual comfort and ease, instead heavy and saturated with something that might be better left unsaid.

“Have you not had any briefings yet, Prince? It's been a long time since sunrise,” she said, her eyes darting across the room, intently avoiding his. He leaned against the wall nearest to her, arms crossed.

“I've got no information regarding him,” he muttered, hesitant. She met his gaze, disgustingly apologetic. She noticed his earrings, the ones Krygus had gifted him last week. They were ugly and gaudy scraps, as per every other person who had seen them, but he clung to them like a spoiled child.

“He's . . .” she failed to string the words together. She raked a hand through her hair, her fingers lost in the dense bush of curls.

“Off travelling?” he offered dryly.

“No,” she said. Orric smiled politely, patiently awaiting some sort of clarity. It wasn't like Krygus to simply pack his things and leave, much less clean his room afterwards. But something was amiss about her recurring slouch and the defeated sighs she didn't bother hiding.

“You don't know.” he realised, his voice wavering for the first time in months. There was that silence again, sending shivers down his spine and squeezing the air out of his lungs. With a defeated shake of her head, Nyra stood up and held his hands firmly. He felt her callouses brush against his skin, and her jagged nails dig into his flesh.

“I don't have the slightest clue,” she whispered.


receiving a message from an unknown person (274/150)

Orric marched to Krygus' room and swung the doors open with a newfound sense of anger. The cleanliness took him aback, which would be amusing if he had the time to think about it. He raced in, slammed the door behind him, and began rummaging like a petty thief through the crates.

Oh, this stupid man, what is he up to this time?

The place was wiped clean of any trace of its previous inhabitant, which Orric found . . . incomprehensible. Krygus had this marvellous quality of leaving his mark on everything he touched, whether Orric liked it or not. The furniture and walls had almost looked repainted, and the many mirrors were scrubbed clean. When he settled onto the mattress, it struck him with alarming clarity—

“It's a rune,” he mumbled, now able to observe the faint traces of the magic smothering the space. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, a hint of beige. He turned to his right and was face to face with a letter right beside him. Taunting him. It wasn't sealed, instead folded haphazardly into quarters. He unfurled it, assured that no more spells were awaiting him. He skimmed over it in search of any clue as to who had written it. The handwriting was nothing like Krygus'. The words bled into each other, forcing him to put much more effort into reading it than he'd like.

There's no seal, either. How strange.

Concern and curiosity wrapped themselves around his heart. A minute passed, and just as he heard a knock on the door, he put the pieces together.

“Don't miss him too much,” he read out loud. Marvellous.


getting out of their comfort zone (354/200)

“A note?” Nyra asked. She was all dolled up for no good reason.

“The place reeked of magic, too,” he said, making his way to his desk. Orric's room was large, but nothing compared to Amyntas' — a point Nyra adored to bring up. Nyra stood beside him, peering over his shoulder. He placed the letter on his desk. The rune in Krygus' room wasn't new, at least a few hours old, and fairly weak. He noticed parts of it were rushed, much like the letter itself.

“Abduction,” she sneered, her thin crimson lips curled in a frown. The fabric of her dress glimmered in the dim sunlight from the window. It was the same inky colour as his blouse. The sleeves wrapped themselves tightly around her muscular arms. That looked uncomfortable.

“I hope so,” Orric said, pinching the bridge of his nose. She shot him a look of surprise but decided to remain silent. A smart choice.

“You need to organise a manhunt. It should be pretty simple with your network,” she said, more to herself.

“It's been years since I've . . .” he groaned and threw his head back. Nyra let out a sigh and examined the letter once more.

“I told you it was a bad idea letting Krygus gain this much control,” Nyra said with a sad smile.

“I will shove this letter down your throat,” he grumbled. Her expression soured immediately.

“He was—”

“Excellent. He was excellent; is that clear?” Orric stated. She replied with a half-hearted nod. “We'll discuss the necessary course of action in an hour. Could you ask Maccus to meet with me as well? He might know of some chitter amongst the guards on duty this morning.”

Nyra strode out of the room in a poor attempt to hide her frustration. Krygus' disappearance could mean many things, and none were good. To make matters worse, it's been far too long since he'd got his hands dirty. His father's tasks had confined him to petty and sophisticated politics, filled to brim with contracts, bribes and trade agreements. Not this.

“What a fool you've become,” he said under his breath.


working with others (357/150)

Maccus, Nyra and Amyntas were on time, much to Orric's relief.

“Is anyone else missing from the premises?” Nyra asked, sitting beside Amyntas on the couch. It did not escape Orric how close the two had been for a week, though that was a matter for another time. Maccus leaned against the door, arms folded, and thick brows furrowed in concentration. He made Amyntas look tiny, much to the latter's dismay. The sleeves of his mustard shirt were rolled up to his elbows, but the material far too flimsy to remain as such.

“No, I've spoken with the guards. To make things worse, Prince Orric, no one was seen leaving or exiting the whole night.” Maccus said.

“That's expected. There was a horrid teleportation rune in his room. You've sent out word, Nyra?” Orric said.

“Everyone's been updated or will be within the next couple of hours. We've ruled out him wilfully leaving?” Nyra said. Orric's jaw tensed. He had skilfully ignored that possibility up until then.

Amyntas, probably sensing Orric's discomfort, shook his head. “He's got no reason to, you know that.”

“Any relationships that haven't been amicable as of late, Princes?” Maccus asked, his chin tilted upwards. His warm brown had always reminded Orric of Krygus.

Both brothers shook their heads.

“Great, we've got no starting point,” Nyra whined, rolling her eyes. Amyntas let out a chuckle, earning a sigh of disapproval from both Orric and Maccus.

“Also, the letter you showed me,” Amyntas said, “I went through every piece of paper with writing I could find. Not a single match!”

“Gods, who has Krygus gotten involved with?” Orric groaned, his face buried in his palms. His mind raced, tapping into every conversation he could remember with Krygus. There wasn't much from the past few weeks, of course, and nothing significant stood out from the past.

“How about we move to the Seventh Hallway? There must be a nicer place to discuss such things,” Amyntas offered.

“Go ahead,” Orric said, voice muffled. Maccus promptly left the room, and Nyra followed suit. Amyntas waited a minute, and Orric completely ignored him, before he ran behind them.


struggling to let something go (273/200)

The rest of the meeting went by in a haze. An hour passed, after which they decided it was a good time to involve Her Majesty. She was fuming, having been too busy to get roped into this mess earlier.

She ought to be glad that she had a morning worth enjoying.

Orric's head began to throb. Krygus had been acting . . . suspicious for a while. He had attributed it to a thousand things, but could it prompt him to leave? With some stranger's help? The whole story seemed improbable, but he couldn't get rid of the feeling that there was some truth to it. He could barely come to terms with the fact that Krygus was gone; how was he supposed to figure out who he frolicked off with? He fidgeted with the earrings. Were their arguments an omen for this? Orric hadn't considered them to be serious, quite frankly.

How did the intruder manage to go through Orric's security runes? He wasn't one to speak highly of his magic, but a novice shouldn't be able to move through the palace undetected. Not with runes like Orric's. Gods, he hadn't even thought of that yet.

Orric rushed out of the meeting as early as he could. He went straight to Krygus' room, searching once again for anything. He'd take whatever scraps he could find. Whatever spell was cast to clean the room wasn't a rune, but he could begin to feel it peel off the surfaces. The faint scent of Krygus' perfume was all it took for a tear to spill. A low, guttural groan escaped him as he sunk into the mattress.


new / unfamiliar tech (275/150)

“What cursed piece of junk have you brought me?” Orric asked, impassive. Amyntas managed a soft smile that melted away Orric's will to appear unaffected.

“It's for stress, kid,” Amyntas replied. He shoved the metal thing into Orric's palm, not giving his younger brother any time to protest. “Just fiddle with it. You'll feel better, I promise.”

“Who said anything about stress?” Orric collapsed onto Amyntas' bed, envious of how soft it was. He tossed the device to the side. It was a series of rings welded around a sphere, he guessed. It was a dull gold, tinted green, with a grainy sheen under the candlelight. Something was engraved on one of the rings.

“No one needs to say anything. You're not a good actor, you know.” Amyntas adjusted the collar of his robes. The gold fabric was crinkled beyond imagination, much to Orric's disgust. Amyntas took off his cloak and draped it over the nearest chair.

“I'm quite talented at putting on a show. How do you think I handle the socialites?”

“Sure, kid.”

“That nickname is outdated by a decade at least, Amyntas.”

“Just calm down before ordering everyone around, okay? We need you on the top of your game.”

Orric sighed in response, lying face down. He felt the surface beneath his warp as Amyntas sat beside him. Amyntas kneaded the flesh on Orric's bicep, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric of Orric's blouse. Orric grabbed the device, curiosity piqued, and ran it between his fingers. It brought him a slight sense of satisfaction, begrudgingly.

“Knew you'd like it,” Amyntas smirked.

“I'll shove it down your throat, Crown Prince.”


overestimating abilities (314/200)

“You think you can . . . Wait, explain the whole plan again,” Nyra said with a shake of her head.

“To put it simply, I'll go through and redo every rune I've cast in the castle, and hopefully, I can find the gaps. Someone went through every single one undetected, which shouldn't even be possible.” Orric replied.

“How long is this going to take, Prince?” Maccus asked. Orric let out a tch before attempting to calculate. He'd never done something like this, though it should be possible. He might even find out if Krygus passed through any of the runes, which might prove to be helpful.

“Forget about that. This sounds exhausting.” Amyntas piped in, voice heavy with concern.

“Everything about magic is exhausting, brother.” Orric chided.

“It took you years to set up these runs, kid, I don't think—”

“Some idiot has managed to crack every single one of them,” Orric said, his tone firm. Amyntas sighed, earning a sympathetic look from Nyra. Those two need to get a room, gods. “Which means something has gone gravely wrong in some nook and cranny, and it's my job to find it.”

“If I may, Prince Orric?” Maccus spoke. Orric nodded. “From my understanding of your abilities, this will drain the life out of you. Perhaps not literally, but you'll be bedridden for a week at least. And that's if we face no particular issues.”

“Are you suggesting that I am incapable?” Orric demanded.

“Prince, I'm not—”

“Maccus has a point,” Nyra said, “We need a different plan,”

“Why don't all of you fall at Queen Eratos' feet and tell me what she'd like to do. I doubt you all would have any complaints then.” Orric grumbled. Nyra rolled her eyes. Maccus suddenly seemed very intrigued with the floor, and Amyntas cursed under his breath. Orric pinched the bridge of his nose before muttering a few apologies.


meaningful music (156/150)

A few hours had passed since Orric had decided to simply rot in his room. Amyntas and Nyra were working together on . . . something, and Maccus was discussing alternative plans with Eratos. He was sprawled across his couch, fiddling with Amyntas' gift.

The letter nagged at him, holding him back while he tried to clear his head. There had to be more clues, either in conversations, the ugly room, or the stupid letter.

A hum escaped him as the toy fell onto the desk. Gods, he hadn't noticed the sheen of sweat on his palms. He sang a short tune, tossing the metal from one hand to another. He repeated it over and over, adding his own little flourishes, grateful for the sense of calm it washed over him. It cut through the stale silence of the place.

It took him a minute to realise it was the one Krygus used to whistle while sparring with Amyntas.


changing appearance (232/200)

Orric had snuck into Nyra's room through the secret passage. It wasn't a very well-kept secret, he had to admit, but the routes were far too confusing for anyone to bother using them. Well, anyone except for Orric and Nyra. He hoped.

He cautiosuly made his way to the desk she was seated at in the morning. A few things caught his eye: the bloody pigment she brushed across her lips, the gold flecks she dusts onto her cheeks, and the kohl he'd never seen her wear. He tied his hair, not bothering to braid it. He took a seat after brushing some dust off her chair.

This fiasco was . . . a futile attempt to improve his mood. They made Nyra happy, maybe they'd have a similar affect on him.

And so, while Nyra was off to meet some of the nobility, Orric was painting his face like a child. But as he brushed the pigment onto his skin, his frustration only grew. What kind of sick human being had the patience to do this every morning? Why does she even—

It hit him like a storm. Krygus had bought such items recently. He had tried to hide them from Orric by shoving them into a linen pouch. That was a week ago, when Orric had visited Krygus' room. A particularly infuriating week, and Krygus was particularly elusive —

He needed to meet Eratos.


great/perfect actually bad (321/100)

“You're telling me that he's been acting suspicious for an extended period of time, long enough that you've grown wary, and you didn't think to tell anyone?” Eratos cried. Oddly enough, Orric was the only person she was comfortable being angry with. He had sprinted to her room, afraid the thought would escape him if he didn't let it out immediately. He regretted the decision the moment the words came out of his mouth. He should've confided in someone kinder.

“I didn't . . . Forget it. How often had he sent things out of the palace to Pandion?” Orric said, defeated. Eratos flipped through the records once more.

“Krygus told me that he was planning on purchasing new items and, hence, sent the old ones back to his father. The contents did strike me as odd, but I assumed you didn't have a problem with them.” Eratos said, “The issue lies with the fact that Pandion, according to your brother, was sending the same packages to Tr'Heren.”

“Tr'Heren? He's got no acquaintances in the area.” Orric said, brow raised.

“One of our spies died there in the last month,” Eratos mumbled.

“What?” Orric spat. Eratos glared at him in disbelief.

“Krygus didn't . . . He was supposed to handle recruiting a replacement.” Eratos said.

“I handle recruitments, not him. When was this?” Orric asked, rushing to take a seat beside her. He snatched the records from her, earning a string of curses, and skimmed through them.

“You were busy with your father's requests,” Eratos said. Orric acknowledged her reply with a nod, but the records were far more intriguing. A bizarre selection of items he didn't even know Krygus owned, all sent to his father and then to Tr'Heren.

An idea emerged. One that made Orric's head spin. No, of course not. Krygus had been at his side for years; he wouldn't dare —

“Could Krygus be working with one of your father's enemies?” Eratos scowled.


everyday object, magical properties (295/150)

Orric's day was beyond ruined, which didn't change as the sun set and the sky blushed. Krygus adored skies like these. He said they seemed otherworldly. Orric found the remark strange but never pressed.

He retreated to one of the gardens, highly appreciative of the fresh air. A figure loomed somewhere behind him and had been for quite some time now. He knew it was Maccus, reeking of sweat and grime. Did no one have the heart to tell him?

“Spying on me now, are you?” Orric mused.

“Simple building up the courage to strike a conversation, Prince,” Maccus replied.

“Since when were you the shy type?”

“I wish to address something rather sensitive.”

Orric hummed in response. “Spit it out, then.”

“It's safe to assume Krygus left of his own volition, right?”

“It's only been a few hours of clumsy investigation. Don't waste time with uninformed assumptions.”

Maccus hesitated. “Of course, Prince. Shall I increase the number of guards stationed in the palace?”

“That would be necessary, yes.”

Maccus took his leave with a curt bow. Orric sighed and sat beside a pillar, vines draped across the stone. He removed his earrings and placed them beside him. Lilac bled into the pink above while the clouds took on a greyish hue.

Absentmindedly, he cast a simple rune on the earrings. The magic glimmered around them, like thread wrapped around a spindle, and faded just as quick. Their gold colour morphed into emerald, then ruby, then the colours of the sky. It brought a smile to his face, small yet genuine. He willed the jewellery to glimmer like diamond, and dull like brass. Time marched on as he toyed with them like a child, glad to cling to any semblance of sanity he could get.


learn something unexpected (416/100)

Orric prayed, despite knowing better, that the next day would go smoothly. As the sun rose and his room was bathed in gold, Orric woke up to someone beating his door like a madman. He screamed as many insults as his dry throat could manage and stumbled towards the door, only for Nyra to swing the door open and barge into him. He crashed onto the floor with a cry while she conveniently fell onto the nearby couch.

There is no justice left in this wretched world.

“Put on a shirt because you're not going to like this,” she said, swiftly composing herself.

“What do those two things even have to do with each other?” he whined as he stood up. He ran a hand through his hair and scowled.

“Just visit us in one of the halls in the Sixth Hallway, alright? And make it quick, Orric,” she said before slamming the door and leaving him to his grumbling. A handful of minutes later, he found himself in one of the smaller halls, head in his hands, trying to get a grasp of whatever was going on.

“Who writes a letter confessing to being a traitor to the throne? Like, what kind of idiot—” Orric mumbled.

“Are we sure it's his handwriting?” Amyntas asked once again, managing to frustrate even his dotting mother. Eratos swatted his shoulder, to which he yelped.

“Yes, son. I recognise the ink, and I highly doubt Krygus can afford it.” Eratos said. Nyra nodded in agreement.

“Has Maccus got hold of Padnion?” Orric asked. Amyntas shook his head, adjusting the buttons of his rust-coloured shirt. The embroidery reminded Orric of a dress Nyra owned. Insufferable.

“So, Krygus randomly decides to abandon the family that has employed him for over half a decade? How much has Tr'Heren paid him?” Nyra asked, eyes fixed on Orric's exhausted figure.

“That's what you guys are worried about?” Orric groaned, “He's got too much sensitive information. We might have to deal with a serious attempt at the throne.”

“Why would he leave Orric?” Amyntas whispered to Eratos, attempting to move out of Orric's earshot and failing. The fact etched away at Orric's resolve, despite his best attempts to keep it professional. Orric had to rewire so much of his usual basic functioning to accommodate Krygus' absence. He rubbed his eyes and threw his head back, ignoring the blooms of pain right behind his temples.

Why did he even bother making friends? Gods, he knew better.


dangerous scenario (590/200)

Sleep welcomed Orric with its outstretched, loving arms. The day was long and gruelling, with Orric attending briefing upon briefing upon briefing . . .

It became abundantly clear that he barely had any say in whatever was going to happen. Eratos pulled the strings, with Maccus advising her, and he assumed his father would get involved at one point. Of course, Eratos quickly grouped Krygus in with the rest of Tr'Heren's power-hungry moguls. But Orric knew there was more to this odd predicament than what meets the eye.

He found himself standing in the middle of a plain, with dry grass stabbing the soles of his feet. The cool breeze slithered through the sleeves of his robes and his unkempt hair. The sky was dull, and not a single cloud was in sight. It took him a moment to orient himself. He was familiar with the realm of dreams as a relatively regular visitor. What he didn't expect, however, was the figure a few feet away. He'd recognise that head of hair anywhere.

“Krygus?” Orric choked out.

“Look, I just need—” Krygus began.

“What is my sick imagination up to now?” Orric mumbled. He rubbed his eyes multiple times, hoping the man before him would disappear. But no, Krygus remained.

“I'm real, Orric. Gods, I'm too tired for this.” Krygus said.

“You're tired? Oh, don't even get me started, you ungrateful *.” Orric cried. Krygus wore rather simple clothes, not his usual obscene amount of layers. Orric noticed the sheath on his waist and then the dagger in his hand.

“I need to hurt you bad enough to leave a mark,” Krygus whimpered. His expression was defeated, almost guilty.

“Hurt me? You're willing to hurt me?” Orric said, anger seeping into his voice.

“I have to do what needs to be done,” Krygus said, more to himself than to Orric. And as the words left his mouth, he charged towards Orric, dagger raised. The air around Orric grew heavy as he staggered out of the way. It was some kind of rune, speed-enhancing, maybe? There was something else too, something time-bound.

Krygus dived again, this time managed to cut through Orric's shirt. A wide gash opened up right across the fabric over his chest. Orric managed to slip in a weak punch right at Krygus' ribs. It was just enough to get the larger man away from him. That weight in the air grew heavier and more suffocating. He attempted to cast a simple shield rune, but the magic fizzled away at his fingertips. He cursed under his breath.

“They put some spells on me,” Krygus said. Of course they did; an idiot could've figured that out. But was he trying to help?

Krygus swung the blade clumsily, and Orric simply took a few steps back to avoid it. Krygus glanced around and noticed the realm begin to fade. A sense of urgency overcame him, brows furrowed and eyes wide.

“Just a mark!” He grunted and lept at Orric with pitiful desperation. The blade grazed his right cheekbone, not deep enough to worry Orric but enough to scar. He hissed in pain. Orric fell onto the crumbling ground with Krygus over him. Krygus threw a punch at Orric's chest much harder than Orric would've liked.

“Enough marks, you *!” Orric cried, which drew a laugh out of Krygus. The ground finally gave out beneath them, and the air was snatched from his lungs as his body began to—

“Krygus!” he screamed, waking up in a cold sweat. How could things get even more confusing?

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total words: 4247

weekly - 1
swc july '25

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note: Krygus is an exceptionally flawed character, though admittedly, I haven't had the chance to flesh him out much. Hopefully, through this weekly, I can make him a lot more complex!

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Part One

(190/150)

The main ‘concept’ that Krygus operates on is ‘the sacrifices we make for change.’ His ambitions for change are unrealistic and often baseless, but he goes to great lengths to bring his plans to fruition. This craving is something that manifests throughout the story, and are largely due to his interactions with Orric (who represents the sacrifices we make for stability). This is his fatal flaw, if you will, and the main reason he eventually separates from Orric.

Krygus is indulgent and impulsive. It is partly due to his upbringing, but it is also simply his nature. Compromise is something he cannot stand, which means he often puts serious relationships to the test for the sake of getting what he wants.

Krygus, initially, was also lazy. He had given up on himself, and refused to change his ways and try to salvage his life. Orric forced him to get up on his feet, but otherwise, Krygus would've simply rotted for the rest of his life. His intense ambition is something that is fuelled by the desperation to leave his mark on the world, and compensate for the years he's wasted.

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Part Two

(216/200)

Krygus begins the story devoid of any hope. After being disowned by his family, and burdened by the fact that he had disappointed his father, Krygus initially attempted to get back onto his feet. But he slipped one too many times, and resorted to a capricious life leeching off of others' kindness and generosity. Thus, he is deeply resentful, pessimistic, reckless and exhausted.

Amyntas asks Orric for a favour, brother to brother, and manages to get Krygus a job as a handyman for Orric. The initial feelings of pity were soon replaced with a sense of purpose. He finds himself to be enjoying Orric's company quite a lot, and Orric's ambition rubbed off on him. During this time period, while he retains his impulsive nature, a lot more of his charisma and charm shines through. He becomes far more calculating, and begins to envision a greater life for himself.

However, his hasty leave from the palace prompts a regression in development, in a sense. He becomes angry, deeply betrayed by Orric, and resentful once more. However, he suppresses his emotions and presents a hardened and indifferent demeanour. He is far more willing to sacrifice those he cares about (and himself) in order to get what he wants. He does, however, become far more resourceful and unpredictable.

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Part Three

(258/200)

Initially, before he got disowned, his motivation was to pursue that entertained him and make the most out of what he was given. After he got kicked out, initially, he was fiercely driven by the desire to make his father proud. He fell into numerous unfortunate circumstances and gave up on that goal, settling with making the most out of his presumably short time.

After he began working with Orric, Krygus wanted to regain his father's trust and find purpose. He was initially content with his position and the fact that his relationship with Orric was progressing nicely. However, a consuming desire to make up for the years he wasted begin to take root. His ambitions grows out of control, and he craves to leave his mark on history in order to truly mean something.

This manifests as the following plan: Krygus wishes to overthrow Amyntas (the crown prince) and replace him with Orric (the younger brother), who he believes would be a better fit for the throne. He believes the monarchy is in desperate need for alternate leadership, and since Orric is very different from the rest of the royal family (long story), he is Krygus' best option. Orric refuses to cooperate, which results in Krygus decided to simply overthrow the monarchy and replace it with a new institution all together.

His motivation, after leaving the palace, becomes more muddled and directed towards Orric. Resentment and betrayal steeps over the years, and need for change simply becomes the need to inflict some sort of pain to Orric.

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Part Four

(471/450)

Amyntas was never my favourite. At least, not since I met Orric.

I had known Amyntas since we were children. My mother bribed someone to ensure we studied in the same class. We spent our summers together, willing to do anything to rid of the boredom. I'd gathered flowers with him until my hands bled, stolen plenty of baked goods, and rummaged through far too many of the knights' shelves. I thought Amyntas was the sun. I thought he would be the best ruler this kingdom would ever see.

The younger brother seemed to perpetually exist in the corner of my vision. He lurked around with wide eyes and a tousled nest of hair. I avoided him out of indifference. The moment I began to work with him, I realised I had befriended the wrong brother.

Orric's influence over the court rivalled that of the rulers. His temperament and knowledge were awe-inspiring. And of course, who can forget the web of spies, informants, religious leaders and ministers? The prince was a puppet master at work. It was hard not to regret having spent so many years gaining the trust of a coddled and sheltered coward.

And of course, Orric turned out to be no different. What kind of senseless fool turns down an offer to become king? I had a plan, dramatic and revolutionary. All brought to ruins by a simple answer. I would not sacrifice the chance to be something for a man who has decided to waste his potential. It would be a shame to see Orric wither away into something inconsequential.

I gathered my troops and built a web of my own. It was not as intricate as Orric's, but efficient enough to get the job done. I spent years sweet-talking foreigners who were delighted to see a crack in the ‘perfect’ regime. I planned to dispose of them somehow, too.

I remember the first time I heard his voice, crawling up my spine and running through my hair. Possessive, almost.

You remind me of myself in the most disgusting way possible.

“You're just mad that I'm about to beat you at your own game,” I mumbled, dazed after three days without rest.

And what game would that be?

“I don't know. Scheming?” Orric chuckled, light and half-hearted.

“Did someone have the pleasure of killing you before I got the chance?” Krygus quipped.

I'm not a ghost, love. Don't worry, we'll see each other. However, I hope to see some more hatred than this.

“So it'll be easier?”

Precisely.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Krygus furrowed his brows and rubbed his eyes, hesitant to show any signs of . . . something.

Spare yourself from humiliation and surrender, love. You don't know what you're facing.

“Too cowardly to face me? How typical of you, prince,”

Suit yourself.

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total words: 1135

swc daily - 11
swc july '25

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note: inspired by a conversation i had with my friends about hating a teacher of ours. i wanted to just lightly explore hate, which is a central thing about my character niral.
word count: 300

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“You hate her?” Father asked. He sounded concerned, but Niral couldn’t bring herself to care this time.

“Anyone would,” she said. She threw her head back with a groan. The soreness in her arm cried for her attention. The cheap wallpaper clinging to the ceiling had finally begun to tear. The smell of freshly cooked food brought a small smile to her face.

“Hate is a strong word, kid.” Father sighed half-heartedly. It had been a long day, and she doubted they both wanted to have this conversation now. From her barely coherent thoughts to his slightly slurred speech, it would be insanely inconvenient.

“You want me to grab you a plate?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and prying herself off the couch. Father’s clothes were covered in streaks of grease and small specks of blood. The bandages on his thighs peeked through from under his shorts. He reeked, but who was she to say anything?

“I mean it, kid,” he continued, and mouthed a ‘yes.’ She nodded and made her way to the stove, disgusted as the heat of the kitchen engulfed her.

“If it makes you happy,” she said, rummaging through the shelves for some clean spoons, “I don’t think about it at all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he chuckled. Niral heard a few winces as she shoved some rice onto both plates.

“What did I tell you about preaching?” she sighed, turning to face him. The heat from the plates dug into the flesh of her palms, forcing a whine out of her.

“Don’t start with that, Niral. I doubt either of us has the energy for an emotion like hate,” he said solemnly. “And besides, it’s not going to take us anywhere.” She nods, desperate to take this conversation anywhere else.

“So,” he grins, “how’s Suk?”

swc daily - 13
swc july '25

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word count: 373 (defense), 493 (total)

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Qui stands up before the congregation. They adjust their suit, straighten their tie, and run a hand through their hair. They clear their throat and begin:

It's profoundly comedic that you all have chosen me as the target of your suspicions. Why, you ask? Because I don't even like mangoes. To toil away, right after cabin wars, to steal a stash of a fruit I can't stand is a foolish suggestion. I think we should divert our attention to more, well, promising prospects.

“What about as projectiles? You could've used them to enact revenge!” someone bellows. Qui pauses for a moment.

An interesting suggestion, but I would not wish that upon anybody. What, is that too kind to be true? Besides, we have a second part to these wars. It would be much smarter for me to plan something meticulously until then, don't you think? Did I mention that I very strongly dislike mangoes? Can't stand the feel of them. Or the smell.

“This is all a ruse! We know you were awake much longer than usual, Qui!” Qui shakes their head.

I cannot refute that, sadly. What can I say? Desperate times call for desperate measures. There were people far more conniving than I during these wars; perhaps they wanted to bolster their offence! Also, about halfway through the day, I was exceptionally sore. I took to typing with my pinkies! It wasn't very efficient, but it got the job done. I couldn't have possibly snuck away with an entire stash of mangoes!

“Can you give us something more . . . concrete?” Qui shakes their head once more.

Let's see . . . Oh well, I don't like mangoes! I've mentioned that a thousand times, and no one seems to even be considering it! Guys, I'm from India. Our mangoes are great, and I still don't like them. And it's true that I don't like animals—

“We never even brought that up! Do you hate Smarlls?”

I mean no offence when I say that I just learned of his existence. Ah, yes, see! Fellow SWC-ers! How can I steal from an animal I didn't know existed? Let alone, how would I have known of his stash?

“I feel like we've given them an alibi,” someone mutters. Qui smiles. “That's regarding motive, all of this is regarding motive! We want an alibi!” someone else screams.

When I was awake, I was either writing or eating. And then I was knocked out, dead as a log. That's all there is! You've got the wrong guy! Going after me with such vigour is only going to give the true perpetrator more time to craft an elaborate alibi! I stand here, before all of you, with my trembling fingers and passionate dislike of mangoes. I am begging you to consider the facts before you, which all point to the fact that I am innocent. Innocent as a lamb, I tell you! Innocent!

“They're annoying, let them go.” Qui beams.

Thank you!

cabin wars - character exchange
swc july '25

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for: silver-the-oneiric. i hope you like it :)

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Phoebe glanced at her wings. The grey had grown murky, but she didn't have time to give them a proper wash. Well, her schedule had cleared up a bit, so maybe it was time to treat herself to a nice bath, or something. She took off her boots as she entered her room and collapsed onto her bed. The place reeked — it was mostly her fault — so she decided to do some cleaning before Yanna returned.

A few minutes passed as she stared at the ceiling. With a drawn-out groan, she made it onto her feet. She stretched, rubbed her palms against the fabric of her t-shirt, and got to work. She decided to start with their beds. As she tucked the sheets as neatly as she could under the mattress, her mind began to wander. She settled on the memory of her hands trembling as she searched for her lock-picking kit, the string of curses that escaped her, and the sweat racing down her back. The sensation hit her, all at once; the feeling of being at the mercy of all that adrenaline. Eventually, she gained control over the whole ordeal. The kit became a companion, resting comfortably against the flesh of her palm. Her brother's smile and the sound of his laugh.

A bolt of pain brought her back to the present. She cursed as she gripped her foot.

“How did I even stub my toe? I was literally standing still,” she mumbled. The frustration quickly faded, and her focus shifted to the pillows. Should she arrange them to try to make things a little pretty? Does it make a difference? She raked a hand through her hair, brows furrowed, and simply moved onto dusting the place. She began with some of Yanna's things, handling them with as much care as she could muster. She tried to concentrate, but she couldn't help herself. The air grew heavy with worry as she sat on the floor.

“You'll get back to him,” she said to herself, “You have to.”

swc daily - 16
swc july '25

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word count: 278
subversion: enemies to lovers ↠ lovers to enemies to strangers (that is the relationship between orric and the unnamed ‘servant boy,’ though the full extent is not depicted here)

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“You still avoiding that servant boy?” Ra'arkhan mused. Orric rolled his eyes and kneeled before his family's shrine. His eyes fluttered shut as the incense danced before the faded photographs.

“What are you rambling about?” Orric scowled. His jet black robes pooled at his feet, shimmering like water. A gold, heavily embroidered shawl was draped over his shoulders. Delicate earrings brushed against his shoulders, and his fingers were wrapped in rings.

Ra'arkhan let out a hearty chuckle, much to Orric's disappointment. Her voice echoed in the small hall. She strided over, and placed a firm hand on the younger god's shoulder.

“You've become such a pathetic liar, Prince. Lost your charm, have you?”

“Don't call me that,” Orric spat. He stood up, folded his thin prayer mat, and placed a single jasmine before each of the three pictures leaning against the marble wall.

“Answer the question, then,” she said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Her cotton saree glimmered in the candlelight. She wore no jewellery, and her cloud-like hair was adorned with a handful of marigolds.

“I have had no reason to interact with the man for centuries,” he stated, “That is not avoidance, merely circumstance. He is a stranger.”

Ra'arkhan winced. “A ‘stranger’ is harsh, Orric,” she said.

“It is simply the truth. A truth that we are both content with,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. With the flick of his fingers, the several lamps in the room lit up at once. The warmth immediately clung to him, inviting and nostalgic.

“Content is a strange word when it comes to you,” she mumbled. He shot her a polite smile but said nothing more.