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Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Solar-powered writer, Tolkien-nerd, mdzs-nerd, plant-mom, cat-mom, and Known Old Man Character Lover.
Ask me about Hobbit family trees or Hobbit history. I dare you.

Can be found at: https://tehri.tumblr.com/ ; https://www.pillowfort.social/Tehri

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Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Actually, screw it. Moodboard for the 2020's, let's go

A picture of Wen Ning from The Untamed screaming. There is an overlay of the volume being muted imposed over the picture.

A picture of Nie Huaisang from the Mo Dao Zu Shi manhua. He is yelling "FUCK".

A picture of the Fallout Guy holding out his hands in an almost calming manner with the words "chotto matte" written by him.

A picture of a possum with its mouth open. The text below the possum says "-noises of panic-".

October 23, 2025 at 12:03 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Also all of the illnesses that seems to be going around and all the shit I should probably get diagnosed myself but can't because I don't have the money.

I am feeling very much like these pictures (thank you @monroeknox.bsky.social for that last one, btw)

October 23, 2025 at 11:59 AM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Part two of this nonsense I hacked together over the course of 2 days (and yes I know about the typo in the last screenshot, I'm too lazy to fix it atm)

He had chosen well, he thought. Perhaps she was not the person he had wished for, but she had stood by his side for so long that it almost did not matter.
He mourned their child just as she did, and he told her so plainly when she finally ceased her ranting. But he was, in the end, not as invested as she was.
“It is not the first child we have lost,” he said. “Murder or no, it should not affect you so deeply.”
In a flash, she had crossed the distance between them and jabbed her finger in his chest. She was nearly a head shorter than him, but her height did not matter when her pale eyes shone with fury and she seemed willing to dig her sharp nails into his skin to cause injury.
“She was a newborn,” she repeated, rage creeping into her voice at last. “A newborn, you heartless creature! Moreover, she was my daughter! My child! And that over-ambitious breeding-sow and her piglet are to blame for this loss! I want retribution!”
Retribution.
That word certainly caught his attention, sparked something within him that made his eyes gleam when he met her gaze.
Jibel took hold of the collar of his robes, clutched at it as though it were a lifeline.
“Have I not been loyal to you?” she asked. “Have I not done everything you asked of me? Have I not given everything for you?”
“You have,” Culang’aln admitted, a smirk finding its way to his lips. “In all things, you always have.”
“And I will again, and again and again and again.” She drew another deep breath, trying – and failing – to convince the boiling fury to be reduced to a simmer. “I was exiled by Cularneth just as you were, Ghalath. What else do either of us have here besides each other? Will you then drive me away by denying me the blood of those who wilfully took my daughter’s life? Will you let those slothful pigs weaken you and take away the light you strive to reach again?”
Ah, but how long had it been since he was called by that name?

Culang’aln’s smirk widened into a grin. Jibel had been careful to not use it, knowing that the name he chose for himself carried great meaning; but names held power, and she knew to use the old name when she wanted him to set aside the mantle of who he had become.
She did not want Emperor Culang’aln and the power he wielded in that name and guise. What use was he to her, when he had watched her children die again and again?
She wanted Ghalath. She wanted the fury of the storm.
“Both of them?” he asked. He put one arm around her waist to pull her closer, but he raised the other to trail over the scar on her chest. He had given her that, had marked her in a moment of rage, and she had not flinched away, had not screamed or even whimpered. She had met his eyes then, held his gaze and grit her teeth against the pain until he calmed. No fear in her eyes either then or now. Not his jewel. “I do not care if you want the blood of the boy – he is too soft and he will fail my test, I am sure of it. But you want Vethyn as well?”
“She has grown too comfortable,” Jibel insisted. “What do you need her for? You can find ways to amuse yourself without her. The piglet will bleed first, and the sow will watch. When he is bled dry and she has no tears left, she will be broken and strung up in Cularneth’s light to slowly burn.”
As wide as Culang’aln’s grin was, he felt as though it widened even further. She was fierce, was Jibel; how had he ever forgotten? She had stood by his side, by Ghalath’s side, for uncounted years and had never shown a willingness to rethink her decision to follow him.
More than anything, she had no mercy for those who wronged her. She had no fear, not of anything in this realm.
He bent to kiss her, chuckling when she turned her head to deny him and pressed his lips against her neck instead.
“Tell me, my jewel,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in her ear. “Tell me what you wish to be done to them. Spare no detail, and it shall be precisely as you wish.

And in return, Jibel, we shall try again. Mourn your daughter, but do not let your grief distract you from what we will build on the ashes of the lives you demand in payment for hers.”

Vethyn and her son met their fates with as much dignity as Jibel had expected; the skull of the boy became a treasured possession of hers, and she had it gilded and placed in a prominent position in her quarters. A reminder, she would say when someone dared question the decision, that power is a weak shield to hide behind.
Emperor Culang’aln’s only mercy to Vethyn was ensuring that she was buried whole, unlike her son. Whole, but unrecognisable after months below the scorching rays of the sun in the arid lands beyond Kiretnal.
They were in the past now, and Jibel did not hold on to the past more than she had to. Merely six years past their deaths, she welcomed a new life to the palace.
A son this time.
“Will you name him?” asked Culang’aln when he came to meet their child.

“I will not,” Jibel answered, smiling up at him where she lay in her bed, still resting after the hours it had taken to bring the child into the world. “I would have you given him his name, but I ask this of you: do not name him until he has passed your test.”
The Emperor raised an eyebrow at her and glanced towards the cradle where their son lay, fast asleep.
“Only then?” he asked, humming thoughtfully when she nodded. “A crown prince should aspire to be worthy of their place. You are wise, my jewel. But then I will not recognise him as crown prince unless he passes my test.”
“Until,” Jibel corrected him. “He will pass without issue; I can feel it. This one will be worthy.”
Again the Emperor hummed, a small smirk on his lips as he considered the little one. Others had failed before. But Jibel had never said she felt certain of their worth.
Should he live, Culang’aln thought, the boy should earn the name Wyren. Ferocity.
A worthy name for the son of Ghalath.

October 15, 2025 at 8:36 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Hoo boy, here we go...
This is a side-story for a much bigger project, basically just providing a tiiiiny bit of background for two characters, Culang'aln and his then-consort Jibel.

The skies over Aln’s heartland were heavy with clouds and had been for several days. No sign had been seen yet of the gloom lightening; even the sunset was coldly blocked from view, which had the people on edge. When the Eternal Father did not show his face for so long, concerns always grew regarding whether or not he had been wronged by them, if they had not offered him enough or if he had grown wroth with them for something they had not considered.
No word came from the palace in Kiretnal either, and it served only to exacerbate the worry. Rare were the occasions when His Imperial Majesty would not lighten the skies for his people to ease their concerns. But perhaps, some elders argued, it needed to be forgiven this time; the people beyond the palace walls had their worries, but His Imperial Majesty carried both earthly and unearthly worries and could not always be on hand – even more so now, when he and Consort Jibel recently lost a child.
“And the child just a babe still,” sighed some. “Allow His Imperial Majesty and the Consort their time to mourn! The Eternal Father certainly mourns with them.”

Within the palace upon its peak, tension had been high since the death of the little princess. The crown prince was one of few who seemed untouched by the tragedy, who dared to act as though all was well; indeed, he had not even shown his face during the funeral. His mother, Consort Vethyn, had been present but had shown no grief.
Perhaps it was understandable. Vethyn and Jibel had never held any love for each other, rivals as they were for His Imperial Majesty’s affection; but perhaps Vethyn felt just a little more under pressure than her rival, for she had yet to be named Empress even after birthing His Imperial Majesty’s heir. Jibel had been His Consort for far longer, longer indeed than Vethyn knew, but had yet to bear him a child that would live longer than a year.

Illness and misfortune had befallen all others, and each time she would withdraw and mourn, giving time for others to swoop in to claim her position as His Imperial Majesty’s favoured lover.
But unlike those who had come before her, Vethyn knew better than to rest on her laurels and think that Jibel was not someone to be concerned about. The favoured Consort had what no others seemed able to gain – the deep-set respect of His Imperial Majesty Culang’aln. There was no doubt in Vethyn’s mind about that she would not be named Empress while Jibel was alive, and it would only take a single small misstep for her son to lose his place as the crown prince – not to mention his life.
The mother had made herself scarce and stayed out of sight, waiting for the tension to settle, and frequently begged her son to not flaunt his lack of grief as though he were untouchable.
And in her quarters, Consort Jibel mourned and nursed a steadily growing rage.
Since the funeral she had locked herself in there, refusing any and all attempts made to speak with her or to offer her anything. Food was left mostly uneaten or entirely untouched, offers commiseration or condolences were coldly rebuffed through a closed door, servants were frequently sent scurrying away by venomous glares.
She had no wish for comfort. She wished only to see the one responsible for her daughter’s death bleed.
She had gone over the events of that day in her head at all hours; she recited every moment of that day in her waking hours, she dreamt of that day when she slept, and no matter how she twisted and turned it in her head, it always led to the same conclusion.
On the day a month had passed since the funeral, she left her quarters again with that conclusion burning in her mind. She stalked through the corridors of the palace looking to all who saw her as a woman gone mad, fury and grief and purpose intermingling in her eyes as she strode towards where she knew she would find the only one who could aid her.

Up and up and up she went, further up among the palace’s spires until she could see the lowest clouds crowding near the windows, and then a little further still. In the highest spire she would find him, she knew, for he went there whenever he had a moment or two to spare, sought out the one place where he could see the sun on most days.
In the very highest point of the spire was a single large room which one could only enter through a door at the very top of the last staircase. No guards were stationed there, for anyone who wished harm on the one person who regularly visited that room would more than likely have been apprehended long before they could reach the top. All that occupied the room was a gilded statue depicting the Eternal Father’s divine form – a man wreathed in the flames of the sun.
Jibel gave the statue no thought when she entered the room, for her gaze sought only the man kneeling before it. A tall man with sun-kissed skin, with light hair thick as a lion’s mane, clad in rich royal purple and garnet red robes. Even like this, without the more embellished robes he wore on grand occasions and without the ruby-studded gold wreath that marked his position, Emperor Culang’aln had a way of drawing her gaze like nothing else could.
“You have left your quarters at last,” he commented lightly without turning. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Jibel.”
She scoffed at his tone and clenched her fists.
“The land of the living,” she repeated with a scornful laugh. “Do you truly have the nerve to say that to me, after what we both have lost? Then stand up and say it to my face!”
“Is it any different from before? The last one passed as well, my jewel.”

“As a young man, yes! A young man who knew what he got into when you tested him! This one did not even see a full year! You said it yourself – if your children wish to fight like rabid dogs for your approval, then they shall do so when they are old enough to wield a blade! Do you count a newborn as old enough for that?!”
Culang’aln rose and bowed deeply before the statue before he turned to face her, pale eyes boring into hers. There was no indifference in his eyes, but no grief either; compassion she saw there, a quiet calm that she knew she ought not to disturb.
It would have to be disturbed all the same. If the storm would not be stirred for the sake of their child, then she would have to stir it for the sake of what he could stand to lose.
“It is different this time,” she insisted as she pushed the door behind her closed. “This was no natural death. She was not ill, the physician pronounced her perfectly healthy merely the day before.”
“Misfortune has struck your children before,” he replied flatly. “Shall I take it that you think aught else happened?”
Jibel drew a deep breath and spoke, spoke of all that she remembered of that day. Of being called away from her quarters, of passing the crown prince in the corridor when she returned, of their daughter’s swift decline that same afternoon, of Vethyn’s sudden visit to ask regarding the princess’s symptoms. She spoke of the crown prince’s behaviour following his half-sister’s death, and she spoke of Vethyn’s attempts at staying out of the way as much as possible, of Vethyn’s attempts to silence her son.
And Culang’aln listened and said nothing, only gazed at her while she began to pace back and forth like a caged animal, gesturing wildly as she spoke.
Even in this state, she was beautiful; sun-kissed skin, raven-black hair, pale eyes, slender and yet with an undeniable strength in her limbs. Even the branching lightning-scar on her chest, ever uncovered, did not mar her beauty.

October 15, 2025 at 8:36 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Apologies for no alt-text for this one, but my brain's a bit too scrambled to redo the screenshots in order to get the correct amount of characters...
This is a little snippet from a thing for The Ascended, which @auraboo.bsky.social and I write together. Dwarven political shenanigans my beloved 😘

October 8, 2025 at 5:41 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

You know, on one hand I want to take my time with #warframe - take it slow, maybe grind what I need to make Gara or Garuda or something - but on the other hand I am Desperate to rush through everything so that I get to meet This Fucking Man 🥹😘😍💕🥵

A picture of the character Loid from Warframe. He is an older gentleman with greyed hair and a short-cropped beard and a moustache, with a golden septum-piercing and golden-framed glasses. His clothing has a high stiff collar with a rounded opening around the clavicle.

October 3, 2025 at 7:29 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

I'm alive, I swear!
Been going over some of my old fic-wips lately, and I thought I'd share one that, uh, was never finished (and that I might never finish anyway). But I'm particularly happy with this little moment!
A short discussion about tea.
#fanfiction #wip #writing #lotr #Tolkien #thehobbit

No, what had Bungo suddenly squirming in his seat and staring in shock was when the old hobbit proceeded to dump no less than three spoonfuls of honey into his tea, followed quickly by a surprising amount of milk.
Suddenly Belladonna’s preferred version of a cup of tea – and it could barely be called tea anymore when she was through with it – made a lot of sense.
“You look like you’re sitting on an anthill, lad.” Bungo blinked and looked up from the disastrous cup of tea and met Gerontius’s gaze. The old hobbit watched him with the rather curious air of a cat watching a mouse while trying to decide if it was hungry or just wanted to play for a while. “What in the world has you squirming like that?”
Bungo blinked again. He weighed his options. He could, of course, say something; but it would hardly be polite. Different hobbits preferred to take their tea in different fashions, after all, and he had no wish to offend his father-in-law.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he lied. “I was merely lost in thought.”
“Being lost in thought does not generally have you squirming like a cat offended at being picked up,” the Thain commented lightly as he lifted his cup and took a sip of his tea. Bungo barely stopped himself from wincing while he imagined how sweet the contents of the cup had to be. “So tell me, what’s actually wrong?”
“My da is very particular about how he takes his tea,” the younger hobbit blurted out as he stared very pointedly at the teacup, following his father-in-law’s movements as it was set back down. “I suppose it has made me consider how I take my own, as well.”
“And what in the world does that have to do with it?” asked Adamanta curiously. “Why would that have you squirming in your seat like that?”

Bungo’s eyes flickered between the offending cup of tea and the curious eyes of his wife’s parents, and he almost groaned as he reminded himself that they were far less likely to take offence than any of his own relations. And they were also far more likely to keep up their questioning until he saw fit to give them an answer.
“Because seeing a cup of already over-steeped tea with no less than three spoonfuls of honey dumped into it, along with far too much milk,” he sighed, “rather feels like the cause of impending apoplexy.”
For a moment, he wasn’t certain that they had understood him. Then Adamanta quickly raised her hand to her mouth to cover a wide smile, and Gerontius grinned outright at him and reached for the jar of honey again. The cat had decided it was hungry.
“So,” said the Thain conversationally as he took the lid off the jar again and took hold of his spoon, “say I were to add a fourth.”
“Please don’t.” This time, Bungo did groan. He’d noticed that there were multiple eyes on them, and most of the Tooks around them were laughing. “I beg of you.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
The challenge in the old hobbit’s voice caught Bungo somewhat off guard, and he blinked in confusion as he met Gerontius’s sharp gaze.
“Pardon?”
“I’ll be adding a fourth spoonful just because I can. What are you going to do about it, if it offends you so?”

Bungo was vaguely aware of Belladonna’s muffled giggling somewhere behind him, and he was certain that he could hear Mungo’s long-suffering exasperated sigh nearby. But his eyes were fixed on the grinning Took before him, and he couldn’t quite think of what to answer.
“I suppose I would-“ he began, but was quickly interrupted:
“Nothing, that’s what. You’re too polite.” Gerontius waggled his eyebrows at him. “Besides, my lad, who are you to tell another hobbit how they should take their tea?”
Bungo’s eyes followed his father-in-law’s hand as it dunked the spoon into the jar and added another spoonful of its sweet golden content to the teacup.
“Oh, sweet stars,” he cried. “Please, don’t-“
“That makes five,” the Took announced cheerfully.
“Why?!”
“Call it an incentive to stop me.”
And Adamanta, perhaps deciding that she needed to curb her husband’s behaviour or perhaps thinking that Bungo needed rescuing, reached out and took the jar away from him.
“That’s quite enough of that,” she said firmly, swatting at Gerontius’s hand when he chased after the jar with the spoon. “You’re fonder of honey than any of our children have ever been, but stars know you need to have some limit.”
“I am in the process of making a point,” the Took argued. “And simultaneously giving a worthwhile lecture about why having a spine matters.”
“Then call this my example of having a spine, dear. No more honey.”

September 4, 2025 at 9:07 AM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

okay listen there are certain flavours my brain just Refuses and mango, cantaloupe, and honeydew happen to be some of those flavours

but I Will eat a boxful of raisins without a second thought no matter what, they just are not safe around me

March 24, 2025 at 3:50 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

[2/2] Why yes, I did have fun writing the oath. 😊 And yes, a flustered Ial'Qureth is my favourite version of this dear old man of mine.💕😘
#writing #writingcommunity #amwriting #ocs #originalcharacters

Black text on a white background. The text reads:
The Captain’s sharp features relaxed into a warm and open smile, and the young man spoke:
“I, Captain Birel Linoth, hereby do swear to you, Your Imperial Majesty, the Empire’s Radiant Moon, Scion of Ial, Favoured by the Gods, Emperor Ial’Qureth, my complete and utter fealty and devotion. Beneath the Eternal Mother’s gaze during her veiling and in view of the Lady of the Water, I swear to you, Radiant One, that none other than you, no man, no king, no Emperor before or after you, no god, may command me or take me from your side, in this life as well as the next.”
From the very first words, Ial’Qureth stood as though frozen, unable to shake himself out of his stupor long enough to stop him. He knew what this meant, knew what the Captain was binding himself to. He needed to stop him. He had to stop him, had to hinder him before his words were not merely words anymore, before they could not be erased or forgotten by either mortal or divine means!
And yet it was not until the last words were spoken that he found his bearings again, a shaky breath leaving him as he swiftly reached out to pull the Captain to his feet.

February 14, 2025 at 7:03 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Happy Valentine's Day! 💕

Here's a small scene that I wrote to get a proper feel for the two characters in question - Emperor Ial'Qureth and the Captain of the Imperial Guard, Birel Linoth.
Why yes, I am weak for this dynamic. [1/2]
#writing #writingcommunity #amwriting #ocs #originalcharacters

Black text on a white background. The text reads:
The Emperor led him out on the grand balcony overlooking the gardens. In the nightly gloom, very little could be seen from there, but only just to the east, cascading from the heights, ran the river that flowed from the very heart of the mountain and through the gardens below. And far above them in the night sky shone the full moon, awaiting the moment of its veiling.
“You were given your position at a troublesome time,” Ial’Qureth told him. “And you have… you have given us much in return.”
Ah, but it was difficult to not smile at the sight of this mighty man’s face reddening! Yes, Linoth had given much, and he had found joy beyond what he had expected in seeing it all so readily accepted.
“Nothing that this humble one would not willingly give, Radiant One,” he answered, bowing his head both in respect and to hide the smile that threatened to claim his features. “His Imperial Majesty’s wish is my command.”
“Yet what you have given was not asked for.” Ial’Qureth’s voice sounded as even as ever, to the untrained ear. To one who had come to know him as Linoth did, there was a note of strain hidden somewhere beneath the usual calm. “We have no way of repaying you.”
Blinking, Linoth dared raise his head to meet his Emperor’s amber eyes, noting distantly through his own confusion how those eyes appeared to shine even in the dark of night, how beautifully the moon and the lanterns within the quarters illuminated that pale gaunt face and the man’s snow-white hair and beard.
“This humble one asks for nothing in return,” he insisted. “It is more than enough for me to serve His Imperial Majesty and to give him all gifts that he would accept.”
Yet his words did not seem to ease the older man’s mind, for there was a flash of something akin to annoyance in his expression that faded as swiftly as it appeared. He wanted a proper answer, it seemed, one that would not be so easily waved away.

Black text on a white background. The text reads:
Yet before Linoth could open his mouth to speak again, Ial’Qureth heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and spoke:
“You ask for nothing in return, and yet you give yourself so freely. Captain Birel, we ask you to understand that this does not fill us with confidence as to your intentions, and we cannot afford to waver in our trust at this time.”
Ah.
It was difficult to argue with such a statement. So much had happened only since Linoth had joined the Imperial guard – the reappearance of the Shattered Moon was certainly weighing heavily on the Emperor’s mind, especially if he had begun to question whether or not he could trust the man who was intended to protect him and his nephews. There had already been one attempt on his life, and the work the Imperial guard had done to root out traitors within their own ranks as well as the ranks of the Imperial Council likely did not entirely ease his worries. The mere knowledge of the amount of traitors there had been must have been alarming indeed.
Having become the Captain of the Imperial guard, Linoth needed the Emperor to trust him. It was not a trust he could merely ask for and have it be readily given, especially not after the former Captain’s actions – but so far, he had been given that trust, as a direct result of his own actions after being given his position. He could not afford to lose it now as a result of actions taken in private with the very person he was meant to protect.
Ial’Qureth’s gaze strayed from him, was drawn to the sky above them. Linoth blinked and turned his head, realising suddenly what had caught His Imperial Majesty’s attention.
Far above them in the sky, the full moon had begun to turn red with the veiling.

Black text on a white background. The text reads:
Their conversation still not forgotten, they still stood in reverent silence, watching the Eternal Mother’s light slowly change. And as the reddening of the moon grew to cover it entirely, Linoth dredged up a half-forgotten memory in his mind, a memory of his grandmother telling him of the veiling of the moon.
You must never speak cruelly of the goddess Ialthe before anyone born in Ethar, she had said to him. Our Lady of the Water is mighty and reaches far, but Ialthe wanders the heavens and sees all below her. You must be courteous even in regards to her, though she chained Morilqanth. But most of all, if you see Ialthe’s veiling, especially when the moon is full, you must remember to speak no oaths beneath her light. Oaths spoken during the veiling of the full moon are oaths the gods themselves will see fulfilled, Linoth, remember that! Even death shan’t release you from whatever foolish promise you make then!
There truly was a way – though it was indeed a foolish one. Yet he had done foolish things before, had he not? And more so than this. And yet, what could be more perfect? Beneath the veiling of the moon and above the flowing waters of Morilqanth, what could be a grander gift?

February 14, 2025 at 7:03 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Congratulations, and thank you for the share! 💕
I'm Tehri, a writer based in Finland, and I write both fanfiction and original stories. I love working with dialogue and character introspection a lot.
I'll share a snippet of an og story of mine, translated from Swedish!

Last of all were Lynar, one of the shepherds. During the winter, there was not much for them to do but to stay at home and keep their flock in its paddock, and during previous years Cier had taught Ticka, the shepherd’s youngest daughter, the basics of taming the air – and when the shepherd declined to send his eldest son, the teacher took a swift decision.
“Then send Ticka,” he suggested with a smile. Tyrin raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, and Lynar frowned. “The girl has a good head on her shoulders – quick and clever she is, and she has learned enough to protect herself if anything were to go ill.”
“I don’t see how that would be a good idea,” the shepherd grumbled and glanced between his daughter and the old teacher. “She hasn’t even gone to Yranok alone before…”
“And she won’t have to do that now either. I’ll gladly ride with her there to ensure that she passes safely over the river. From there to Areklin she has to go alone, but I’ll prepare her as best as I may for what she’ll face.”
Ticka herself looked at her teacher with something akin to gratitude in her eyes. She had long wanted to travel to other places, he knew that, and now she would finally have the chance to do so – although not in the expected manner. A moment later, she wrapped her arms around her father, clung to him like ivy when he tried to tear away, and looked up at him with eyes like those of a begging dog.
“Let me go,” she cried. “Da, please, let me! If you let me go now, I won’t say anything more about travelling for two years when I’m home again, I swear!”
“If you even come home again,” Lynar snorted. “Snakes and spawns of shadows, let go of me, child! Do you think I’ll give you leave to go just because you cling to me?”
“If she goes with my brother, you won’t have any need to worry.” Tyrin gave a small smile when he turned to the shepherd again. “He has taught her much during the years, hasn’t he?”

“It’s not about what she’s learned! Do you think I want to be rid of her any more than any others in my family? If she’s to be safe, she will stay here!”
For a while, the talk went back and forth like that; over and over again Ticka begged to go, and over and over again her father denied her. Cier listened, glancing between his brother and Lynar; Tyrin preferred to go forward as an unstoppable force in his decisions, but Lynar was as unmovable as the hills themselves when he had decided something. Without any further insurance regarding Ticka’s safety, the shepherd would like the hills do nothing more than wait out the storm.
And perhaps it was in that insurance demanded that there was a way forward.
“But if we then say that I don’t only bring her to Yranok,” he interrupted at last when Lynar’s temper seemed to fray. “How does that sound? If I ride with her to Areklin, she’ll have protection enough and can also learn more about what’s demanded of those who carry messages to other clans.”
The suggestion immediately earned a sharp glare from the clan-leader again, and the teacher had to force himself to keep his eyes on the shepherd rather than trying to justify his suggestion. He had already seen what his brother thought of it – they did not need to repeat the same song in front of others.
Lynar, on the other hand, gave his daughter a considering look, calmer than he had been only moments earlier, and hummed thoughtfully.
“Better that than her going alone,” the shepherd muttered at last. “If she gets a bit more experience and learns from master Hain, she could be of help to master in the future as well.” Ticka gave a shout of joy and hugged her father tightly, but the man gave her a grim look and added: “You’ll do as master Hain tells you, girl, do you hear? I don’t want to hear a single word of disobedience when you’re back home again! If he tells you to shut up, you’ll do so, and if he tells you to stay away, you’ll obey without question! Is that understood?”

Ticka beamed at him and nodded eagerly. She would certainly have nodded no matter what he demanded of her, so glad was she for him agreeing to the suggestion.
Only a short while later, Cier and Tyrin had left the shepherd’s house. Ticka needed to prepare herself, and swiftly, and Cier had to do the same. They walked in silence for a while on the way back to the teacher’s house; the younger brother glanced nervously at the elder several times, tense and waiting for the bitter scolding he sensed would come. Tyrin’s expression was dark as a thundercloud – it was only to be expected that his temper would reach the boiling point.
Yet it was not until they stood before Cier’s door that the clan-leader turned to him with lightning in his eyes.
“Keep in mind what I said to you before,” he warned. “I’m glad that you found a way to convince Lynar, but the Lady of Storm’s wrath be on you if you go against what I say to you now: I’ll allow you to go to Yranok, but no further. You’ll prepare Ticka and send her to Areklin, but you’ll remain in the village and wait there for her. Understood? She’s not supposed to do more than warn them anyway, she’ll be back in due time.”
“You want me to go against the word I gave to one of our own,” Cier commented drily. He appeared less affected by his brother’s tone than he felt; above all, he wished to avoid speaking with the man for a longer while. Nothing more than a fight could come out of it. “Lynar will never trust me again if I don’t keep my word.”
“Do you worry more about Lynar’s liking for you than mine?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.” For a moment they stared grimly at each other, two wills fighting for superiority. Cier steeled himself for a loud fight; he could not back down, refused to back down now when he finally had a path to take. “I can’t leave Ticka to ride the whole way to Areklin alone,” he tried. “She’s only a child still! A lone girl of thirteen, how could I let her go without protection?”

“What was it you said before? That the girl is quick and clever and can take care of herself?” Tyrin snapped in response. “If that’s true, you don’t have a reason to go at all!”
“Would you have let Fern or Tihan go on their own?” Cier challenged. “If I’d promised to go with them, would you force me to stay here and let them travel alone?”
“Of course, if it would guarantee that you are safe!”
At the older brother’s words, the younger froze, stared at his sibling with wide eyes. He had hoped that Tyrin would stop and think, not… Not whatever this was supposed to be. There was an anguish behind the clan-leader’s anger that Cier could not remember ever seeing before.
With a frustrated sigh, Tyrin ran one hand over his hair. The gesture made him look younger, more like the youth who so often got into fights with his equals than the clan-leader he had become; the youth who had been so particular about his little brother’s well-being that nothing else had been more important.
“I don’t want to force you to break your promise,” the clan-leader muttered in the end. “But I beg you to understand – I can’t let you go further than Yranok. If something happens, I must be able to reach you fast. If you go to Arkelin-”
“I understand,” Cier hastily interrupted. He bent his head and turned his gaze away, unwilling to meet his brother’s eyes, unwilling to see the anguish in them. “To Yranok and no further.”
“Don’t force me to make you give me your word on that, little brother.”
“You have it all the same. I’ll go with Ticka to the ford and I’ll give the Varyn-soldiers some excuse so that she’ll be able to pass them without being stopped.”
The teacher did not need to raise his head again to see the hesitation in his brother’s eyes. Who would not try to find their way around a promise that they never intended to give in the first place? But doubt or no, it would have to be enough, and Tyrin would have to trust that his brother would obey him.

November 21, 2024 at 5:44 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

I'm Tehri, and I'm a writer who has... perhaps too many projects ongoing. I've mainly been writing fandom things, but I also have a few original story-projects that I'm working on - among them, a little collection of oneshots that I'm writing with @auraboo.bsky.social.

In hindsight, she really should’ve known that something was about to go sideways. Things had gone her way for too long; it was only natural that A Certain Someone in the Beyond would decide to make things complicated for her.
She opened the door and stepped through it – only to freeze as she found herself not at all in the corridor outside her room at the inn, but instead in an enormous circular room lit only by a fireplace and a few flickering torches along the walls. Laughter and conversation echoed throughout the room.
Lily turned, intending to swiftly make her escape through the door, but found that it had vanished behind her, leaving only what looked like a large mirror made of red glass.
Fuck.
For good measure, she uttered the curse aloud. But behind her, a laugh rose above the din, echoing above all others.
“It has been too long, little flower!” a voice called out. “Come, come, join me!”
The weight of her pack on her shoulders suddenly vanished, and she realised that her dear old trusty armour had been transformed into a dress that most certainly was not her own, a tight-fitting and revealing thing of ruby-red fabric much finer than she had ever seen in her life. Not to mention more impractical; it barely qualified as fabric, really.
But such were the tastes of the one who brought her there. Arguing with him was useless, especially regarding clothing.
She huffed as she turned again, reluctantly stepping further into the room, further into the grand circle of lights.

One might call the room tastefully decorated – if the word “tasteful” implied a brothel. Sheer fabrics in shades of red hung over the walls and from the ceiling, creating little nooks and crannies everywhere. Tables and chairs were placed here and there, as were love seats.
But though she could hear people all around her, though she could hear them as clearly as though they were right beside her, she could see little more than shadows moving behind the veils, none of them clear enough that she could make out more than that they were humanoid in nature.
At the centre of the room stood a large gilded bed, raised atop a dais of black stone. In the light from the fire on the hearth and the torches, shining through the many veils, even the black sheets were coloured a dark red. All around it were shades of people, some lounging on the steps of the dais, some offering food and wine. An ostentatious sight, one that would seem out of place even in the chambers of an emperor.
And upon the bed sat the tall lanky form of the one who had brought Lily to that place, the very person who had called out to her. His silver grey skin seemed nearly to shine in the light, seemed nearly to reflect it just as the jewellery adorning him did; chains and rubies around his neck, hung from the two large horns on his head, adorning his wrists and his ankles, strung between two rings piercing his nipples. Even his white hair was adorned with gold, tinkling as he moved his head. Only a long, thin bit of flimsy red fabric covered his nether regions, hanging from similarly golden chains that looked thin enough to break if one breathed wrong. The display was very nearly enough to take away attention from his four arms – or indeed from his pupil-less red eyes against their black sclera.

“I’m not late with an offering,” Lily grumbled as she climbed the steps of the dais, pushing past the shades. “I offered up three rubies only days ago, you greedy prick, and I have plenty for later, so why would you pull me here, Savrosil?”
Savrosil, the four-armed being, smiled at her. She had never seen him without a smile plastered on his face, almost as though it were sculpted that way and couldn’t change, but she had learned to see subtle differences in his smile. For the moment, at least, it was indulgent, benevolent, welcoming; after all, what did a mortal’s annoyance over being pulled into a god’s world matter in the grand scheme of things?
“My dear flower, if I rarely ask anything of you, might you not assume that I would only inconvenience you in this manner if it was important?” His voice was deep and smooth, sounding as though it were designed to light fires in the veins of those who heard him speak, and Lily bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself to pay attention to what he said rather than his voice. “Come here, little blossom, come to me. Let us speak of what is to come and what I require of you.”
Only with great reluctance did Lily come closer. Savrosil had always been touchy whenever she encountered his physical form; Hells, he was touchy even in his spirit-form, unable to keep his damn hands to himself! And while the halvling certainly wasn’t stupid enough to let a god bed her, there were definitely limits to how much teasing a person could endure, even after so much time spent attempting to move beyond such limits.
And sure enough, the moment she was at the bedside and within reach, two of the god’s long arms shot out, hands grasping at her waist and lifting her with ease. Without listening to her snapping at him to put her down, he pulled her close and had her straddling his lap.
“My little flower,” he sighed. “My little Lily! You have worked hard, I know, but I must ask a little more of you – only this time.”

November 13, 2024 at 3:19 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Thank you so much for your kind words! 🥰
And for your curiosity, I offer a little more 👀

At first, he did not know what he was meant to see. All seemed calm, all seemed the same uneasy darkness and cerulean blue.
Then, somewhere far below, he thought his eyes perceived movement. Something large, enormous even, something larger than anything he had ever laid eyes on but far beneath the surface, shifted in the darkness. A faint reflection as though light struck metal in the blackness, and then-
Then two, no, four, four glints of bright yellow topaz against that shifting shadow, rising just a little closer to the surface, just close enough to ensure that he knew it was no mere fancy of his.
Eyes, he realised. Eyes somewhere far below.
He must have been shaking, for Pither Il laid his hands on his shoulders and steadied him, stood suddenly so close and murmured something in his ear that he could not hear over the pounding of his pulse. Those steady hands pressed lightly against him, guided him to kneel, but did not allow him to turn away.
“The dead,” Pither Il said to him, somehow audible over the pounding of his pulse now, “should never have touched the waters of Qiril-ume. Blood has been drawn from the descendants of those responsible – except from you.” He knelt down behind his guest, leaned in close and grasped An Zel’s wrist, lifted it and pulled back his sleeve to bare his skin. “We are not a violent people, First Minister An. Though Qiril demands blood in repentance for the atrocities your ancestors committed here, we would prefer if you gave it willingly. Yet, if you do refuse, then know that you will not make it back to shore before Qiril claims you.”
That shape in the water shifted again, seemed to be drifting just a little closer to the surface, just close enough that the shadow grew clearer.

There was the glitter of something akin to fish-scales, and the topaz-yellow eyes seemed nearly to grow along with the shadow, larger and larger and larger until An Zel thought that even if he had wits enough to think to run, his legs would not have carried him even an inch for how they shook.
“My blood?” he croaked. “That is all that is demanded?”
“Blood for blood,” Pither Il confirmed mildly. “But for your ancestors’ actions, I cannot promise it will only be once.”
“But blood is all?” An Zel persisted, trying to force his voice to steady itself again. “No more?”
He thought he could hear the younger man laugh softly behind him, felt a thumb stroke over his forearm.
“Blood for blood,” Pither Il repeated. “No more. Do you consent?”
What did the deaths of the people of Qiril-val matter so many years later? What were their lives worth? Who could judge their lives to weigh more heavily than anyone else’s?
Their god could. They could. Their lives were worth unnumbered years of resentment and patient hatred, and their deaths mattered just as much now as they did back then. And if a god demanded blood in return for those lives, then the blood would be shed one way or another.
Better to have it shed and leave Qiril-val with a scar than to lose life and limb.
“I do,” An Zel breathed. “Eternal Mother save me, I consent.”
He heard the sharp sound of a knife being drawn from its sheath, caught the flash of metal in the sunlight from the corner of his eye, and yet his gaze would not leave the great shadow in the water, would not leave the eyes that stared up at him, that slowly came closer and closer. There was the bite of cold steel against his skin, the sting of a sharp edge cutting his arm, the warmth of his very essence dripping over his arm even as Pither Il made him hold it out over the edge of the walkway.

He could see a head now, elongated but broad, rising out of the depths. Eternal Mother save him, how large was this creature? Only the head seemed to come ever closer, its four topaz eyes staring unblinking, but the bulk of its serpentine scaled body seemed to only shift slightly. A large mouth opened, teeth glinting in the dark.
A strange sound echoed suddenly out of the water, rose from below the waves and filled the air with a mournful song.
And as fast as it had all begun, it was over. The eyes closed, and the head lowered itself back into the depths, and Pither Il urged An Zel to turn so that he might wrap the still bleeding wound with cloth, explaining calmly that he would have his resident physician take care of it when they returned to the house.
Though the First Minister’s legs shook still and his head ached and his vision swam, he was pulled up on his feet and made to lean on the younger man as they walked along the walkway back to the shore. The whole way, An Zel’s gaze strayed to the water, and he thought more than once that he saw those topaz eyes watching their passage from far below.

November 9, 2024 at 9:42 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Thanks for the share! ✨

I chose a little snippet of a short (still unfinished) little thing that's teeeechnically a side-story to a larger work that I honestly have yet to properly start writing. But character interactions are always my favourites to write, and I love An Zel and Pither Il a lot! 💕

“You speak of rewriting history,” he answered at length, his benign smile fading at last. “But what was done so many long years ago, in the days of my ancestors, what can make it undone? Lives were lost, and if bones remain at the bottom of this lake, then no one knows where. Would you have me cross the boundaries between life and death to return those lost to your people?”
“I speak of repaying blood spilt with blood,” Pither Il retorted, glancing at him over his shoulder with cold eyes. “Qiril-ume has been fed many times through the long years by those who have claimed residence here on its shores – but your ancestors, First Minister An, carried a heavy part of the blame, and it is your blood that has never been fed to these waters.” He smiled, a wry little motion of the lips that did nothing to instil calm or confidence in his guest. “Ah, do not look at me like that. I am not quite so bold as to offer your life. But your blood, that is another matter entirely, though I cannot offer that without your consent.”
He waved for the First Minister to follow him and stepped out from the shore, stepping onto stones hidden just beneath the surface, stones that formed a long walkway straight out into the golden waters.
For but a moment, An Zel stood still and stared after him, amazed at the younger man’s audacity. How cock-sure he seemed now, this First Advisor, how utterly certain that his guest would follow him into whatever madness this was! By all rights, the Fist Minister should turn and walk away, should make the wearisome trek back up the long stairs and back to the house, should leave Qiril-val and return to Iviralnir with the intent of ensuring that this wretch would never be able to set foot in civilized society again!
Yet he did not. Yet something pulled at him, urged him to walk along; whether it was curiosity or some manner of magic, he could not say, but he slowly followed his host out onto the walkway.

Further and further out they walked, and An Zel dared not look into the waters. Perhaps it was the words about his ancestors, or perhaps the words of those who lost their lives here, but he feared somehow that looking into the waters would reveal faces to him that should not be there, faces staring up at him with malice in their eyes. He forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on Pither Il’s back, urged himself to simply keep walking.
Further and further they walked, further and further, until the water’s golden sheen gave way to the blue sky’s reflection and the disconcerting darkness of waters too deep for the naked eye to see through.
Finally Pither Il stopped and turned, holding out his hand to An Zel once again.
“Come,” he urged. “Come and see.”
An Zel’s tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and he could not utter the words he so dearly wished to, could not say that he had no wish to see, that he would sooner turn and walk back. And Pither Il did not lower his hand, only stood and waited patiently, sure of his guest’s acceptance of the invitation.
Four slow steps brought the First Minister to the First Advisor’s side. Pither Il smiled at him, thin and yet almost kind, and gestured to the waters beyond the walkway. And An Zel looked.

November 9, 2024 at 9:17 PM

Tehri

@tehri.bsky.social

Excuse the blurry images, but we had a hare friend enjoying the sun in the garden this morning. 💕🐇 Very flat, very comfy!

A somewhat blurry picture of a field hare sleeping in the sun underneath a group of pine trees. The hare's ears are flat against its back and side, and it looks more like a rock than an animal.

A somewhat blurry image of a field hare sleeping in the sun underneath a group of pine trees. The hare has lowered its head to the ground and looks flattened out.

October 29, 2024 at 10:36 AM

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