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How to Write a Character Who Feels Like Throwing Up
When fear, dread, or guilt gets sickening—literally—your character is consumed with a gut-clenching feeling that something is very, very wrong. Here's how to write that emotion using more than the classic "bile rose to the back of their throat".
Start with the Stomach
This isn’t just about discomfort. It’s about a complete rebellion happening inside their body.
Their stomach twists like a knot that keeps pulling tighter
A cold sweat beads on their neck, their palms, their spine
Their insides feel sludgy, like everything they’ve eaten is suddenly unwelcome
They double over, not from pain, but because sitting still feels impossible
Add Sensory Overload
Vomiting isn’t just a stomach reaction—it’s the whole body.
Their mouth goes dry, and then too wet
Their jaw tightens, trying to contain it
A sudden heat blooms in their chest and face, overwhelming
The back of their throat burns—not bile, but the threat of it
Breathing becomes a conscious effort: in, out, shallow, sharp
Emotional Triggers
Nausea doesn’t always need a physical cause. Tie it to emotion for more impact:
Fear: The kind that’s silent and wide-eyed. They’re frozen, too sick to speak.
Guilt: Their hands are cold, but their face is flushed. Every memory plays like a film reel behind their eyes.
Shock: Something just snapped inside. Their body registered it before their brain did.
Ground It in Action
Don’t just describe the nausea—show them reacting to it.
They press a fist to their mouth, pretending it’s a cough
Their knees weaken, and they lean on a wall, pretending it’s just fatigue
They excuse themselves quietly, then collapse in a bathroom stall
They swallow, again and again, like that’ll keep everything down
Let the Consequences Linger
Even if they don’t actually throw up, the aftermath sticks.
A sour taste that won’t leave their mouth.
A pulsing headache
A body that feels hollowed out, shaky, untrustworthy
The shame of nearly losing control in front of someone else
Let Them Be Human
A character feeling like vomiting is vulnerable. It's real. It’s raw. It means they’re overwhelmed in a way they can’t hide. And that makes them relatable. You don’t need melodrama—you need truth. Capture that moment where the world spins, and they don’t know if it’s panic or flu or fear, but all they want is to get out of their own body for a second.
Don't just write the bile. Write the breakdown.
How to Make Your Characters Almost Cry
Tears are powerful, but do you know what's more impactful? The struggle to hold them back. This post is for all your hard-hearted stoic characters who'd never shed a tear before another, and aims to help you make them breakdown realistically.
The Physical Signs of Holding Back Tears
Heavy Eyelids, Heavy Heart Your character's eyelids feel weighted, as if the tears themselves are dragging them down. Their vision blurs—not quite enough to spill over, but enough to remind them of the dam threatening to break.
The Involuntary Sniffle They sniffle, not because their nose is running, but because their body is desperately trying to regulate itself, to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to take over.
Burning Eyes Their eyes sting from the effort of restraint, from the battle between pride and vulnerability. If they try too hard to hold back, the whites of their eyes start turning red, a telltale sign of the tears they've refused to let go.
The Trembling Lips Like a child struggling not to cry, their lips quiver. The shame of it fuels their determination to stay composed, leading them to clench their fists, grip their sleeves, or dig their nails into the nearest surface—anything to regain control.
The Fear of Blinking Closing their eyes means surrender. The second their lashes meet, the memories, the pain, the heartbreak will surge forward, and the tears will follow. So they force themselves to keep staring—at the floor, at a blank wall, at anything that won’t remind them of why they’re breaking.
The Coping Mechanisms: Pretending It’s Fine
A Steady Gaze & A Deep Breath To mask the turmoil, they focus on a neutral object, inhale slowly, and steel themselves. If they can get through this one breath, they can get through the next.
Turning Away to Swipe at Their Eyes When they do need to wipe their eyes, they do it quickly, casually, as if brushing off a speck of dust rather than wiping away the proof of their emotions.
Masking the Pain with a Different Emotion Anger, sarcasm, even laughter—any strong emotion can serve as a shield. A snappy response, a bitter chuckle, a sharp inhale—each is a carefully chosen defence against vulnerability.
Why This Matters
Letting your character fight their tears instead of immediately breaking down makes the scene hit harder. It shows their internal struggle, their resistance, and their need to stay composed even when they’re crumbling.
This is written based off of personal experience as someone who goes through this cycle a lot (emotional vulnerability who?) and some inspo from other books/articles
Howdy fellow writers 🤓
I'm new to tumblr but definitely a fanfiction veteran. After the early teenie Animexx days, I rediscovered my passion in 2019 - and haven't stopped since. 🤭
I currently have two ongoing Baldur's Gate longfics (Astarion/Original Female Tav, Astarion/You-Spawn Tav), and a What We Do In The Shadows fix it draft brewing 😎
blessedly ignoring all my other crackfic drafts
Looking forward to engaging with all of you!♥️
("CosyBlue" on ao3)
"good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere...two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. Your job isn't to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up."
Stephen King, On Writing, page 37
The Embrace of Love and Death - A Short Rest: All Tied Up and Nowhere to Go
This short rest takes place between chapters 6 and 7 of The Embrace of Love and Death! Catch the full fanfic here
Lae’zel had been glaring at them from across camp all afternoon, Miss Fortune noticed. That wasn’t unusual by itself, but her facial expression was what caught their eye. In place of the usual disdain, she seemed to be trying to dissect them, as if they were a mystery she was trying to solve.
They suspected it had something to do with how easily they’d gotten out of her rope bindings yesterday, as she had scowled when they remarked on her shoddy ties. Reveling in their growing confidence as a leader and fighter, they decided to give her a hard time.
“You’re giving me a different grimace than usual, General,” they said with smug satisfaction as they ambled over to where she was whacking away at her training dummy. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you can’t stand the thought that I’m better than you at something.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said tersely without pausing in her maneuvers.
“It’s eating you up inside how quickly I got out of those ropes, isn’t it? You want to know how this pathetic little soft boy did it.”
“Chk. Perhaps,” she conceded.
“I could tell you, but it would be more effective to show you. Taking hostages hasn’t been our style so far but any of us should be able to if the need arises.”
“You speak sensibly.” Lae’zel lowered her fists and cocked her head, considering. “Show me.”
Miss Fortune knew that smiles didn’t get far with Lae’zel, so the half-elf simply turned on their heel and walked off, beckoning her to follow with a wave.
“Meet me around the fire pit. I’m going to see if the others would also like a demonstration.”
Shadowheart and Astarion both accepted the invitation, though Miss Fortune suspected their primary interest was to watch Lae’zel get humbled. Gale declined as if he found the whole idea of physically binding another human repulsive. Seeing as he could accomplish the same effect with magic they couldn’t quite blame him.
“All right, I’m going to demonstrate on you first, Lae’zel. So you can see for yourself I know what I’m doing. Hands behind your back,” Miss Fortune instructed once everyone had assembled.
Lae’zel crossed her arms in front of her chest, unmovable as a boulder.
“I guess you don’t want to learn after all. False alarm, friends, let’s disperse,” they said to the others, fatigue creeping into their voice.
“Chk. Fine,” Lae’zel relented.
“A wise choice, General.” Miss Fortune uncoiled the length of rope they’d grabbed from their tent, silently lamenting that they didn’t have silk cord. She would never be able to rip through that with brute strength. Instead, they had to make do with the limited bounty of what they’d scavenged so far on their adventure.
The half-elf made quick work of cinching the rope around her wrists in a tight figure eight pattern. “The trick - which you failed to do with me and Astarion - is to ensure the rope sits below the thumb joint,” they explained. Shadowheart and Astarion sidled over and leaned in to observe.
Miss Fortune continued wrapping the rope tightly before double-tying the knot higher up, well out of the reach of the Githyanki’s fingers. “You don’t want to leave any room for prying fingers to find purchase, or you’ll come back to an empty chair, room, what have you. Normally I’d bind the ankles too, but this will suffice for a beginner’s demonstration. Now, try to get out.”
She tried grasping at the rope first with her fingers, then attempted to wriggle her wrists loose. Her face contorted with rage and she began to swear when she realized she could find no purchase with her bindings. Miss Fortune took several steps back, crossing their arms over their chest and grinning like a fox who had just snared a rabbit. They took sadistic pleasure watching her struggle for once.
“Just imagine if I had tied your arms behind a tree or perhaps to a chair,” Miss Fortune mused cruelly. They chose to mimic Astarion’s languid pose and bored expression, pretending to inspect their nails as they spoke. “In that scenario I would have bound you at the waist and ankles as well, and you’d be a lost cause by that point. And if I really wanted to make sure you stayed put, I’d gag you too. Maybe even tie your ankles and hands together. Can never be too careful, can we?”
“Tsk’va, you’ve made your point,” Lae’zel spat, still wriggling wildly like a worm freshly dug up from the ground. “Untie me now!”
Miss Fortune drew closer, their expression darkening as they stared down their nose at her. “I don’t think I have yet. I’m tired of you calling me a ‘soft boy’ like it’s something I should be ashamed of. Keep it up and next time I tie you up, I’ll leave you like that. Do we have an understanding?”
Loathing danced in the Githyanki’s eyes as she glowered up at them. Her shoulder looked about ready to dislocate as she continued to struggle to make progress with the ropes, as if popping her arm out of its socket were preferable to conceding defeat. Knowing her, it probably was.
“Remember I don’t heal stupidity, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart called out.
Miss Fortune looked over their shoulder to shoot a grin Shadowheart’s way. Their eyes locked and she nodded, returning the grin with a wicked smile of her own. The half-elf rogue glimpsed over at Astarion as well, and their chest felt a touch lighter when they saw approval in his ruby gaze.
“We have an understanding,” Lae’zel rasped at last, tearing Miss Fortune’s attention away from the vampire.
“Wonderful!” Miss Fortune made quick work of untying her, making sure to step back quickly with the rope stretched between their hands to create a barrier in case her anger got the best of her. The warrior stretched her arms and rubbed her sore wrists but otherwise made no move to lunge for her antagonist.
With the demonstration-turned-warning complete, Miss Fortune spent a while longer showing everyone how to replicate what they did to Lae’zel on each other until everyone felt confident they could remember how to do it on their own.
“Class dismissed,” Miss Fortune announced. “I hope you all enjoyed rope play for beginners. Now I believe Astarion and I have a date in the woods with whatever animal is unlucky enough to encounter us. See you later, ladies,” Miss Fortune added with a wave as they casually sauntered off. Astarion followed close behind.
When they were out of earshot, the half-elf leaned in and murmured mischievously to the vampire “If you play your cards right, someday I might give you the more advanced lesson.”
Astarion guffawed in delight. “Is that a promise or a threat, little bird?”
“Both.”
The Embrace of Love and Death, Chapter 6: From Liability to Menace
Chapter Summary: Astarion and Miss Fortune are rudely awoken by sacks being thrown over their heads as they are spirited away for a final test of their combat skills. They must work together using a blend of stealth and brutality to free themselves before time runs out. Should they succeed, the companions will be able to resume their adventures. Fail, and Lae’zel threatens to gut them and take Miss Fortune’s role as leader.
Read the full chapter on AO3!
Excerpt:
The ropes binding Miss Fortune’s hands behind their back cut into their wrists as they squirmed to get free. They had no idea where they were. Several minutes ago they’d been awoken suddenly this morning to a sack being thrown over their head as Lae’zel pulled them roughly to their feet. Their reward for several days of hard training, she explained, was a final test. Pass, and she’d declare both them and Astarion as no longer being liabilities, and they could get back on the road looking for a cure. Fail, and she’d gut them both and lead Gale and Shadowheart onwards herself before their bodies even had a chance to grow cold.
“No, no, this is just a friendly assessment,” Gale had interjected. “The only negative consequences for failing will be extra training!”
Miss Fortune was led forward with a rough hand against the back of their head for some ways until the hand gripped harder, stopping them. Someone else pushed them down into a chair and bound their hands behind their back.
“Your armor and weapons are in the room with you,” Lae’zel began.
“Room…? Where have you taken-“
“LISTEN, istik! You will free yourself, arm yourself. Astarion is already in your same predicament somewhere else nearby. You must find one another and fight your way out before Gale’s illusion spell wears off. Understand?”
“I have so many questions, foremost being ‘What the fuck?’ But sure, I understand the general instructions,” Miss Fortune had groaned. Their companions must have grabbed them early because they were so exhausted they could barely process the situation. Their suspicions were confirmed when Lae’zel tugged the hood off of them and they saw that dawn was only just beginning to break. “This couldn’t have been a midday test?”
Lae’zel elected not to answer that last question, instead turning on her heel to leave and motioning for Gale to follow. They shimmered out of sight as they presumably left the range of whatever illusion spell Gale had woven.
This left Miss Fortune alone and bound, but knowing this was an illusion helped stave off any panic. They wondered if the companions had grabbed Astarion first and then come back for them or if they’d left poor Shadowheart to “capture” him on her own.
A smile tugged at their mouth as they imagined how absolutely livid the vampire must be right now. Interrupting his beauty trance? Messing up his hair with that awful sack? Risking a broken nail to wriggle free of the ropes? They could picture his scowl and the vitriol spewing from it so clearly in their mind. The image of threats of violence issuing forth from such a beautiful man was delicious, especially seeing as they would be directed at other people and not them. Focus, they scolded themselves. You can daydream later.
Miss Fortune never thought they’d be glad for their history as a courtesan in their new life, but as luck would have it they were well-versed in the art of rope play. A wicked smile spread across their face as they tested the bindings. Lae’zel would have to try harder than that to keep them tied up. After all, they’d had their entire body intricately trussed and bound more times than they could count - oftentimes while suspended from the ceiling - and they’d been taught to find their way out of any ties. They were free from Lae’zel’s shoddy knots in no time at all.
The half-elf made a mental note to teach her how to do a better job tying up prisoners after this. Or better yet, to make sure they always did it themselves.
Once they had dressed and armed themselves, the next step was to survey their surroundings. Gale’s sage advice from the last few days replayed in their head: deep breaths, take time to note your exits and your advantages, use all your senses. They were in a small stone room with slits for windows and one door. The only things inside were the chair, the chest their gear had been in, and themselves. Which was to say, not much to take in. Putting their ear against the door, they paused. At first, they heard nothing. But then came the sounds of footsteps drawing nearer - it sounded like two sets.
They waited and listened, breathing as quietly as possible, as the footsteps passed right by their door and then began to recede on the far side of it. Some kind of patrol then, it seemed. Once the sound had completely faded, they took a chance opening their door. Relief flooded their veins when they found it unlocked. That would save them time and reduce the chances of getting caught mid-lockpicking.
The door opened into a short hallway with two other doors to the left of theirs. Clinging to the wall they crept over to the middle door, once again cupping an ear against it to listen inside. No sounds of struggle inside, so they moved on. Miss Fortune felt thoroughly confused when they got to the last door because they could smell Astarion’s perfume - Rosemary, bergamot, and a touch of brandy, he’d recently revealed - before they even reached the door.
Lae’zel had mentioned that this was some sort of elaborate illusion Gale wove. Could the perfume smell be part of it, designed to trick them into opening the wrong door? No, they decided. They hadn’t ever noticed Astarion and Gale in close enough contact for the wizard to replicate the vampire’s scent this well. Putting an ear to the door revealed shuffling sounds, confirming their hunch that Astarion was behind door number three.
Hearing distant footsteps once more, they quickly ducked inside Astarion’s room and shut the door as quietly as possible. The sight that greeted them was one they hoped they could commit to memory. The vampire was on the last clasp of his padded armor, muttering what sounded like foul Elvish curses under his breath. His hair was a beautiful mess with curls going in every direction, but the best part was his facial expression. His eyebrows were downturned slashes over his fiery eyes, and his mouth was twisted into a livid grimace; the very paragon of anger. It took everything Miss Fortune had to stifle their laughter; this was even better than they had imagined.
Read from chapter 1: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64221298?view_full_work=true
Not pictured: all the many nights my brain wakes me up at 3 AM or 5 AM with ideas that CANNOT wait and I MUST write them immediately
Writers on a random Tuesday: Sits down, locks in, giggles, writes 10k, does not sleep
Also writers on a random Tuesday: writes one sentence and then stares into the abyss for five fours
please, I come up like 10 ideas in 1 morning.
(i haven't fucking finished the other 20 fics)
Pinterest board {+ sections} I use to get inspo for writing {including Tumblr posts}
possible TCM reference...
me and mine own children. against the world (untitled document; untitled document (2); untitled document (3), untitled docum
I'm about to fuck my sleep schedule yall
crying as I attempt to clear out my reqs but writers block just has to shove itself in here 😓😓
Beware the ides of march they say. Perhaps we should beware every month, as we the participating audience watch this pantomime play out on insta reels and YouTube shorts. Meanwhile groceries prices go higher, innocent people die trapped under the rubble of their homes and country relations are haywire，all because the man on stage wants to pretend everything is satire. And he does this while the world catches fire, calls it progress. Calls it great T.V. But will call foul play when shots are fired when the people he hurts grow tired.
I would have sent a message but I thought I should send an ask. I love your blog. I love the way you write ad what you write.
I always appreciate a kind ask , especially considering the amount of silly troll ones I get. Thankyou so much 🌼 this was really lovely to hear, I needed something like this today so thankyou🩷🌺🩷🌺🩷
Anyone else physically recoil when thinking about how we are made of flesh and bone. I can even look at uncooked meat, if I've seen it raw I can't eat it cooked. And if it looks like a limb I'm not eating it at all. Then I think about how my body is uncooked meat and my bones possible tools and I shudder, I feel far too close to the tendons and the blood, I feel alive, so alive that the sound of my heart is a warning and a blessing, I feel so alive I'm afraid I'll die, I'm afraid of how gruesome it is.
Excerpt from my WIP Dead above.
The book so far consists of messy notes and pieces of different plot ideas that don't fit together built up over two years. Most of them are my frantic half asleep scribblings that don't make any sense lol. Now i just need to build my Frankenstein.
Screw it , I'm going to write this book.
Screw it , I'm going to write this book.
These where the random notes/doodle from the first idea stage for my WIP 'Dead above'. Does anyone else begin brainstorming by thinking of pieces of dialogue first and then creating characters and plot around it.
Excerpt from wip Dead above
𔓘 April / 20s / Writeblr 𔓘
This is a place to keep my writing/poetry and occasional artwork, and you're welcome to look around.
I’m working on something that will probably take me awhile (a long long hopefully not too long while lol)updates and snippets under #dead above. Until it’s finished, this blog helps me stay consistent, starve off procrastination and remember that life doesn't have to be empty. It can be warm and golden. I hope you wait for that sunrise. It's worth it. ~pfp icon is my first digital painting attempt.
It's bonfire night. Remember remember the fifth of November. Remember a failed Act of rebellion: I remember my only act of purposeful destruction, of physical rebellion. I was 12 or 13 and you had let him back in the house again, you invited him in with a smile and avoided my eyes. So I threw a vase down the stairs, I wanted your attention, I wanted you to see that shattered vase and realise I was breaking apart. I didn't break it out of anger, I broke it in despair and desperation. I thought if I break this you'll wake up, you'll believe me. But you mocked it and laughed with him instead. Maybe you where so broken at that point, so broken that shards of porcelain and glass only looked like soft disagreement. Maybe you needed him to fill your cracks with his sharp edges.
I was seven, but I didn't remember it until I was 13. It was almost a blessing that my mind hid it from me, it would have weighed my small spirit down before it had the chance to bloom. He visited throughout those 6 years and I would laugh at his silly jokes. I thought he was funny. Now not so much, the memory has tainted all the others. It has reset the tone of every interaction. It came back to me in the kitchen, we where both sat at the table and my mother was fiddling with pots and pans by the sink. I don't remember what we where talking about but I do remember the suddenness of remembering being seven with you in my room. I had never tried to picture what people meant when they said your life flashes before your eyes when you're dying. I felt like I was dying, a part me came clawing out of its hiding place and ripped me anew. My life didn't flash before my eyes but you did. One minute you where safe and funny, a blink later you were dangerous and slimy. I wanted you off my skin, but you had been clinging to me for 6 years and I didn't know where to begin. One thing I knew for sure is I had remembered. And you thought I hadn't.
I don't let myself look up what my school friends are doing now, I'm afraid. Afraid I'll find pictures of a something I missed. I remember us at 11 crowded around a school library computer, you both looked up your favourite wedding dresses most of them mermaid and lacy white, you picked out our bridesmaids dresses and talked about how we would find a colour that at least looked good on us all; I thought powdered blue. I miss being that young, when the only worries where our homework and hoping we where first out for lunch. Maybe you did get married, maybe if I log in to my socials I'll find an invite. Or maybe time has changed too much, we aren't eleven anymore. I wonder if you picked powdered blue or a mermaid dress in lacy white, I wonder if something remains the same.
Show Don't Tell - Symptoms vs. the Affliction
Another way to think of show don’t tell is to describe the symptoms rather than tell the affliction. You could say someone was close to fainting—or you could describe their symptoms and trust the readers to understand what they mean: the world swirled around her head, her ears beginning to hum lowly, then louder, increasing into a high-pitched ring. She took a deep breath, her stomach turning over itself. Etc.
Symptoms can also mean the lump in your throat as a “symptom” of being sad enough to cry, or the warmth of your face as a “symptom” of embarrassment.
That might sound a bit silly, but I find it really helpful when I’m reading over mine or others work and looking for those places where showing would be better than telling. Have you described the symptoms, or just told the affliction?
Here’s a short list of “afflictions” and their associated “symptoms” to get you started (but make sure to explore how different characters express different afflictions, even in more odd or unusual ways!)
Any symptoms I missed?
*Taking notes*
Making Fight Scenes Sound Nicer
Euphonics is all about how the words "feel". By incorporating certain sounds, you can influence the mood of the passage.
Mood: Foreboding
use words with 'ow', 'oh', 'ou', 'oo' sonds. These are good for building tension before the fight.
moor, growl, slow, wound, soon, show, show, grow, tow, loom, howl, cower, mound.
Mood: Spooky
use words with 's' sounds, combined with an 'i' sound.
hiss, sizzle, crisp, sister, whisper, sinister, glisten, stick.
Mood: Acute Fear
use word with 'ee/ea' sounds, with a few 's' sounds.
squeal, scream, squeeze, creak, steal, fear, clear, sheer, stream
Mood: Fighting Action
use short words iwth 't', 'p' and 'k' sounds.
cut, block, top, shoot, tackle, trick, kick, grip, grab, grope, punch, drop, pound, poke, cop, chop.
Mood: Speed
use short words with 'r' sounds
run, race, riot, rage, red, roll, rip, hurry, thrust, scurry, ring, crack
Mood: Trouble
use words with 'tr' sounds to signal trouble
trouble, trap, trip, trough, treat, trick, treasure, atroscious, attract, petrol, trance, try, traitor
Mood: Macho Power
If you wan to emphasize the fighters' masculinity, use 'p' sounds.
pole, power, police, cop, pry, pile, post, prong, push, pass, punch, crop, crap, trap, pack, point, part
Mood: Punishment
If your fight involves an element of punishment use 'str' sounds
strict, astride, strike, stripe, stray, strident, stroke, strip, instruct, castrate strive
Mood: Defeat
use 'd' sonds
despari, depressed, dump, dig, dank, damp, darkness, drag, ditch, drop, dead, deep, dark, dull
Mood: Victory
use 'j' and 'ch' sounds
joy, cheer, jubilant, jeer, chuck, chariot, choose, chip, jest, jamboree, jig, jazz, jive, rejoice, rejoin
In print, the effectiveness of such euphonics will be very subtle, and it can only serve as an embellishment to what you already have.
Don't use or replace words for the sake of achieving euphonic effects, but this can be something to keep in mind when you are editing your draft!
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Gonna hold onto this
Writing Weapons (1): Swords
The Thrusting Sword
Type of fight scene: entertaining, duels, non-lethal fights, non-gory deaths, swashbuckling adventure
Mostly used in: Europe, including Renaissance and Regency periods
Typical User: silm, male or female, good aerobic fitness
Main action: thrust, pierce, stab
Main motion: horizontal with the tip forward
Shape: straight, often thin, may be lightweight
Typical Injury: seeping blood, blood stains spreading
Strategy: target gaps in the armous, pierce a vital organ
Disadvantage: cannot slice through bone or armour
Examples: foil, epee, rapier, gladius
The Cleaving Sword
Type of fight scene: gritty, brutal, battles, cutting through armour
Typical user: tall brawny male with broad shulders and bulging biceps
Mostly used in: Medieval Europe
Main action: cleave, hack, chop, cut, split
Main motion: downwards
Shape: broad, straight, heavy, solid, sometime huge, sometimes need to be held in both hands, both sides sharpened
Typical Injury: severed large limbs
Strategy: hack off a leg, them decapitate; or split the skull
Disadvantage: too big to carry concealed, too heavy to carry in daily lifem too slow to draw for spontaneous action
Examples: Medieval greatsword, Scottish claymore, machete, falchion
The Slashing Sword
Type of fight scene: gritty or entertaining, executions, cavalry charge, on board a ship
Mostly used in: Asia, Middle East
Typical user: male (female is plausible), any body shape, Arab, Asian, mounted warrior, cavalryman, sailor, pirate
Main action: slash, cut, slice
Main motion: fluid, continuous, curving, eg.figure-eight
Shape: curved, often slender, extremely sharp on the outer edge
Typical Injury: severed limbs, lots of spurting blood
Strategy: first disable opponent's sword hand (cut it off or slice into tendons inside the elbow)
Disadvantage: unable to cut thorugh hard objects (e.g. metal armor)
Examples: scimitar, sabre, saif, shamshir, cutlass, katana
Blunders to Avoid:
Weapons performing what they shouldn't be able to do (e.g. a foil slashing metal armour)
Protagonists fighting with weapons for which they don't have the strength or build to handle
The hero carrying a huge sword all the time as if it's a wallet
Drawing a big sword form a sheath on the back (a physical impossiblity, unless your hero is a giant...)
Generic sword which can slash, stab, cleave, slash, block, pierce, thrust, whirl through the air, cut a few limbs, etc...as if that's plausible
adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall
Lost At Sea
Here I lie, lost at sea,
dazed and lame as I can be.
The sky above is dark
as is the water below me.
How I got here, I scarcely remember—
when I boarded, when I left the pier.
The time as well, I could not decipher—
September, October, or November.
Alone in this vastness,
silence embraces me—
the great stretch of the universe and the sea
do all but eclipse me.
At times I start to wonder
what if instead of wander,
I let the waves take me—
pull me in and consume me.
I close my eyes and picture
my delicate arms and legs,
spread restful as they please,
sink into the cold water.
Visions of the starry sky peek through,
strings of faint light probing in the blue.
The stars shimmer above the mirrory surface,
far and out of reach, they peer with indifference.
But then I pull myself out
of my ruminative bout;
the spirit of life taking reins
to brave my impermanent pains.
My boat is a drifting speck,
a mote between infinite black;
so here I lie, lost at sea,
alone and numbed as I can be.
______________________________________________________________
Inspired by and written for the prompt "Cold water". Prompt credit to @the-kingofdoritos
Purification
Sleep, when you think about it, is like a false death or a little death. Unconsciousness extends to hours of bliss or nightmares, leaving one ignorant and inert, unaware of where one is. The awakening is what breaks the said 'death', pulling one out of the depths of their own mind to throw them into the real world. For a moment or so, I often think about it, the lines must blur; life and death, slumber and consciousness, real and unreal. From this moment rises a new you, one who is slightly different, slightly renewed.
I always understood sleep in that manner. You wake up with a bruise you didn't have before, you wake up with a new pimple, you wake up with more hair on your pillow than yesterday, you wake up feeling more tired than you did when you went to bed, you wake up from a vivid dream of a life so much better than your reality, you spend the rest of the day trying to forget it. I think of waking up as a door to a new day. What you'll find in that new day is shown when your eyes open, its symptoms etched onto you. I've lived through life enough to expect some things from how waking up leaves me feeling.
The 'mark' left me confused. For a good 5 minutes, I sat and recalled what had happened that night. Was I with someone? Was I drunk?
Who was I kidding? I hadn't been drunk in forever. That line of thought is for people who have friends to go out with.
I was sober. I came home alone, had leftovers and went straight to bed. Nothing that explained a strange tattoo that looked like a cursive 'U' or 'V' could have happened. I tried wiping it off, washing it out; nothing worked. It stayed there, dark and crisp, a part of my skin. It didn't hurt or even have any visible redness around it, almost as if it had always been there. But I knew it hadn't.
I might have been able to get it off my mind if I had anything to do, but it was a day off. All the time in the world to think about it. But what was the point? I couldn't get to any conclusion anyway. How did it get there? Who did it? What was the purpose of it? All questions hung before me like carrots on a stick too high for me to grasp.
I ate cereal for breakfast, even though I told myself to make something nice for once. I stayed at the table for way too long, staring blankly at whatever my phone showed me, locked in a hypnotic stillness until the clock threatened with hours slipping out of my grasp. I heeded, moving around to go about the chores that I had perfect excuses to avoid throughout the week in a lethargic pace. And when my mind found no place to rest, it wandered down to the mark on my wrist.
I wondered what it could mean. Maybe if I had known, I would have thought of something to do. Although, even if I did, there was nothing I could do.
Clouds took over the sky right around noon, just when the clothes were done washing. The gloom must have taken over me as all I did for who knows how long was pace around the tiny apartment I reluctantly called home before ending up standing before the window, staring out. Grey, wistful swathes hung over the big city; city of the future, city of dreams— all those names and a single, cloudy day dwarfed it before its sombre glory.
The longer I watched those clouds, the more anxious I grew. For what reason, I couldn't tell. Nausea rose upon me, sweat threatening to spill through my skin but not doing so, paralysed in a state of limbo, just like the weather. My insides felt corrupt, leaving an intense drive to spill it out somehow, erase it, cleanse myself of it.
The houses around were quiet, the only sound in the neighbourhood being that of some vehicles passing by occasionally. For once, I lamented the quiet. I had always wished so desperately for it, cursing the kids for all their screaming, laughing, crying, shouting, stomping and playing around the neighbourhood. I was never a bitter person. I never hated children. But the quiet I got to enjoy on days like these was something precious, and anyone to break it made my blood boil. And now, for some reason, I found the quiet nerve-wracking.
The clock seemed to tick louder in the deathly silence, forcing me to do something about the wet laundry festering in the washing machine. Like a marionette, I got to work, hanging and laying the clothes on whatever surface provided the passage of air around them. The clothing rack wasn't sufficient. I would've made lunch, but the nausea made me stay out of the kitchen. I never liked to cook anyway, but takeout was slowly eating away at the peanuts I earned. Going out with colleagues was no better. Somehow, it always ended with me paying for everyone. Fastest way to end my appetite. I was never a miser but constantly ending up with empty pockets after every outing would make anyone resentful.
I couldn't see the Sunset. All around me were tall buildings blocking the Sun at its best hours. Sunset to me was a splash of greyish orange towards the west. Today, it was dull purple, the kind that makes your mouth twist in a snarl, almost like a large bruise or mold sprawling across the sky. It made me want to reach up and tear it down, and the thought alone made my fingertips tingle with disgust. The sight of that nasty shade slowly fading as the dark veil of night spread should have made me relieved, but it only made the sense of doom settle further into the cavity of my torso.
How deceptive time is, rushing forward with no mercy when it wishes and slowing to a suffocating halt when it wishes. I didn't realise when the day passed, but when my eyes landed by chance on the clock proudly counting down each last second of my life, I could only beg for it to speed up. I didn't want to suffer, I didn't want to die— at least not so soon. But death was sweeter than the agony I was put through for reasons I couldn't dare ask about.
It came to me all of a sudden but not at the same time. I expected something, something bad, for sure, when the mark on my wrist began to tickle under my skin. Not long after that, it itched and burned. I scratched and scratched and scratched until blood came trickling out around it, but the mark remained unharmed, pristine. I knew it was over for me then, when my nails, all bloody and full of dead skin, would simply glide over the warm, wet liquid coating my forearm.
My vision was blurry from tears, which obscured the figure that seemed to manifest in the middle of my living room. I kept scratching, growing positively desperate to get rid of the mark. It stayed, pitch black ink engraved into my flesh. I broke down and slid to the floor as the looming figure, cloaked in white and gold, approached. It probably had a head and a pair of arms, but it didn't use them to lift me off the floor. I kept my head hung, even as screams erupted from my throat; I didn't dare look up.
I didn't realise when the lights went out— or perhaps I had never turned them on the whole day— but it was dark. At least, it was supposed to be. Besides the lightning that shrieked between the blanket of clouds pouring down rain, there was a bright, off-white glow so strong it could blind me easily if I hadn't been staring at my arm the whole time. Even in mid-air, I was below the cruel deity that inflicted that pain on me. When the mark burned so hot it began glowing through the bloody mess I had made of it, I gave up, dropping my spent hand to my side.
Why was it doing this? What did it have to gain from me? Why did it choose me? I hoped my eyes conveyed those questions as I lifted them to gaze upon it. I fought the light through newfound tears only to see indifference in the fully black eyes, a void so vast yet tiny enough to be held within the walls of my home. There was no malice in those 'eyes', only an aloof responsibility. For me.
My ribs cracked under the invisible pressure, the rest of my insides flaring up— muscles turned magma and organs, lava. My throat had never felt so raw before as it did in that moment until it was silenced on its own. I pitied myself for the failed whistling sounds my broken throat made, although I didn't have to bear it for long as my ears started bleeding along with my nose and mouth. There was something coming out of me, besides all the blood that splattered all over, something invisible but so very tangible. A part of me— how big, I could not tell. The bright one ripped it out of me, separating the ugly from the ideal.
I understood. I didn't want this to happen, but I understood. The corruption, the impurities had to go, to be thrown out. A horrid night would result in renewal, in the perpetuation of a better, purer form. I may have accepted it in those final moments. The sky had quieted down after a great storm, creating space for me to lament the tantalising click of the second's hand and the sparse, shallow breaths that leaked out of my respiratory tract. I wanted to let it all go, to go unconscious into the gentle arms of sweet slumber. My eyes shifted around to take in the sight of home one last time.
Soon, I would be renewed, perfect. But the stains of those removed impurities would be carried by the place, by the clothes soaking in my blood, and that would be all that was left of the me that existed before the blurring of the lines. That was enough. If I closed my eyes, death was a certainty, but so was the awakening of a new me. A renewed me.
A/N: This is a little something I wrote for a monthly writing prompt, it being "A character wakes with a strange mark on their arm." Credit to @the-kingofdoritos for the prompt!