Writing Snippet

A little something I whipped up recently:

 Her home would not be forgotten. If she lived, so would the rest of her people. And so she wrote til her calloused fingers cracked open and bled. She wrote of whimsical folklore and village gossip; of grand celebrations and figures of the past. Everything she had ever known would be written, nothing would be missed.  The Gods of Old watched from their gilded cages as the girl recorded stories of her home. They had been there from the very beginning, watching the destruction of the world she once knew. Unable to do anything then, they vowed to provide for the girl who was now forever alone. They gathered all the strength they had left in their crumbling bones to bless the poor girl as she wrote. For three hundred days and three hundred nights, she did not stop. In her grief ridden frenzy, she hadn’t realized the gift bestowed upon her. For those long days and nights where she would not eat or sleep, her blessing nurtured her body so that she could bring the memories of her home and people to paper. As long as she remembered, she could continue to write. 

   When her brain had gone blank and her ink had dried, she finally collapsed in exhaustion. Dreams of fireflies and laughter graced her mind as she lay still on the cold floorboards. 

  The village still looked as it did before. The beautiful field of flowers, cozy cottages, the giant weeping willow, the vale of shadow above. In truth though, the village was abandoned. There were no people to fill the cottages. No people to frolic through the flower fields. No people at all. Whatever mirth and merry that had graced this place before was long gone. The only signs that there had been anybody at all in this forsaken place were golden heliotropes that had rooted themselves in the chest of skeletal remains. Forever bathed in gold, the village remains untouched.

I finished the Elden Ring DLC last week and I think that a good chunk of my playtime was spent standing idly in the Shaman Village.

It's so hauntingly beautiful. While I took in the beauty of the Shaman Village, I wondered what Marika was thinking when she resolved herself to leave her home. Did she ever want to go back? Did her heart ache when she thought of her home and people while she reigned as Queen? Was it cathartic burning away her past? How did she bury the guilt of leaving her son behind? Did she even feel guilt? After panic rolling through the last battle with Radahn and Miquella, I opened up my laptop to write this short snippet, thing. This is heavily inspired by the lore for Marika. From the village's description to the gold that bathes the page, everything was created with Marika as my muse. Although this isn't actually about Marika, I like to think that the desperation of the character I wrote was also felt by Marika to some degree. I wrote this a week ago and I'm not completely sure where I should go with this, but to anyone who reads this, feel free to throw out some ideas.

Thanks for reading!! MWUAH MWUAH!!