undrafted is a spring cleaning. wips, drafts, snippets, abandoned projects that have been collecting dust in my handwritten journals for over a year.

if you're new here, you may find me as @steadydiet on ao3 and superlove.

PRESENCE

Well, have you heard the word,

about the bird and the spider,

that wiggled and wriggled and jiggled inside her?

Prologue

The day begins with the tolling of a harbour bell.

Gentle rays of salvation creep through the dawn-mist. Beyondless lies the Widow's Mire, a dense, mosquito infested thicket hiding a long, winding road. Near-swallowed by spinefex, the road twists and turns 'til it reaches the edge of the universe, whereupon eroding clifftop, an old lighthouse pierces the sky.

Curious, how the old ways still withstand the test of time and technology as it whittles away rotted wood. In dildapidated glory, the lighthouse looms high above the townsfolk as brilliant as the day it was built.

More than a century has passed since the last lightkeeper abandoned his post. Generation after generation of self-imposed solitute had come to a bitter end with the advancement of maritime technology. With no fine-men left to man the engines, the local seaport closed down, and the lighthouse became another dilapidated landmark dotting the coastline.

Once a symbol of hope, now a menacing sentinel of the night. Seafarers, beware! All good-men know the tales, for the beacon still wakes - rain, hail or moonshine.

The villagers claim the lighthouse is haunted, yet nobody dares to venture through the mire. Men born of sea-salt are useless, superstitious folk; unwilling to place their lives in the hands of a ghostly figurehead.

All but one.

Between peace and lethargy, a man wades to shore. Sea-matted curls hang heavily over his brows, and beneath them his eyes are glossy, wet shields of impassioned denial. Carefully, he examines the sea of crimson around him. Noble seafarer, he is not, but he knows the tales all the same.

Safe and sound comes the tide, if one does not stray from keeper-light.

flensing,

flaying,

he startles awake,

Gaspard isn’t sure how long he’s been in the water. Two hours, maybe more. His wetsuit is moulded to his stocky frame like fine-tailored armour, flexible at the joints and thermally insulated, protecting him from the cool bite of the northern sea.

Exhaustion seeps into his water-logged bones. Gaspard wipes his forehead, realising that he's losing feelings in his fingers. Wearily, he cranes his neck towards the skies above to see a flock of gulls circling above, chanting in a chorus of hungry mews. Sorrowful rain drizzles onto Gaspard’s cheeks, each miniscule droplet stinging like ice.

The air is thick and tastes familiar, much like the summer that has come to pass. Countless afternoons spent repenting, again and again, sharing body-heat with a priest in his confessional booth. His body bent, broken, each piece shared like holy communion. His thighs burning, bruised and bitten. Incense clouding the room, swelling and staining his lungs, overpowering the acrid sting of singed brunette ringlets...

(he starts awake)

Hundreds of rotting corpses litter the coastline. The scent of sick-spoiled meat permeates the air, like the hot breath of a rotten priest. Their blood stains the water like communion wine, filled with sweet promises of everlasting fulfillment.

Predators lurk in the shallows. Gaspard can sense them, somehow. Cautiously, he treads through the shallows with baited breath. He wonders if the lighthouse will save him, or if he'll become one of them, a wretched corpses with his entrails scattered along the coastline,

he startles,

awake!

another lamb to the harvest.

Footnotes In Time

A Concise History of Dragonology

Author(s): Laurence van Buren

Source: The Journal of Modern Dragonology

Published by: St Saturnine University Press

Stable URL: https://www.drstor.org/stable/18002935

Accessed: 2-07-2003

[…] as they were not known to be a nomadic breed, preferring to make their nests deep within alpine caverns. There was one such dragon with brilliant rose-like scales, potentially the last of his kind. His small stature was rather atypical for male dragons of his ilk, though he was no less deadly. His last documented sighting is unknown, though, it has been discussed in The Botanical History Of Audrenia, that a dragon matching his description travelled far-east of the continent. However, they were not known to be a nomadic breed, and preferred to make their nests deep within alpine caverns. Relocating to a much warmer climate poses several questions about draconic evolution lines and whether Audrenia’s ecosystem could adequately sustain dragons throughout the post-magi era […]

Furthermore, dragons are often misconceptualised as heartless treasure hoarders, with countless depictions of them throughout history and popular literature as “greedy creatures who sleep on piles of gold”. However, the concept of treasure, also known as ‘a dragon's hoard’ has evolved over time, due to the several discoveries which suggest dragons were highly intelligent and sentimental creatures. Therefore, if a spool of wool were to have emotional significance to these magnificient creatures, then it would become a priceless treasure. Thus a dragon would go to great lengths to guard it with their lives [...]

*

[The penmanship is elegant and assertive, refined to perfection. Balanced loops betray sensitivity, or a desire to make strong impressions. Generous are the author's finals, delicately curving upwards, as if reaching for something of importance.]

Sweet songbird, How terribly I've missed you so. I trust you received my gifts? It is of utmost importance you keep them on your person at all times. Blessed they are with mine own lips, they will ensure your safety the journey ahead.

These winters are cruel without you by my side. Will you return to me come Springtide, sweet songbird? I must have you sing to me again. Oh, to feel such warmth again! No goddess could grant me such blessings.

You call me a sentimental old fool. Is there no better way to love than to be a fool? Indeed, it is mine nature to be cruel and deceptive; survival is all we've known. With you, however, I see no reason to deny you the truth of my heart. There is little I would not do for you.

I have been keeping well, yes. Exploring the nearby villages too—ah, I know you will scold me just-so. You must forgive my endless curiosity! I'm afraid not even stubborn man such as you could dare tame a creature like me.

So yes, indeed, I ventured into the markets, and oh, the food is divine! You must accompany me when you arrive. Fret not, my sweet. I will tread carefully, or else I might gorge myself into a long slumber! Better still, if my insolence were to cause you alarm, then I trust you shall make haste and return to me soon?

I fear grow frail without you by my side. It is most unusual, though not unheard of. I never thought to seek lifelong union, I had assumed such dreams were not possible…there are so few [indecipherable] left, and fewer still who seek genuine love.

Final preparations should be in order. You must pay dear Charmaine a visit before you leave. Scoff at me all you like, I will hear it still, in my bosom! I am no fool — she is with child, I hear his little heart beating. She will soon discover her blessing. Be on your best behaviour, my love. This may well be the last you see your sweet sister.

It took much convincing for Charmaine to entrust her finest mare to you. Stubborn as a highland ram, the lot of you! There is one condition, however [the following words have been blotted out with ink] would make a delicious meal!

Indeed, there are plenty of plump wild horses in the plains, alas, I am a man of my word, your blood is my blood. Please assure your sweet sister that her favourite mare will grow old and jolly under our protection.

Fair warning, the mare is a strong-willed creature who would rather spend her days eating and prancing, just like you. She will make a nice addition to our little family, don't you think? She will need a name soon, and we will need a finely crafted saddle, perhaps another stroll through the village is in order…?

Soon, my love, I promise you, we will no longer [ink has been carelessly spilled onto the letter, obfuscating several paragraphs]

Your rose eternal,

X.D.R

Presence is a precious one of mine. I started writing that around May last year, and it was intended to be released for Halloween. It also happened to fulfill a Justober 2024 prompt. I held it back because I couldn't find the ending I wanted, and I'm glad I did because months later, it came to me. I'm not sure what to do with this one now.

Footnotes In Time is a clunky, formatting nightmare that broke my website. It's a mixture of writing styles. Xavier is a dragon, Gaspard is a human. I'll try my best to create a PDF of it first, whilst I fix the formatting for publishing. Sorry about that. I'm really annoyed about that, but what can you do? It's frustrating.