Welcome to the Online Author!

Amelie J. Hyde is the pen name of a girl born in 1999 who wants to share her ideas with the world.

Within this site, you can expect to find adult content in terms of sexual and violent activities. Most of the stories told will involve LGBT themes, if you feel uncomfortable with that, then Ms. Hyde encourages you to leave the site immediately. Any hateful comments will be deleted; however, helpful feedback that is politely given will not be.

Please, be friendly with other commentators, and read at your leisure!

Ciao for now,

~ Amelie J. Hyde


© Amelie J. Hyde and The Online Author, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Amelie J. Hyde and The Online Author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Hey, long time no see! I have a Daddy Dominant now (maybe).

I know, I know. The last update I put on this blog started off by pretty much saying nothing exciting ever happens in my life, and now, less than two weeks later, I’m talking about getting myself a nice little Daddy Dominant. Big leap, I know. So, let’s rewind and take this slow.

Last week on Tuesday, the day I was supposed to update the novel I’ve started posting on here, Savage, I was getting a little . . . stressed? Yeah, stressed. In case you don’t know, which you shouldn’t because I hate sharing, my little sister lives in California (the exact opposite side of this wonderful country from where I live), and since my mother is fiercely violent and neglectful, I worry about her every day and sometimes the stress of it all just crushes me and I find it hard to be happy on those days. (Yes, I know. I need counseling and therapy and yadda yadda whatever. I’m working on it!) Anyways, how does this relate to my Daddy? Well, last Monday my sister called me, depressed and desperate to get away. I won’t say what exactly happened, but let’s just say if I had money for a plane ticket, I’d fly across the globe to get to her just to ease her anxiety.

Anywhoville, I went to the mall on Tuesday, filled out an application and was immediately hired on the spot. Which was good. That was all fine and dandy, but it takes time to build up my financial reserves. I wanted to do more. I need to, really.

You see, my sister has issues. She struggles with depression and, I think, goes through manic episodes quite frequently. She’s a liar, a kleptomaniac, a drama queen, an instigator, and a user. I used to have to solve her problems at school by scaring off people who wanted to beat her up. I actually became known as a bully for a long time, even after she was removed from my life. Recently though, she got deeply into anime, and now she has some weird ass habits, but like they’re super adorable and bubbly, so I encourage her to be however she wants to be.

Now all of those things I’ve listed, they’re not directed towards me. My little sister, let’s call her Anne, is fiercely devoted to me just as I am to her. We’ve always just been really close because no matter the consequences when we lived together, I made sure she was safe and never hurt and I’d do anything I could to keep her fed. So, she’d never dream of turning on me.

The same does not go for the rest of my family. She burned a whole lot of bridges as a kid from her bad habits, and now whenever she comes up in conversation, my entire family seems to cringe, conflicted by their knowledge of what’s going on and that it’s not her fault that she turned out this way and wanting to protect themselves from her bad tendencies. I get it. Anne’s a difficult child. But that’s okay that no one else is willing to help her. I will. My family, my responsibility.

So on Tuesday, I was stressed and frustrated, and I didn’t know how to go about ensuring that in three years, I’d be ready to take on having to support her. Anne works and is a diligent, dedicated worker, so I know she’d be willing and able to contribute to our bills, but I needed a cushion, a pillow of money to make sure that if she was unable to get a job or wasn’t making a lot, that we’d be fine.

Now you might be thinking, “Amelie, how the fuck does a Daddy Dominant equate to money?”

Wait, I’m getting there.

I joined a site called Seeking Arrangement. A sugar daddy/sugar baby site. I know what you’re thinking, I do, but let’s get one thing clear: I would not ever sleep with anyone I met there. I have too much self-respect for that. Secondly, I love older men. Simply adore how they look and how attentive they can be, so don’t judge me, this seemed like a win-win for me. I get to date older guys and they give me a bi-weekly allowance for my time! Perfect, I thought. Wonderful!

And then I got a message from this older gent from far yonder off, we’ll call him “D. D.” because that’s what he was in my contacts for a bit, coincidentally enough. Anyways, so he was very clear about the fact that he’s a Dom by nature and wanted to explore my submissive side with me, something, by the way, that I didn’t write on my profile. Now let’s logic for a second: Amelie is attracted to more mature men and prefers her male partners to be Dominants, but has never, as of yet, had the chance to really explore her submissive side.

Amelie was thrilled. Beyond thrilled.

Don’t worry, by the way, D. D. wasn’t there looking for a sugar baby or anything like that. He was rather similar to me in that we both were looking for something that didn’t have a “transactional” feel and where we could meet up and decide, with no expectations of forming an arrangement, if we genuinely liked the person or not. We both stated that we weren’t looking for jealous or possessive or dramatic companions. (Maybe on another post I’ll talk about why it confuses me why he chose me because honestly I am still very, very bewildered about it. But we’ll save that for another time.)

Anyways, so we messaged back and forth, and I soon realized: hot damn, I’d love to sleep with this guy! Intelligence, quiet dignity, having your shit together — all of that is a huge turn on for me. And then add on that this guy was a Dom? I was sold. He doesn’t know that, of course. He still thinks he has to “seduce” me and has told me as much, probably because my profile says “platonic relationships only,” but whatever, he’ll figure it out even if I have to jump him to get my point across.

So, here I am, quiet, shy little me, texting this guy who’s just oozing all the traits I love and being the perfect little gentlemen when he finally just came out and said, “I must warn you, Amelie (name obviously changed, just saying)” and proceeded to inform me that he found me to be a “stunning” woman who he was “very attracted to” but that he was sexually Dominant and would tell me to do things and expect obedience. He, of course, said that if I ever said no, he’d stop what he was doing immediately because I was ultimately in control over what happened.

*Swoons*

A Dom who practices SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) and talks with his potential partners beforehand as opposed to just springing it on them! I was pretty happy. I’d had my doubts that he was a real Dominant because he’d had, up to that point, never mentioned it or took the time to talk to me about that aspect of his life. But anyways, I was pleased that he, thus far, was presenting himself as an actual, experienced Dom and not just some horny guy looking to use their partner as some sort of fuck-toy, which is not, despite my many kinky stories up here, something I desire for myself. I mean, sure, we can do a scene or two like that, but I don’t want one of those Master/slave relationships. It would potentially ruin my self-esteem.

So, we exchanged phone numbers (I used a fake one from a texting app, because I’m just a cautious person by nature and also you never know). The next day, he asked if he could call me that night or the next, and, I’m not gonna lie, I had a mini anxiety thing. Like what would I talk about? What if he thought I was boring because I absolutely suck at holding a phone conversation? What if he’s boring? What if I say something stupid and he calls me out on a it or worse if he agrees with it? What if my voice gives out or I croak like a frog instead of a human? Etc. etc. Just stupid little things that I had to forcibly talk myself out of. Anyways, I agreed that we could talk that night around the time I go to bed.

He ended up calling me around 11-ish because he got tied up in a client’s call that lasted a half century. But then when he did call me, I was surprised. His voice was oddly soothing. I wasn’t ready for that. I don’t even know what I was expecting, but it was not to find myself just blanking out, staring at my aunt’s dog while he talked about his childhood. Honestly, half the things he said I just barely remember because I just could not bring myself to focus. And then he just laughed at this one point, like full body, probably had his head thrown back laugh — I don’t know what about — but I was just kind of sitting on the floor like: O.O . My dog was giving me odd looks, I swear.

And when I did end up speaking, I ended up sounding ridiculous. Absolutely nothing like how I usually sound. I don’t know what it was. I just could not word. All of my statements were either in like this unbearably high-pitched squeak or like this weird, diminutive . . . I don’t even fucking know. It was embarrassing. I dreaded talking just a little bit, so I’d just nod along, hum in agreement with what he had to say, and mumble a “yeah” every now and then. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t just say, “Alright, well it was fun talking to myself. Bye, Amelie!” Like if I was trying to talk to somebody and get to know them and they responded how I did, I’d roll my eyes and tell them it wasn’t going to work out.

Thankfully, he didn’t! I don’t know why he didn’t, but he didn’t!

And I’m glad he didn’t, because a couple nights later, he sent me a story he’d written. Yes. He writes. I didn’t know that, but now I do. He writes. He’s a Dominant who writes. For me. I’m not even going to get into how that made me feel. Just know I almost woke my older sister with my delighted little squeal. Anyways so the story he wrote — for me — was pretty much a little descriptive piece trying to, I think, gauge my reaction to BDSM, of being someone’s property, their “fine art collection.” I’m not gonna lie, I’ve looked into BDSM when I was younger, but it’s not suggested that people underage get into it, so I’ve never really done anything with it. But when he wrote me that little roleplay-like piece, I could definitely see myself in that role, like clear as day the “you” character was me. I was in. At the end, he told me to write him what I think happens next, something I was delighted to see because it seemed like he was giving me a little assignment to do for him, and I was just so looking forward to showing him my writing style!

And when I sent it, I got just the response I was looking for! He told me he was very, very pleased. Very very. Score!

Anywho, so then he wrote a little more — because I inspired him, he said — though, I didn’t see it till the morning because I fell asleep waiting for his text.

What I found interesting though was that he called me “babygirl” in his email and himself “Daddy,” a term I’d been using to describe him to my friend Jenny (obviously changed here too, folks). I was a bit confused because of that, because I knew that Daddy Doms typically have “little girl”s not “babygirl”s. Or so I thought. I poked around the interwebs a bit and sure enough Daddy Dominant/babygirl is indeed a thing. It’s pretty much just another term for a little girl to have.

Ultimately, I ended up getting lost in Tumblr/Pinterest pictures and posts about the dynamic and fell in love. I’ve always been rather randomly childlike. I covet my teddy bears from my childhood, always carry a small blanket with me in my house because I get cold randomly, watch cartoons for kids — do not judge me — and will sometimes become very hyper/innocent in my disposition. I guess this is called being in “little space” since I rarely ever become like this unless I’m with people who are close with me and if I’m in my house. Anyways, so I was curious. I asked him yesterday if he’s a Daddy Dominant (DD) and into the DD/lg dynamic (which, for those of you that are curious, has absolutely nothing to do with incest or pedophilia, it’s just about dependability and comfort, support and communication just like any other D/s relationship. If you’d like to know more about it, I can, of course, compile a list of informative posts on it).

No surprise here, but he is. He’s had littles before, though I haven’t asked anything specific about it yet because I still don’t know what exactly he’s looking for from a relationship between the two of us, so I don’t want to pry too much without covering the basics of our own dealio. And he knows that I’ve never had a DD or submitted to someone before so we’re both aware of the experience level of one another and still have much, much more to talk about.

Now though, I’m fairly certain he plans on flying in to see me, since yesterday he asked if I could go see him and when I said no (because I just got a new job and my dad would find it suspicious if my broke ass could suddenly afford a round trip plane ticket and a hotel and transportation in another state), he was very understanding.

So fingers crossed that in real life, I’ll be better at engaging in a back and forth conversation! And there’s your brief overview of how I may have met my first ever Daddy Dominant. It’s an odd story, definitely not the usual route people take, but whatever, it worked for me. And if it doesn’t work out at least I know now what I’m interested in doing with BDSM.

On a side note: if you have monetary problems, I would not suggest becoming a prostitute. Do not sleep with people for money. That’ll just slowly weather yourself away internally. Stay safe online and be open to new experiences in safe environments. Never meet anyone you don’t know at their house or in a private place. Go big. Go public. And do what feels good for you.

Ciao for Now,

~ Amelie :3

Day Five: Who I Am

I’m not the kind of girl to grasp onto smoke
And listen when you tell me it’s cement.


I’m not the kind of girl to sit around all day
And wait patiently for a text from you.


I’m not the kind of girl to dissect your words
Forever looking for the truth in your lies.


I’m not the kind of girl to be made complacent,
Giving up all the others for you, silent speaker.


I’m not the kind of girl to listen to white noise
And pretend it’s music, to satisfy your needs.


But it’s been five years, and I’m forced to admit
That, for you, I forget all the different girls

That I am not — always and without fail.

Day Four: Who You Are

I wrote this about a year ago to convey my thoughts to a girl who never ever heard them. Originally, I set them up as a series of eight numbered days. I’ve already posted the first three without the day titles for some reason, but here’s Day Four.

Perched, like the purest dove,
She overlooks all that is
And ever will be for me.
She must know what awaits
Must be aware of all the pain,
Like finely carved arrowheads,
She sends my way from her spot
Atop the altar I built for her.
Before her enshrinement,
The angel way up out of my reach
Was pinned down before me
By her own doubts, misconceptions
About who she was and
Could ever still be.
And like a fool, a hopeless martyr,
I taught her how to turn chains
To dust, and broken wings to
Weightless clouds built for flying.
With words of praise and understanding,
I lifted her with my own two hands,
Set her high up beyond my reach,
And promptly forgot how to fly.


If you’re a dove on a pedestal,
I’m but a hawk without talons.

Yes, I Know What Happens

Once upon a time, a young girl sat at her desk and typed up the first two chapters of a new story that she had big, big dreams about, but then the evil villain, Brain, decided to ruin the whole thing by thinking out the entire plot before she even had the chance to write. And so the girl gave up, because she knew what happened and she wasn’t interested in writing it down. The end.

That (above) is a story I know all too well. That girl, believe it or not, was me. I know, shocking. But yes, it’s true. That girl t’was I.

Image result for if you can't read the book you want

Not my image, but I promised to post it.

When I first started writing novels, not just like articles or short stories or really small novellas, but actual freaking novels, I was obsessed with that “brand new idea” feeling, and would write up a poop ton of first chapters and seconds and thirds, and when the full book took shape in my head, I moved on to the next great idea, the newest, most shiniest idea that my brain could create. The reason? I wasn’t writing because I wanted to share my work. I was writing because the stories I wanted to read weren’t out there. I took that quote by that-guy/girl-that-I’ll-look-up-and-then-post-the-quote-picture-right-next-to-this-paragraph-later very literally (side note: you tired of hyphens yet?). So once I knew how the books ended, the result was pretty obvious: I no longer wanted to read them — or in this case, write.

It took me a long time to realize that that was the root cause of why I only finished eleven out of thirty-eight novels (yes, I really did count. Do not judge me, that’s not nice).

So yes, my current novel, Savage, has an ending that I know. In fact, I already wrote it out in very detailed, very not left-aligned-at-all notes that I have safely tucked away in my little black notebook. And yes, my idea notebook is literally a little black notebook. Deal with it. But that’s not the point. The point is that the fact that I know the ending doesn’t matter to me anymore. I may have a neatly drawn out map of where I’m going and small events that should happen in order to make things make sense later, but none of that actually matters. And do you want to know why? I’ll tell you why.

Because my characters always have and always will be little bitches.

My characters don’t care about my little black notebook. They see a stop sign scribbled on the side of a page and they scream like banshees, “Fifty points!” and then run it over like they grew up on the streets of GTA. If they were real, living human beings, they’d be those people you read about on the internet who sincerely believe that laws are just “suggestions”. Those kind of people. The outrageously reckless and yet endearing sort that just genuinely do not give a rat’s ass.

So, yeah, I know what I think should happen in this book, but I don’t know what my characters think as odd as that may sound. And that’s why I keep writing. Not because I want to lord my ideas over my thought-babies, but because I enjoy the experience more than the destination. Except Caprice. Caprice was my worst character in terms of doing even remotely what I asked her to do. If Caprice were a person, she’d be a toe. Not even a whole person, just a toe. I don’t like Caprice. She brought me stress and sadness and a whole lot of reworking of a plot that I didn’t even have fully fleshed out, but that she was poking many, many holes in.

God damn Caprice.

Image result for if there's a story inside you

Also not my image

Anywhoville, if you’re a writer, I hope you don’t sweat it too much about the whole “knowing the destination” thing or the whole “my characters are literal douche bags” thing, just enjoy the ride as much as you can and get that story out of you.

Ciao for Now,

~ Amelie

No Note, No Phone Call

It’s been a week since I’ve made a post on my blog, so I figured I’d pop on in and let you guys/gals know what’s up. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m just disappearing or anything like before, but I also despise the idea of giving weekly updates about what’s going on in my very boring life.

That being said, in the span of a week I’ve been fired, moved back in with my dad, and almost threw up at Six Flags.

However, I still do attest to the fact that my life is incredibly, almost super-humanly, boring. I don’t really do much aside from work in the summer, and once school starts up, it’s pretty much still just work but with the bonus of being stuck in a small building for eight hours every day, five days a week. Although now that I’ve graduated, I suppose that’s going to be a tad bit different.

Anywhoville, so yeah, a week has gone by.

In that week, I’ve managed to edit the first chapter of Savage on nine different occasions between watching three seasons of New Girl. I’m currently working on the second one, just smoothing out a few details — mainly sentence flow, keeping up with details, that kind of thing — and I plan to have that up around like, I don’t know, Tuesday? Yeah, Tuesday’s a good day. I like Tuesday. It ends Monday.

So, once that’s been scanned from top to bottom about a dozen different times, I’ll post it up, read it a couple more times, correct a few stupid mistakes that are bound to be there, and then get back to writing up the ninth chapter. (Did I mention I’m on the ninth chapter? I’m rather excited about that. Things are happening, folks. Things.) I’ll also have you know that I have not, despite the many attempts of my over-active imagination, started any other new stories and have dedicated myself to just working on this one — between episodes of New Girl and job hunting across the depths of the deep dark web, cause, ya know, bills.

Oh, also, I’m reading El Hogar de Miss Peregrine para Ninos Peculiares (commonly known as Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children). It’s rather interesting. A slow read considering I haven’t spoken Spanish in about oh, five hundred decades, but good nonetheless. I definitely recommend it, no matter what language you decide to read it in — Polish, German, English, I don’t judge.

So, how was your week? Give me thy thoughts!

Ciao for Now,

~ Amelie

P.S.: Did you know that your plasma is worth more than your blood? Well, now you do. You’re welcome.

A Siren’s Warning

A shiver of fear, a frightened quiver along the spine,

A silently howling, haunting cry, choking the throat,

Curious wandering eyes fall upon her frozen figure,

Trembling by the door and shaken to her very core,

The two inch demon continues crawling by her toes.

Everyone knows now. There’s a centipede in the foyer.

A Shadow Lost in a Wave (Oct. 2016)

All my thoughts have stopped. Erased.

Muted. My skull, flooded with nothing,

Is a blank track playing on end.

Like lava it had flowed once

And overnight, the volcano withered away.

An empty basin, glorified and still,

It produces nothing but echos

Of a once great chorus.

Pause. Delete. It has been cleaned.

In sparkling new clarity

it is pure, without scars.

It is terrifying

to be so

Alone.

Poetic Musings From Detention-Land

Otherwise known as Amelie wrote this in detention and rather likes it but isn’t sure what to call it. Or, if you prefer, Untitled.

A torrential downpour of nothing, falling upon a playground of silence in waves of tiny drops, overflowing into lanes of emptiness, each filling with a deep, profound lack of something that leaves the space hungrily gaping, an invisible mouth full of bittersweet air.

Savage: Part One, Chapter One

As a teenager, Sophia Andrews had had plenty of “worst days ever,” and each time, she was utterly convinced that nothing could make her retract her declaration. It was almost a given that she would say the phrase at least once a week, being the only daughter of a highly regarded mad scientist did that to her. Everything that seemed to go wrong around her took on a heightened degree of importance. If her tutors were even ten or twenty minutes late, it was a sign from the great Gods of the future that her father was not to keep fiddling with his time machines.

She considers it the cruelest kind of irony, then, that she’s now stranded in time.

She had thought her father’s sponsors were kidding. What kind of monsters, she had thought, would send a new adult out into the seas of time with nothing but a hunk of metal to help keep the sharks away? She was betrayed in an instant, her naïve ideals broken before her very eyes, and she found that it was with the lightest of sensations that she had been ripped away from her home, her time. One minute she was standing still, trembling and surrounded by big men with even bigger guns, and the next, she was here, feeling as light as a feather. Wherever here is, that is.

As far as she can see, there is only white. There’s nothing around her. She’s just standing, or lying, she can’t tell which. Either way, there’s nothing she can do to get away, nothing to change the fact that she’s been sacrificed, condemned to share the same fate as her mother. She coughs, chokes on a thick lump in her throat, her arms curling around herself at the thought of the woman who gave birth to her. The very same woman who died because of her.

Sophia had been six, playing hide and seek, when the lights went out.

It started out just like any other day. Her mother was supposed to come into her father’s lab and look behind the pile of boxes Sophia was hiding behind. She was supposed to chase her, catch her, and praise her for being so good at hiding.

Instead, the power turned off.

Much like the light that suddenly swept Sophia out to sea, the darkness had descended upon them like a curtain finally set loose of its bonds. There was a moment, a brief flicker of one really, where her six year old self had made eye contact with her mother. She was too young to understand, to even notice, really, that her mother was standing in the dead-center of the time machine’s platform. Her mom knew, though. She sent her child a soft, barely there smile.

The generator kicked in, and then her father’s project was humming, coming to life. Three magnetic rings lifted out of the ground, created a thin barrier between their trapped victim and the rest of the world. Sophia can still see the white light filling up the spaces between them, reaching up between each ring and creating a cylinder of pure light in the darkness.

There was no screaming or tears or pain. Her mother was just there, somewhere behind the light show that was playing before her daughter’s eyes. The rings were spinning, whirling in place in a feverish, rhythm-less dance. The room was filled with the sound of a million fans gaining power, reaching their peak, and then dying down, slowly, as the rings sank back down. The curtain of electricity dropped with them, and when the lights came back on, her mother was nowhere to be seen. All the young girl knew back then was that her mom was gone.

She had always thought of death as something slow, drawn out, something she could adjust to with time. That’s not how it went. It was a flash. A bang. A light turning on. And then, off. One second, a person’s alive. The next, they’re not. And everyone is calling them dead, but it doesn’t feel like they’re dead. It feels like playing peek-a-boo with the boo part yanked away.

The people around Sophia had called her the daughter of a hero, of a woman who would make the unthinkable sacrifice in order to further the human race. Her father had been sure to tell the world that it was on purpose. Most thought he meant that the couple had planned it, but his daughter knew the truth: if her mother was the hero, then that made her child the villain. And she lived with that for the twelve years following her mother’s passing.

Now that she’s finally seeing for herself where her mom had gone, she feels the beginnings of a smile come over her. This, she thinks, is exactly what Ma had seen. The empty space around her starts to blur, so she looks up towards the top of her head, blinking rapidly in an effort to dry her eyes. There’s no time for tears. The time for tears had come and gone while she had been trying to reach a shred of humanity left in her home.

With weak hands, she lifts the metal cube she’d been sent through with before her. It doesn’t tell her where or when she’s going, it just blinks its red light at her. There’s no sound. No voice is trying to tell her what’s going on. There’s nothing but a bunch of unlabeled knobs and buttons and switches, and that one, central red light. She looks away from it, but all she sees is the white nothingness. Her chest constricts, pupils dilating, and then she’s screaming into the void, daring it to say something back. Her arm lifts, pulls back. The hunk of useless metal is sent flying.

The lights go out.

~ | ~ | ~

A basin, the people have always called their little world such, with tall, jagged edges in the form of unconquerable mountains for walls. Above, thick, angry gray clouds reign supreme, a reminder of why the Laws were put in place. Below, the land is divided by one long, tumultuous river that begins at the base of one mountain and travels along the charred ground where a vast forest once was, only to die suddenly and without reason at the bottom of another.

On either side of the great body of water, is a stretch of land where soldiers go to fight for their kingdoms out of the way of civilian eyes, and eventually, where they all are hoping to die. The place where most deaths occur is surrounded on either side by a thick layer of densely packed, prickly, never-green trees. They grow tall and thick, in bunches and circles, patterns many a traveler have tried to master, but once a person enters the woods, it is one thing to have as good a map as you can, and quite another to traverse the forest without ever having a drop of sunlight.

Beyond the woods, on both sides, are villages, or rather many small clusters of tiny clay huts, gathered in tight around one long, oval-shaped building, and protected from the outside with tall, wooden fencing. Both kingdoms have four gated groups beyond their city walls, each specializing in one particular source of food. It was a tradition originally started when metal birds still flew in the sky and the entire world was within reach. The time before Earth was destroyed, before the sun went away and sealed them into the prison they call a basin.

The people living beneath the clouds do not see the symmetry of their kingdoms, cannot grasp how alike both territories are. They see only the Fenza to the north and the Jinza to the south. They see that one celebrates the life-giving powers of men, and the other pays homage to the female’s ability to carry children. And where the Fens have a king who must never marry, the Jins have a queen who will never reproduce. They know that the stretch of burned land between the territories is long and hard to get around and that the people opposite to them are not like they are. They look different and speak in odd ways, and that upsets the faint hearted people of either side. Thus, the battle wages on, both kingdoms demanding that blood be spilt, but that they never see a drop of it.

In this land marred by inescapable wars, a young female Champion of the People has been ambushed. Her encampment lies on the outskirts of the northern territory, Fenza, stashed away within the very edge of the forest. She stands before the battle, observing her warriors. If she so chooses, she won’t have to engage in hand-to-hand combat. She is decorated with His Majesty’s favor, carrying all of his gifts on her person to broadcast how important a captain she is to her nation. The enemies will not dare to test her strength unless she enters the fight of her own will.

Upon her hips, she carries four different daggers, from twelve to twenty-four inches, of His Majesty’s personal collection, and upon her back, four swords. Two handles hook over her bare shoulders – dyed red for the army she laid flat for her king – their blades curving down behind her arms and around to just under her ribs. They’re the type to be clutched in her fists and then swoop backwards over her arms, descending past her elbows. The other two swords are her preferred weapons in battles: scimitars. They cross over her back, creating a familiar x with their sheaths, the blades hooked outwards just before the handle, creating a nice surprise for her enemies.

The only thing that sets His Majesty’s gifts visibly apart from all the other warriors before her is the gems embedded in their clear hilts, making them glint and shine no matter where they are. The stones within her weapons are of incredible value, rare finds that can only come from His Majesty ordering the mining of the mountains. They’re contained within a special binding element reserved only for the royal family. The red-hilted weapons were crafted with some of the precious rocks that were given to the Fenza during the times when the sun shined over the land.

The captain, Slédaun, catches the eye of a Jin among her men, and holds the contact as she reaches back and pulls free her scimitars. They make a pleasing, ringing sound when she draws them across the metal lining at the end of their sheaths. The sound lingers in her ears, a familiar lullaby to her senses. On light steps, she descends from the lifted platform of her tent, entering the fray with a peaceful feeling in her chest. The Jin watches her carefully, his gaze dipping, taking in the amount of His Majesty’s belongings she has. This one, she knows, will not dare to underestimate her. Most men she’s ever fought saw only a woman in a battlefield full of men and missed the scattering of bodies at her feet. This man is not such a fool. He will offer her a good fight.

She pauses, a ring of her warriors spreading outwards, offering a more open pathway to her. They are well-trained. Their aim is not to endanger her, but to honor their captain’s prowess as a warrior. She sets her feet and hefts the weight of her blade, a pleased warmth spreading down her arm and branching out through her stomach. For four days, she has missed the gentle dance of battle, has longed to clash with the enemy sooner or later.

It is with tangible glee, that she joins the Jin warrior in a dance to the death, matching his steps with hers and twirling within close range of his sword. He does not dual-wield like she. His attacks will cost him more in defense. She keeps that in mind, letting him strike at her, hack at the black plated armor traveling up the sides of her legs. The ringing of mountain-made armor on metal, draws her own blades down on reflex, taking a dip into the inner muscle of his forearm. His dancing falters, his steps falling out of sync with hers.

She takes over, steps closer and increases the pace, pressing him backwards, deeper into the pairs of dancers around them. Slédaun lets her weapons move freely, like extensions of her limbs as she pivots around him, tucks in close and pushes one arm straight out. Her blade slides in under his ribs, and she can’t fight the biting sting of disappointment at having ended his life so quickly. He jerks when she pulls back again, body going stiff. Not wanting him to suffer on his way, she aims higher this time, going straight for the heart.

Slédaun pauses mid-thrust of her scimitar to look towards the sky overhead. For a moment, when the tip of her blade had pierced his skin, she thought she’d seen sunlight, shimmering at the edge of her vision. Her mother had told her of the ball of fire hidden away from them, had vividly painted in her mind a giant glowing warmth hanging above the trees. Expectantly, she watches the sky, her lips pinched together in concentration. There, her eyes narrow, fixing on the sight of a white thread cutting through the thick covering of clouds and smoke above, cutting through the darkness. It is not sunlight though, the warrior recognizes that. This light is different. It carves a straight path through the dense mottled gray overhead, and hurtles towards…

Slédaun tracks its trajectory with her eyes, frowning when the tops of the trees cut off her view. It’s while she’s backtracking, searching for where the light has gone, that she notices something irregular: a flicker in the corner of her eye. Her interest piqued, she turns away completely from the battle overcoming her camp. If today is her day to die, then it will happen whether she’s paying attention or not.

Sheathing her blades over her shoulders, she squints at the sky, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s going to see something. Her eyes strain against the darkness blanketing the basin, determined to view whatever it is that caught her attention. Huffing, she raises her hand back to the handle of her scimitars, and is about to return to fighting off the ambush when she spots it: further down than the first light she saw, is a thicker strand traveling perpendicular to the ground. This new one is brighter at the end pointing towards the ground and tapers off at the other. This one, she knows, is going to land in the forest.

While she watches it fall, it dims, becomes less white and almost a pale yellow, barely visible even to Slédaun who prides herself on having great vision. It flickers in and out of her sight, sometimes giving into the dense fog that hovers just above the treetops, and other times repelling it. Until at last, at long last, it succumbs and vanishes from view.

Glancing back at her men valiantly driving away the Fens, the warrior looks towards the edge of camp, her gaze connecting with that of her Court-appointed observer. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s watching her, so she doesn’t try to hide her escape, she simply places her fist over her heart to send him her regards, and then walks away, heading into the bowels of the forest. His Majesty will forgive her. Especially, when she brings him the meteor.

Her mother had told her about things like this: burning drops of light that used to fall during the time the sun ruled the skies. Meteors, she called them, rocks that were pulled down to the ground. Slédaun was not a stupid child. She did not think her mother to be useless like the other children. An unmarried female warrior is a smart one, whether they have children or not, at least they still have the right to battle. So, she listened, because her mother was smart, and her mother was strong, and those were all the things that Slédaun had wanted to be.

Yes, she muses to herself, His Majesty will forgive me. I will fetch him a gift from the sky.

~ | ~ | ~

When the world stops spinning, Sophia opens her eyes. At first, all she sees is a dark nothingness. She squints, rubs her eyes, and tries again. Dimly, she can just barely make out a tree-like object towering over her, but it looks burnt, completely black and lifeless. She tries to get up and take a closer look, but her limbs twinge sharply when she attempts to move. Reluctantly, she stays where she is, trying to be as still as possible to avoid causing the pain to get any worse.

Around her, there are only trees as far as her eyes can see, or at least that’s what she assumes are the source of the pitch black nothingness lurking behind the nearest ones that she can see. If she could turn her head, perhaps she would be able to make out the wilderness around her, the wild tangle of tree trunks and shrubs and pointy, prickly underbrush all woven together on the forest floor, creating almost a shield between her and the nasty little creatures hiding in the shadows.

Sophia’s never been afraid of the dark. She could sleep just fine without a night light when she was a child, but being in her own bed and in the middle of a patch of black trees are two completely different things. Here, she can feel the fear unfurling within her like an eager poppy for the first drop of sunlight after a long, restless night. It is not a pleasant feeling, and she is not happy in the least to experience it. To her, it serves as an unnecessary reminder that, for the first time in her life, she is alone and there isn’t the slightest chance that she’ll randomly stumble upon someone she recognizes.

The thought is enough to make her cringe, her very soul curdling at the idea of being so quickly and completely torn away from everything she’s ever known. Her fingers spread outward, thoughtlessly seeking out the solidity of the ground beneath her to steady the raging of her heart. It gallops within her chest, beating against her in waves of stampeding horses. That’s how her mother had always explained her irregular heartbeat to her; tiny horses, she had said, naysayers to your desires.

Sophia laughs, humorously, dryly.

She wiggles her fingers, testing the waters. When no pain interrupts the movement, she stretches them, points them as far outward as they can go. Her hand is unusually stiff, but there isn’t the faintest pinprick of discomfort, so she rolls her wrist. Nothing. Pleased, she attempts to sit up, deciding that the pain from earlier must have been a residual effect of time travel. Almost as soon as she reaches the halfway point, approximately forty-five degrees off the ground, her lower back constricts on a muscle cramp. Crying out sharply, she drops back down, curling over onto her side in an effort to ease the strain.

“Ow, ow!” She mutters, one arm reaching back to rub soothing circles into her irritated back. With a last, almost accusatory throb, her body finally relaxes, and she’s forced to admit that perhaps she shouldn’t try to move around for a good while.

As if in mockery of her decision, the treetops shake violently, and a massive dark cloud propels itself from their straggly branches and out into the far off, grayish distance. Birds, Sophia thinks bitterly. Being envious of a tiny brained organism is not something she’s used to, but then again, so is being curled up in the fetal position outside of her father’s compound. Beggars can’t be choosers, but they certainly can be spiteful, she acknowledges as she listens on with a touch of glee as one bird gives a harsh, grating squawk of a noise followed shortly by an unusually satisfying thump.

She snickers to herself. That’ll teach them to mock me.

Her pleasant mood lasts for all of two more seconds before it dawns on her: birds don’t have a tendency to just drop out of the sky. As far as she knows, that hurts, and primitive animals are prone to avoid things that cause them pain. Why then, did that one give a death cry and then plummet to the ground? Sophia curses under her breath, and slowly, gradually uncoils her body. Her torso doesn’t protest this time. Instead, it’s her legs’ turn.

Her palm connects with her forehead as she falls limply upon her back, her thighs and calves feeling as unyielding and rigid as brick. Somewhere out there is the source of that animal’s death, so, of course, it stands to reason that her ability to run far, far away is gone.

She lays in absolute stillness. The best defense she has without her legs is playing dead, something she did often as a child, but was always discovered to be alive when she had to breathe. Determined that she’ll actually manage to go without oxygen this time around, she digs her fingertips into the ground for strength and tries to still the increasingly rapid beating of her heart. She doesn’t have to wait long for her resolve to be tested.

Almost as soon as she stops moving, there’s a vibration tingling her fingertips, followed by another and another. The pacing of the vibrations is slow, spaced out evenly as if someone is tip-toeing around, trying to be as noiseless as possible. She feels it in her bones, it’s here. Whatever took down the fast moving bird has finally arrived to take another head to mount on its wall. Sophia’s worst fears are solidified, when the tremors become strong enough to travel up her fingers and into her palm and she can just barely make out the sound of dirt crunching under a delicate, slow step.

Her visitor creeps closer and closer until they come to a stop beside her, one foot settling in the gap between her arm and her side. Sophia tries not to squirm as she feels a light caress against her ribs and a puff of cool air skimming over her face. Unfortunately for her, her mouth is open, so she has the good fortune of tasting instead of smelling the metallic cloud of blood surrounding her curious observer.

If she should open her eyes, she would scream at the sight before her: the face of a painted native hovering so near to hers. She’d take one look at their pale, almost silver looking skin and the golden glow of their irises, and never stop screaming until her lungs gave out.  But her eyes remain closed, so all she can do is sit and wallow in her own imagination, which gives her guest crevice-filled, blood-stained teeth and burned, rotting flesh.

The thing sniffs her again, this time daring to poke at her cheeks and hair, and the young girl desperately tries to quiet the frantic, irregular drumming of her heart. It palpitates in her chest, banging against her ribs as if to shout to the heavens, “I’m here! I’m here!”

Her lips dry, a silent plea filling her head for her entire being to lie still and wait, until she fears it may burst free of her numb throat. Something thin and sharp touches down on her neck as if aware of the words struggling to break free from there and intent on helping them along. There’s no doubt in her mind then that if they escape the exact opposite of what she wants will happen. She wails internally, wanting nothing more than to screech out her anxiety and curl up into a ball to await her fate. In spite of her despondent thoughts, a pitiful whimper of a noise claws up from the depths of her stomach. The thing above her jerks back, and instead of cutting her throat open as she’d expected, it backpedals a few steps and vanishes. There are no tremors, no vibrations, just a penetrating stillness in the earth and air.

Sophia can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves her, sitting up quickly and clutching at her throat with one hand. It’s while she’s sitting up and on the verge of collapsing with thankful tears that something rustles in the trees above her. Her head whips up, sending a wave of black clouds before her vision. The world tilts precariously and she sways to the side, the hand at her throat lifting to try to balance her head.

Once the world is upright again and her vision has cleared, she can see a blurry, shadowy movement in the dark bushes beyond her little protective circle. She tenses, legs tucking up close beside her, more than prepared to throw caution into the wind and run for her life.

Or at least, that’s the plan, until from above, a faint hissing noise pierces the night, drawing Sophia’s undivided, petrified attention. Her body trembles uncontrollably at the sight of a slender-faced person perched within the entanglement of tree branches. Or at least, she would call them a person, but the more fitting word that comes to her mind is savage. In the glint of the little bit of light managing to sift through the thick storm clouds overhead, Sophia can just barely make out the sharpened canines peeking out of the native’s glistening, ruby red lips. The hissing noise, she quickly realizes, is coming from there.

“Oh God, I’m gonna die!” Sophia moans, tucking her legs tightly to her chest and rocking forwards and back again. The motion is soothing, distracting from the harsh reality of the absolute whack job surveying her from above.

All at once, the hiss shifts into a lilting hum, and the leaves are rustling agitatedly as the person within them leans forward, one hand extended to the thick, low-hanging branch below them. Sophia looks up again, and chokes on a sob.

She can see more of the other person now, but the sight is not exactly comforting.

Above the lips, that are most likely still wet from the bird they just killed, is a small nose with thinner, longer slits than she’s used to seeing on a human. And above them are two almost rectangular shaped, narrow eyes. The barely there lighting doesn’t allow for a great view of them, but she can at least see the whites.

Though, she’s far more transfixed by the person’s skin. It’s paler than the moon yet verging on an almost unnaturally strong silver color, as if it’s been bleached and bleached to the point of not even looking human anymore. A thick, hollow diamond of red covers most of their face, coating the already bizarre colored skin in what Sophia can only hope is paint. Between their eyebrows is another diamond but smaller and filled in.

Something flutters, settles beside its head, but she has to squint in order to see what it is. Resting on their shoulders, are thick, dark dreads with flashes of sleek, wide ribbons interwoven over their surface. The bands of hair are bigger than any that Sophia has ever seen before, looking about as round as three of her fingers combined. It’s while she’s focused on the native’s unusual hair that there’s a flash of silver, and her gaze catches on the most important thing about the person before her: the wickedly curved blade in their hands.

It is practically double the length of their forearm and narrows down into a fine, deadly point at the end. The part that steals Sophia’s breath away, though, is the portion farthest from the handle. It gleams with a faint red color. It killed something. Breathing hard and unable to focus on anything other than the weapon, she almost misses the smooth, effortless glide of the person as it moves to the ground – almost.

It lingers with its free hand on the low hanging branch and one foot extended toward the ground – the other poised to do the same – as if intent on denying gravity and taking flight instead of landing. Unfortunately the moment can’t last forever, and the hand releases its hold, allowing the savage to touch down silently. Head tilted and pale yellow eyes flickering in the shadows playing over its face, it remains where it is. The movement is beyond graceful and so far out of Sophia’s uncoordinated league that she feels a spark of admiration for the creature that could pull it off.

However, it’s while she’s admiring the native, that she notices something she really should’ve earlier: boobs. It’s a she, a very half-naked she. Her torso is crisscrossed with thick, vibrant strokes of more of the red paint. It creates one giant diamond that starts between her supple breasts, fans out across her abdomen, and ends just as her skin tight pants begin. Around it are slightly thinner branches that disappear behind her back but reappear to curl upwards along the slight v shape at her hips. Much like her face, there’s a smaller diamond that’s filled in, but this one’s covering her belly button.

Sophia’s eyes lift warily, pausing in stunned horror on little spikes of whitish-gray bone extending lethally from the unknown person’s elbows and shoulders. It’s a dangerous, incompletely dressed she. Its mouth opens and a stream of incomprehensible music emerges. The words are light and upbeat, dancing through her listener’s ears to the most exotic, fast-paced rhythm the time traveler has ever heard. It’s a seamless blend of high and low pitches, as if two people are speaking together but with one voice. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard, Sophia admits readily.

Then it stops and appears to be waiting, its yellow eyes fixed earnestly on her fairly shocked listener. A response then, the crazy knife-bearing native wants me to respond. Breathing in deeply, she briefly considers the idea of trying to sing back to the woman, but quickly relinquishes the idea. She very strongly doubts that her unworked throat muscles could produce anything even remotely similar to what she just heard. They’d probably snap trying.

Instead, she pulls herself upright, tries not to let the fear show, and says, “Hello.” It doesn’t come out quite as elegantly as whatever the woman had said, sounding to Sophia’s ears more like a cross between a hiccup and a croak than an actual person’s voice.

~ | ~ | ~

Slédaun eyes the mutant before her, watching as it gives a pathetic little squeak and flops to the ground, eyelids fluttering shut. If she were a better Fens, she would’ve tried to catch the poor little creature, but she is not such a person. She sheathes her dagger and purses her lips, a hiss bubbling up the back of her throat. She came here for a rock, and instead, she’s found some dying breed’s weak spawn. Will His Majesty accept such a gift? What use are small sky people of unknown origin?

Lips curling in distaste, the warrior looks towards the sky for an answer. Why send down something so unnecessary? Puffing up her chest in indignation, she steps up to its sleeping form and nudges it once with her foot. It gives the same little wailing sound it made when she’d originally tested its throat for life and rolls over. It’s only when it’s laying completely flat before her that Slédaun takes a moment to look it over more carefully.

Before, she’d been convinced that she’d have to bury the dead intruder, and was taking its measures with her eyes, missing the opportunity to assess it as closely as it had her. But perhaps, on closer examination, it will reveal that it at least carries something of value. She crouches down beside it, reaching out with one exploratory hand, and hooks one finger in the creature’s poorly managed hair.

The warrior’s jaw almost drops in awe of how soft and light it is. She pulls the pleasing strands up higher, and this time her mouth does open, her grip faltering and letting them fall. Before her is a golden-haired mutant. Her eyes drift to their chest, brows knitting at the appearance of barely there swells in the torso’s covering. A female mutant.

How fortunate. Slédaun almost smiles, assured that His Majesty will forgive her. The only thing left to do now is sneak her in past the man observing her. If he sees the girl, he’ll definitely try to lay claim to the warrior’s find. Thankfully, he judged the woman as an easy target due to her sex, so there aren’t any extra sets of eyes that she has to avoid. The task before her is an easy one. She’ll wait until the clouds reach their darkest and then creep into camp. Of course, she’ll have to find an extra mat somewhere and store her in the spiritual tent set beside the captain, Slédaun’s, tent. Her soldiers are loyal, so she feels secure in the fact that none will touch something she’s so obviously trying to keep to herself.

Satisfied with her strategy, the warrior scoops up her prize, tossing it over one shoulder and draping one hand over its—

At the touch of bare skin on her palm, she drops it.

Heart racing in her throat, Slédaun eyes the brazen little creature before her, watching it make more noises under its breath and roll over away from her. Quickly dusting her hands off on the sides of her hips, the warrior avoids looking at the female’s bare legs. It’s valuable, she reminds herself, so I can’t abandon it for being inappropriately dressed. Just pick it up. Pretend it’s a child. A dumb, germ-infested child.

Gaze lifting to the clouds overhead, she counts slowly under her breath, bracing herself for the degrading act of touching an unconscious female’s legs, and hesitantly reaches down for it. Sighing deeply at what she does to keep His Majesty happy, Slédaun hefts the dirty, disgusting child over her shoulder and draws her dagger with her free hand. This time around, there will be no avoiding the forest dwellers by taking to the trees.

How wonderful indeed, she thinks sarcastically.

Savage: Table of Contents

 

Displaying SavageCoover

If you’d like to know more about Savage, please check out this post: Savage: The Introductory Bits, where I have compiled all of the information for you. In order to make it easy for everyone involved to find the chapters and read them in order without the potential of spoilers, I’ve made the Series page a collection of tables of contents (TOCs) — same goes for the One Shots page. (I’ll probably just make a post about the new setup I want to go with later, but for right now this info is going right here.)

Anywhoville, here’s what you came here for~ and don’t worry, it will grow as more chapters are added, so you only have to check this one page in order to see if there has been any updates. (Please keep in mind as you read this list that not only is the name of the book up for changing at a later point but so too are the working titles I’ve been using for the different parts of the books.)

Table of Contents

Sophia: “Lady of the Sun”

Chapter One

Chapter Two (not yet posted)

Chapter Three

L’eodanist: “He Who Strikes First”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Slédaun: “Death Blade”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three