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@esther-c @keilah-h @ellette-giselle @rae @hybridlore @theducktator @savannah_grace2009 @koshka @elishavet-pidyon @godlyfantasy12 @anyone-else-lol
and an extra aesthetic 👀
aka the villain’s aesthetic
@ellette-giselle hehe, thank you🤭
@esther-c @keilah-h @ellette-giselle @rae @hybridlore @theducktator @savannah_grace2009 @koshka @elishavet-pidyon @godlyfantasy12 @anyone-else-lol
MC Aesthetics for my fantasy WIP 🤭
MC #1:
I gotta work out exactly how Erich got into the US Army tbh😂🫣 I’m thinking it could’ve been a part of the offer for giving him a shorter sentence or something, but I gotta put more research into it
Or he just joined the Army after he had his sentence.
idk exactly yet. 😅 if I have to change things a bit I will
@godlyfantasy12 I’m on nowwwww 🤭
@ellette-giselle @hybridlore @elishavet-pidyon @koshka @esther-c @anyone-else
and Part 3 (and I might share more from what would be the next scene too, but this is the end of the exact scene I’ve been sharing)
A vaguely familiar masculine voice…not very familiar, but familiar regardless.
A blue-eyed, blonde-haired man in a US Army uniform lifted a pistol along with a small grin. “Unless, of course, you wish to continue this fight, which will not end well for you.”
Why was…why did he look…so…Erich Braun?
Replace the American uniform for a Schutzstaffel uniform, take away some signs of age, and it would be one of the officers that worked in the camp…and not a kind one.
Heinz’s eyes narrowed. “Erich Braun?”
“That is Captain Braun to you, Herr Becker. I would advise that you and your henchmen flee from here before I must involve others.”
“Captain—”
“You have no justifiable reason to attack these men.”
“He’s a filthy—”
“We’re all filthy in the sight of God, Heinz,” Erich stepped close to the towering man, “until He washes us clean.”
Heinz grunted and almost stepped closer to Erich, but the blonde rammed his pistol into Heinz’s jaw. Heinz cried out and staggered backwards with a string of curses. “Henrik…” But a quick glance seemed to tell him that both Henrik and his other friend had long since fled.
Erich smoothed down his blonde hair and smirked at Heinz and Franz. “Would you care to leave, gentlemen, or shall I escort you both to prison?”
Heinz shared a glance with Franz, and both men quickly fled the alleyway, though not without a glare Riker’s direction and each with a hard shove against Leon.
Leon stumbled slightly.
Erich glanced after the fleeing men before turning his attention to Leon and Isaiah. “Are you alright…?”
Of course he didn’t know their names.
He would’ve only known them by the numbers forever tattooed on their left forearms.
If Leon was supposed to feel grateful for Erich Braun’s help, well, then he didn’t feel the way he was supposed to feel.
“Isaiah Altmann and Leon Wagner. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Captain Braun.”
The young man’s bright eyes dimmed. “…I don’t see how it could be a pleasure.”
Was that…regret and even…shame?
“I can help you in getting both of you and Riker safe.”
“Danke, Captain—”
“No.”
Leon didn’t realize how forcefully he had spat out that single word until both Erich and Isaiah faced him, Erich with remorse, Isaiah with confusion.
“Leon…”
“I’m not going to trust him, not after what he was apart of…what he did.”
Erich’s gaze fell, but Isaiah frowned. “Leon.”
“No, Isaiah, don’t tell me to trust—”
“Fine, then remain here or else go back to the house, but I am going to help Riker, and if you don’t want to, then go on your way and stay out of our way.”
Leon winced slightly.
“But Isaiah—”
But Isaiah was already on his way over to Riker, concern etched into every feature.
Leon huffed out another sigh. “Fine…I’ll come. But only to protect you and Riker.”
Because he wasn’t about to so easily trust Erich Braun.
@ellette-giselle @hybridlore @elishavet-pidyon @koshka @esther-c @anyone-else
Part 2 of the scene I shared🤭 (and this still isn’t all of it…still working on it atm)
Franz’s gaze didn’t stray from Riker’s. “I thought you were dead…we all did.”
Riker’s back pressed against the wall.
He should never have left the Altmann home in a rush.
Even if Leon didn’t understand, and he likely didn’t, storming off had been stupid.
He tried to open his mouth but found he couldn’t.
Franz stepped forward.
He tried to step back.
But there was nowhere to go.
Helpless, just as he had been for years, left to the mercy of his father, who had little. With not a single person to protect him, not a single person to save him from the abuse he couldn’t escape.
He never had been able to escape his father.
Maybe it was naive of him to ever believe he could.
Maybe he would never escape Franz’s clutches.
Even the thought sent a tremor through Riker’s body.
“You left us to believe you dead for seven entire years, left us to assume the Amerikaner had given you exEcution by firing squad or else you had died somewhere out in the wilderness, and now, after all that, NOW you return?”
“P-Please…I-I didn’t mean to…to—”
“Has begging ever gotten you anywhere, boy?” Franz stepped forward and gripped the front of Riker’s shirt, breath tainted with the scent of alcohol, “Has all that time away from me made you soft? Has all that time away from me made you forget just how much pain I can inflict?”
Riker tried to struggle, tried to fight.
But he couldn’t break free.
Shadows taunted him from the corners of his vision.
Not the shadows. Not the darkness. Not the pain. Not helplessness. Not abuse.
Not again.
Please, God, please not again.
Franz’s face loomed closer, and he sneered, “It’s past time you get reminded of why you don’t cross me, boy. Heinz,” he turned his head slightly, “continue whatever you meant to do.”
“Please…p-please, n-n-no.” Riker whispered, pleaded.
And how he hated the way his body trembled.
Heinz nodded at the others.
They neared, and Franz released Riker’s shirt, shoving him towards the two burly men.
“Did you expect me to help you?” Franz chuckled, merely standing beside Heinz with arms crossed. “I thought you were dead for seven years. Some pain will be good for you.”
One man held Riker still whilst the other brandished a leather cord, wrapping and tightening Riker’s wrists together, tight enough to draw blood.
He couldn’t break free.
He would never break free.
He would never be free from his father, from the shackles, from the darkness, from shame, from the abuse, from the pain, from his sins.
God didn’t bring freedom…why would He?
Riker didn’t deserve it.
Maybe his father had been right all along, maybe Riker wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love.
Maybe God did love him.
But maybe God didn’t love Riker Schind as much as He loved everyone else.
And just the idea of such a sentiment being truth sent tears down Riker’s cheeks.
“Crying now?” Heinz taunted. “Your boy has grown far too soft, Franz. Shall we remedy that?”
“Indeed, we shall, Heinz.”
“Then please, be my guest, Franz…teach your son a lesson long overdue.”
~***~
Franz.
How one name could make Leon’s blood boil was beyond even his own comprehension.
His fists clenched.
That man was Riker’s father…the alcoholic…Riker’s abuser.
He knew something had been wrong when Riker didn’t return to the Altmann home by five.
Riker wasn’t always on time, but when he said he would be on time, he was on time.
He knew something was wrong.
And his suspicions were correct.
He leaned back against a brick wall, knowing full well how much he wanted to march into the alleyway and demand for Riker’s release and maybe even fight whoever tried to stop him if he needed to.
But if that would only put Riker in more danger, it wasn’t worth the risk.
Leon silently smiled to himself.
He, too, once would have attacked Riker.
How strange it felt to care so much for the man he once hated.
Maybe that was just a testament to God’s redemptive power.
“Leon.”
He turned in a moment, muscles tense, jaw taut, fists still clenched, sweat beading on his forehead.
But it was only…only…”Isaiah, Yosef?” He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “What…why did you follow me?”
“We assumed something was wrong when Riker didn’t return, and then with you setting off too…Abba thought you might need some backup.”
“It’s dangerous. Neither of you should’ve come here. Especially you, Isaiah.”
Isaiah adjusted his round glasses. “Nothing can stop me from defending the ones I love.”
Leon opened his mouth, but Yosef spoke first. “We should get some help.”
“Isaiah, you should—”
“Nein, Leon, Yosef will be much faster. Yosef, my son, see if you can get some help from an American or two. Hurry.”
“Ja, Abba.”
Yosef rushed off, and Leon faced Isaiah with a scowl. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you,” Isaiah smiled, “but that isn’t stopping you. Neither will it stop me.”
Darn that stubborn old man that he loved so dearly.
Leon heaved out a sigh. “…Just stay out of sight.”
“I thought that was the plan for both of us. Do you have something else in mind?”
“Not yet,”
Isaiah frowned. “Leon…”
“I didn’t say I have any other plans,” he tucked a loose curl behind his left ear, “but if any of them lay another hand on Riker…”
“We can’t just—”
The echo of a heavy, firm slap reverberated through the air followed by a quiet, almost muffled-sounding whimper.
Leon’s fists clenched, his blood surged, and he clenched his teeth.
Even Isaiah’s jaw ticked, and his grip on the brick wall seemed to tighten, judging by his paler knuckles.
“Ah, and what do we have here? We have a few spies, Heinz.”
“Then bring ‘em over, Henrik.”
The burly man pulled both Leon and Isaiah into the alley, shoving them both against the left wall.
Heinz’s eyes sparked. “Leon Wagner…should’ve known.”
Leon quickly glanced at Riker.
But if he looked at Riker’s pale, trembling form and bloodied face for very long, he knew he’d snap. So, he shifted his gaze back to Heinz and lifted an amused eyebrow. “Still a man that craves blood and violence, I see.”
Franz turned, and Leon clenched his fists only so that he wouldn’t ram his fist into Franz’s face. Franz raised his black—flecked with gray—brows and faced Heinz. “You know this man?”
“He’s a filthy Jude,” Heinz spat, “a stain on good German society. And a friend of Riker’s, if my memory doesn’t fail me…”
“A Jude? I should have known, should’ve known you’d fraternize with the enemy, should’ve known you would disappoint me in some other way, boy.”
Franz gripped Riker’s hair, but Riker didn’t make a sound.
Rather, he merely stared up at his father with tears in his eyes…and total terror in his gaze, terror no parent should be the one to cause.
“There is no need to treat your son like that, Herr Schind.” Isaiah said, though even his voice trembled.
Not with sadness, or even fear.
Since when had Leon ever heard Isaiah sound…angry?
“I don’t allow others to tell me how to deal with my own son.” Franz retorted.
“Please…please, they-they didn’t do any-anything—”
Franz’s hard slap sent Riker’s head back against the brick wall.
Riker moaned and cowered further, slightly lifting his arms to defend himself.
Heinz chuckled. “Hold onto Wagner, Henrik. I still have plans waiting for him.”
Henrik gripped Leon’s shoulders, his grip tight, sneering, “We’ll end you this time, filthy pig.”
Franz loomed closer to Riker, stopping with another slap, eliciting a whimper from his son. “You’re a mistake and you always have been,” he spat, “your mother had so many complications when she was pregnant with you, everyone thought she wouldn’t make it, but she refused what the doctor offered…”
If he got his hands on Franz…even Leon shivered at his own thought.
That wasn’t very Christlike, was it?
“But if you ask me, that woman should’ve terminated her pregnancy when she had the chance.”
Forget being Christlike.
Leon wrenched himself free of Henrik’s grip, blood boiling, footsteps echoing.
He stepped up to Franz.
He curled his right hand.
And Leon’s fist met Franz’s nose with a crack.
Franz cursed and staggered, his hands rising up to his bloodied face. He roared and barreled forward, ramming his own fist into Leon’s stomach.
Leon gasped and stumbled, slightly falling back against the wall beside Riker.
If Franz wanted a fight, he’d get a fight.
He lifted his other hand. Hands gripped his arm.
Leon wheeled. Whoever dared…“Leon, we can’t take on four men.”
And yet the tremble in Isaiah’s voice told Leon that Isaiah was just as furious as he was.
Was punching Franz Leon’s best idea?
Probably not.
But oh, it felt so good.
“You…you filthy—”
“I would save the name calling for another day, Herr Schind.”
@godlyfantasy12 Poor November and Ara😭
BUT I LOVE THE SCENES
Callan is…💀 and I ADORE Ara’s uncle already🤭
and I think you portrayed that scene very well without going into explaining it completely and rather leaving it vague.
Job very well done👏👏👏
@esther-c @keilah-h @ellette-giselle @koshka @elishavet-pidyon @godlyfantasy12 (btw, I’ve been LOVING the scenes you’ve been posting, girl🤩) @rae @theducktator @grcr @anyone-else-idk-lol
Y’all want a Riker scene for Book #3? 🫣
well here it is anyway (part of it at least)
What did Leon know?
As far as Riker knew, Leon had a good, loving family…a happy family. Sure, every family had their faults, but what, honestly, could Leon even know about a family that was far from happy but had to pretend to be to satisfy Franz’s desires and pull blinders over the world around them?
Riker sighed and ran a hand through his wavy dark brown locks.
Maybe he shouldn’t have shoved Leon away.
He certainly shouldn’t have stormed off.
He checked the watch on his wrist. It was almost five o’clock, the time he had promised to be back at the Altmann home to join them for dinner.
Maybe he should start—“Riker Franz Schind…still alive, I see.”
No. Please no. Not…not…
“God, please.” Riker whispered, pleaded.
He turned on his heel.
Heinz Becker’s dark, murderous, malicious gaze met Riker’s own. A smile curled one side of the older man’s lips, a smile that sent a shiver down Riker’s spine despite the fact that it was a warm June evening. “If anything about you has always been true, it’s that you can slink your way out of anything, boy. And to think everyone thought you were dead, even your father.”
“Herr Becker—”
“Last I remember, you were trying to kill me.”
“I-I would never—”
“Oh, but that is what you would have done if you had to, wouldn’t it have been, Riker?”
He took a step back. “N-no, sir—Herr Becker…I-I wouldn’t have.”
Heinz merely hummed in reply, taking a step towards Riker every time Riker took a step back.
Where…where was…oh no.
Too late to realize he’d been cornered, Riker glanced desperately at the walls of an alleyway as Heinz drew ever closer.
He had to run.
But his feet were rooted to the ground.
His breaths chuffed. His hands clammed up. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Are you going to bring my father here?”
Heinz tsked. “Are you still afraid of your father, Riker?”
“No,” Riker whispered, but his voice quivered.
He could barely hear his own words.
And he hated the way his body trembled.
‘You’re over thirty years old and one question makes you shake like a child that believes in monsters under their bed.’ He thought, chided himself.
Stupid. Stupid—“…You are clearly very afraid. I certainly couldn’t bring him here: you would run away before I could return. And how would it benefit me to take you to Franz? Would it benefit me to see his anger, to watch him beat you for the insolence he’s never been able to curb, to hear you beg for mercy that he’ll never give you, mercy you don’t deserve? Nein, that benefits me little, if at all.”
“Please-“
“Ah, that’s more of what I’d like to hear,” Heinz took a step forward; Riker took a step back; Heinz smiled, “go on, boy, beg, cry out for mercy. Maybe this God you call to will rescue you.”
He had to escape.
He had to fight back.
And yet every bone in his body felt weak, every muscle lax.
Heinz stepped forward.
Riker stepped back.
Heinz was hounding him, backing him into a corner.
The alleyway was dark and crowded.
His father’s heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Eight-year-old Riker cowered, trembling, whimpering.
He hated the dark, closed space of the closet, but anything was better than facing his father’s rage.
Every lasting bruise ached at just the thought of being found.
Heinz gripped his wrists. “One sound out of you, boy, and this will be a quick end for you.”
Jarred back into the present, Riker kicked out at the older man’s shin.
Heinz cursed and stumbled.
Riker wrenched a single wrist free, turned, pulled back his arm. He curled his hand into a fist and pounded it into Heinz’s gut.
Heinz stumbled, released his grip on Riker, cursed again.
He had to get away.
He had to get away.
Quickly.
Riker rushed past Heinz’s groaning frame.
No. No!
Please.
Of course Heinz hadn’t come alone. He never did.
Two men flanked the only way out of the alleyway, tall and broad-shouldered.
Riker took a step backwards. Too late to realize, he backed up into Heinz.
“They remember you as well.” Heinz sneered.
Riker turned to face Heinz.
He had to get away—he had to escape.
But his only exit was blocked.
Maybe that’s what he got for going off alone.
“Get his wrists bound.”
One of the men reached for Riker, and he pulled away only for the other man to grab his right arm and wrench it behind his back.
“Let me go.” Riker snarled. He lifted a leg to kick the man that held onto him.
“…You’re alive. After all this time, you’re still…alive.”
No…no.
Almost every nightmare that interrupted his sleep, every shackle that still wished him bound, every memory that haunted his very steps, they all carried that tone…that disdain…that pain…that…that…voice.
He had to get away.
But he couldn’t…oh, he couldn’t.
The man released him, and the two men stepped aside.
There was a gap, a possible escape route.
And yet Riker found himself backing up further into the alleyway as another man strode in between the gap entrance the two men had created.
Please. Not him…
Coal eyes met Riker’s dark blue.
Not Franz Schind.
Please.
“Old friend!” Heinz greeted, “I did not expect you to come to this…reunion.”
@godlyfantasy12 @koshka @elishavet-pidyon @grcr @ellette-giselle @savannah_grace2009 @keilah-h @trailblazer @hybridlore @rae @anyone-else-idk-lol
Possible (probable) scene for Book #2 of my fantasy series idea🤭
let me know what y’all think👀
The Mercenary camp seemed naught much fond of having guests.
Couldn’t they at the very least be welcoming?
And Muerynh was not even regarded as the land with the most unwelcoming of individuals.
They shared too many glances, exchanged too many whispers, and stared at him and the others far too long and far too often.
His stomach twisted just at the thought of what could await.
Muerynh had a reputation many feared, a desert filled with nomads, violent tribes, mercenaries, and vicious slave traders bent on obtaining only that which they desired.
“Here, please accept this bit of sustenance.”
Michael glanced at the slightly dark-skinned woman that offered him a clay bowl, her curly dark hair falling loose from the tied turban about her head.
But how could he trust that the food she offered was not poison?
Jaelryn took the bowl offered with a nod. “I gratefully accept…?”
The woman smiled faintly, resting a hand on her—suddenly Michael noticed—rounded stomach. “Shira.”
“Thank you, Shira.”
As the woman turned away, Michael winced at the feel of Jaelryn’s elbow shoving against his ribcage. “If they wished to kill us, they would have done so by now. It is not poisoned.”
“How can you know that for certain?”
“You only do not wish to eat it because it is not luxury. Is the spoiled prince still not yet accustomed to the kind of sustenance we must eat whilst on a long journey?”
His cheeks flamed.
He was NOT spoiled.
“You shouldn’t speak—”
“Hush. Who is that?”
“You expect me to know?” Michael retorted, but he followed Jaelryn’s gaze.
An older, white-haired woman with wrinkles on her face and slightly crooked hands stepped out of one of the simple tents, instantly gaining the attention of the others around.
But the man they had first met seemed to be in charge.
Was the old woman the true leader?
The woman, Shira, rushed up to the woman, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Mama.”
The woman smiled faintly, rested a hand on Shira’s arm, and glanced Michael’s way.
She slowly lifted one of her tan hands.
“Stand up.” Amado ordered, standing in place just behind Rayne and Zayne.
Jaelryn stood, and Michael followed suit, glancing around to ensure Jared, Rayne, Zayne, and Acheron had done the same.
The woman walked around slowly, looking at them, peering into maybe even their own souls, before motioning for them to sit back down.
But she paused before Acheron, the last she went up to, and frowned.
“You look familiar, my child.” She mused, her wrinkled face peering curiously at him.
“I-I have never seen you a day in my life until now.”
“Mama,” Shira whispered, resting a hand on the older woman’s arm.
Amado raised his dark brows. “What is it, Mama Juanitta? Have you seen this man before?”
“He is a Lord in Rígsteal. She is bound to have heard of him—”
“No, no,” Mama Juanitta frowned, tugging away from Shira’s grip and seemingly ignoring Shira’s words, “I have seen one that looks like you before. Another young man, I think. My dear,” she rested her hands on Acheron’s arm, gripping his dark sleeve, “I have seen you in this life once before.”
“I have never seen you before now!” Acheron retorted, yanking himself away from her grip, turning around. His boots scrambled beneath him, and he toppled, landing face-first onto the unforgiving sand.
A laugh rumbled out of Jaelryn’s lips, and Michael felt his own lips twist into a small smirk.
Jared cracked a small smile, and Rayne and Zayne merely stared after Acheron, but Zayne’s puckered lips spoke of the fact that he was holding back the laugh or else smile he wished to show.
Acheron slowly stood back up, mumbled a low curse beneath his breath, and turned around only to find the many gazes that were cast upon him.
His tan cheeks flushed.
Jaelryn drew her knees close to her chest, tsked, and grinned up at him. “Quite the performance there, Lord Graceless.”
Acheron scowled, arms stiff at his side, hair, face, and dark clothing flecked with sand.
Footsteps sounded, and Michael turned his head.
The man in charge—Alden—stepped out of his tent, Diarmuid at his heels.
All gazes upon him, Alden’s blue eyes scanned the large group around him.
What had the man done?
What did he have planned?
Would he bring death to them?
Would their journey have been all for vain?
“…I will accompany them on their journey.”
