Examples

A gargantuan maw laced with ivory cuspids glimmered malevolently in the soft golden hues of the throne room's graceful eye, draining what little colour clasped faintly at the creature's hide. It appeared as a dragon of sorts, though its unkempt mane that cascaded like gently spilling rains across ghastly contours was unsightly, and it's calculating ruby gaze absent and cold. Its jaws parted with an eerie utterance emitting within, a visceral growl that reverberated within a strained larynx.

She was perched delicately at the foot of the false King's throne; a heavy contraption build of refined metal that glittered beautifully, but upon closer inspection revealed spots of rust and tarnish. The creature did not allow spectators close enough to realise such details, of course. A lengthy tail coiled about reclined haunches, and in her peripherals she could see Xoan as he picked at his teeth with a lethally curved claw. Torn ears tremored subtly beneath the sweeping structure of antlers as the King made to speak to their guest.

"What ails you, dear peasant?" The wildclaw's tone dripped with saccharine self-indulgence, golden eyes glittering with an ill-concealed contempt. A ghoulish imperial bowed his head before the King, bones clawing at his skin as though seeking escape. "My lord, a pestilence has befallen the farmlands. Crops wither and with them the township dies too. The animals have grown sickly as well, and the waters are undrinkable." Weariness tinged the farmer's humble words, and even the creature that eyed him with stoic disregard could see the dullness of his scales and distant gaze.

Xoan's countenance was tempered with a frown, tedium apparent in his mannerisms as he lounged within his throne. "A pity," he hummed, claws curling about a golden chalice that had been set aside on the throne's arm. The King brought the cup to his lips and sipped daintily at the red wine within, impervius the Imperal's longing stare. Xoan wiped the vestiges of liquid that clung to his teeth as he lowered the chalice. "What do you suppose I will feed her then?" At this he motion towards the creature, and her skull oscillated to affront the imperial, ghastly eyes suddenly alight with hunger.

The imperial's face blanched, eyes filled with a sudden desperate apprehension. "I-I'm not s-sure, My Lord," he choked. Xoan smiled gently down upon his subject, widening his arms in a nonchalant gesture. The beast ascended slowly, limbs unfurling with quiet clicks of joints setting into place, steely mandibles unhinging as it began to pick its way towards the imperial. The subject scurried backwards as Xoan's eerie smile persisted. "Why, you, of course." A lackadaisical chuckle emanated within his throat as he sipped his wine once more, ignoring the guttural screams and the sounds of flesh being wrenched from bone.

Tales of the cursed cavern had circulated the small hove that resided some miles away, a nomadic clan of dragons with scales burnished by sun and wings gilded like the sun itself. It was here that Phobia's earliest years were spent, nurtured beneath the watchful eyes of her parents and guiding claws of her kin. The nomads were a peaceful collection, a group of skydancers that were largely related and feasted only on what the earth provided them. Phobia, however, had an insatiable curiosity that extended even beyond their well-travelled paths that weaved in down-trodden lines through the countryside.

Often she ventured away from this familiar path, drawn to some strange figure in the distance or a brightly coloured flower that dipped idly within the forest lining their path. She was always halted by the foreboding claw of an elder on her shoulder, tugging her back into line with the rest of her clan. "Gwen, please do not stray too far. Great evil lies beyond these trails," the adults had chastised. Her name had been different in those times; the name reminded her of pasts long gone and forgotten, of mistakes that could not be washed away with the sands of time. No cleansing could purge her of the darkness she now resided within, and which, in turn, resided in her.

Youth, foolishness. Such things were synonymous at times. Gwen had overheard the muted whispers of her clanmates of a cursed cave; one that promised great power but offered only misery. Of course, such things could only be fiction. It sounded very much like something one would tell a hatchling to scare them into obedience, but such tales only stirred the adventurous blood that churned within Gwen's veins. So she had waited, biding her time as her friends and family settled in to sleep through the night, her limp body feigning rest until she could hear breathing deepening around her.

The moon's alabaster glow bathed her umber scales as she rose in the middle of the night, the stars that glimmered malevolently overhead paling to the light that gleamed ferociously in Gwen's hazel eyes. She followed the directions that she had heard the elders discussing, meaning for such locations to be avoided rather than followed. Gnarled branches clawed at her hide, lashing thick plumes of leaves across her scales but the young skydancer seemed hardly bothered.

Soon her efforts were rewarded, and she stumbled upon the cave's entrance, stretching up from the verdant moss surrounding it. It was slightly smaller than Gwen, but its maw still managed to gape ominously, as if ready to swallow any flesh that might venture within it. Stilling her racing heart and steeling herself, Gwen ambled cautiously forward, hunching over to squeeze her shoulders through the cave entrance. As she began to trek deeper into the darkness, the faint glow at her back soon dissipated, leaving her engulfed by an inky blackness that seemed almost tangible, cloistering thickly at her hocks.

Panic threatened to overwhelm the skydancer, but she pushed forward, struggling to ignore the fluttering sensation of anxiety that pulsated somewhere deep within her gut. After crawling some distance through the cave tunnel, she felt the rock begin to expand upwards, opening into a larger space. The silence there was thick and cloying, as if Gwen could cut it with the swipe of a blade. The darkness was complete, and despite her eyes' attempts to adjust to the blackness, she could not make out anything in front of or behind her. "Hello?" she called uselessly, her voice resonating against distance walls and returning to her in faint mockeries of her original cry. Well, this is disappointing, she thought, beginning to return into the tunnel and break the much-welcomed surface. However, there ensued a rustling behind her, and her head snapped in its direction, though she was just as blind as before.

"Come closer," a voice intoned, silken in nature but edged by something unsettling that Gwen could not quite place. Something else seemed odd about the voice. It did not echo as her own voice had, instead seeming to permeate the air itself, wrapping thickly about her limbs to draw her forward despite her will. "Who are you?" Gwen inquired, her tone frantic as her limbs continued to do as bidden by the disembodied entity, dragging her closer to the middle of the cavernous space and farther from her exit.

The rustling increased in fervor, like scales dragging heavily across stone. "Oh, little one, I fear I do not remember who I once was. However, I do know what I am." As if on cue, twin white lights flared to life in the blackness, hovering in a manner that suggested they were eyes, for they danced in tandem and fixated on Gwen without faltering. As Gwen grew closer to them, she could see what they illuminated, and gagged audibly, for the sight was heinous. It was a masquerade of a dragon's corpse, an indeterminate breed that seemed to have rotted beyond recognition. Flesh hung like tattered cloth upon bone, and maggots writhed fiendishly within torn flesh. However, there was no smell that one might associate with such a sight.

In fact, the cavern seemed unsettlingly lacking of material to stimulate the senses, inhabited only by its sole occupant that could exist and vanish at a whim. Its eyes burned white like scorched metal, illuminated by some indeterminate source from within. "What are you?" Gwen stuttered, attempting to turn her eyes away from the horrific visage of the creature but finding that her eyes did not listen, remaining locked with the white orbs that glittered down at her. The being chortled gently, and Gwen found herself comforted by the sound despite the terrifying apparition before her.

"Sweet child, your naivete is endearing." Gwen could feel cold scales beginning to enclose her, and the sharp pricking as exposed bone rattled harshly against her hide. She felt the same unexplained sense of calm radiate throughout her, relaxing her muscles while also dulling her mind, a soft smile decorating her lips. The figure returned the expression, rotten teeth etched into a leering grin.

"I am God."

In the heart of the Shrieking Wilds, where the ancient lair lies,
There I dwell, Bragi, the poet, under Asgardian skies.
A Wildclaw of the frost, with a heart ablaze,
For Heimdall, my secret love, my longing gaze.

Oh, Heimdall, the wind's child, fierce and wild,
Your cruelty known, yet for you, my heart has smiled.
A murderous soul, yet a soft spot you hold,
For me, Bragi, in our love untold.

In the silence of our secret, our love we weave,
In the whispers of the wind, in the frost's cold eve.
Yet, I understand, my love, your fear,
To be seen as weak, a thought you hold dear.

In the shadows, we dance, in the moon's soft glow,
In the quiet of the night, our love we show.
Yet, in the light of day, we wear our masks,
In our roles we play, in our daily tasks.
Oh, Heimdall, my love, as cruel as you may be,
In your eyes, a softness, only for me.
A secret we hold, a love so deep,
In the heart of the Wilds, our secret we keep.

Yet, I long for the day, when our love we can proclaim,
When you fear not weakness, when you fear no shame.
But until then, my love, in the shadows we'll meet,
In the heart of the Wilds, where our hearts beat.

So, here's my poem, a song of our love,
Written under the moon, in the stars above.
A secret love, a longing so sweet,
In the heart of the Wilds, where we secretly meet.

In the realm of Midgard, amidst the vibrant tapestry of nature's wonders, resides Freya, the Vanir goddess of fate, fertility, love, battle, hunting, and magic. Her presence radiates a gentle warmth, embodying the essence of maternal care and compassion. As the daughter of Njörd and Nerthus, and the twin sister of Freyr, Freya stands as a paragon of virtue and righteousness.

Once wedded to Odin, the All-Father, and mother to Baldur, Freya's path has been marked by both love and strife. She assumed the role of Queen of the Valkyries, leading the charge for the Vanir in the tumultuous Vanir-Aesir war. Her strength in battle was matched only by her unwavering commitment to protecting her kin.

However, the war concluded in a stalemate, and peace hung in a precarious balance. To forge a semblance of harmony, Freya, with her kind heart and deep understanding of the consequences of strife, chose to marry Odin. It was an act of sacrifice, an attempt to bring unity and tranquility to the realms. Yet, beneath her noble façade, she harbored an undercurrent of resentment towards her husband for his cruelty and madness.

Longing for freedom from her oppressive circumstances, Freya yearned to escape her gilded cage. But her attempts were thwarted by Odin's curse, binding her to Midgard, the realm of mortals. Though she found solace in her surroundings, she couldn't help but gaze through her magical window, peering into the distant memories of her beloved Vanaheim.

Freya's essence remains intertwined with the natural world, reflecting her deep connection with the earth and its inhabitants. She moves through verdant forests, her steps soft and purposeful, a guardian of all living things. The creatures of the wild recognize her benevolence, and the winds carry whispers of her wisdom. She listens to their pleas, offering solace and guidance, for she is the embodiment of nurturing love.

Her magic, woven with the threads of fate, is a gift she bestows upon those deserving of her favor. She understands the delicate balance between power and responsibility, using her sorcery to protect the innocent and restore harmony where chaos threatens to prevail. Freya's enchantments are gentle and healing, a balm for the wounded spirit and a spark of hope for those in need.

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Past Commissions

@Toro Ooh sounds like an interesting story, I love a good forbidden romance with conflict, I look forward to writing it! Some creative freedom will be fun, thank you for the opportunity and also the compliment. ^^ Once you send payment I will get started tonight!

@Bear Got it! I'll message you on Discord shortly. ^^ Thank you for the commission!

@Toro Here is your order for Sohorn, I hope it is suitable and if you have any tweaks or changes in mind just let me know! Thank you again. <3

Sohorn's breath whisked between softly parted lips as he was roused from his slumber, the quickly fading echoes of dreams still lingering on the edges of his awakening mind. Despite how hard he tried to clasp onto the wavering tendrils of that dream it continued to elude him, and only flitting scenes remained. His cerulean gaze turned onto the slumbering form of his mate where she had settled, the harsh lines of her visage softened by the peace that only sleep could offer. A gentle utterance of admiration rumbled in Sohorn's chest as he settled his chin upon outstretched paws, an affectionate stare leveled upon Paranoia.

It was with this reverence that he managed to part the cloud of sleep and peer into the images that had seemingly haunted him in his mind's eye. He had dreamed of his first meeting with his beloved partner Paranoia, the ensuing strife with his once cherished overseer, and the instances that led his sun-basked path to the present. His nomadic existence as a purveyor of literature had been cut short when he met her, but not all things that end result in sadness. His experience had been a mixture of both; a tale of love and new beginnings, but also one of loss and sorrow.

His god, Ra, had always illuminated his path with the radiant beams of their guidance, and he had followed the rising and setting sun as a moth follows a flickering flame. It was the certainty of his existence and the power granted to him by Ra that had always fueled his wanderlust and fascination with the mortal world around him. He once wondered how the creatures and wolves about him could lead such a listless existence strife with mystery and a fear of death, but it was Paranoia that had guided him into a light he had never seen before, one that revealed the secrets of a life unlived and a beauty in an unknowing persistence.

Her mortality hardly seemed to bother her; it was she who always rushed to the sound of undiscovered creatures and biomes, she who did not settle for a life Sohorn would have thought mundane, she who introduced him to the unbridled possibilities of a world that could be crafted by her own paws and words. There was a magic in her presence that defied that of Ra or any god, and soon a path that had once been shrouded in shadow became unveiled to him. He grew to love the world of mortals as much as he loved Paranoia, and it was not long before Ra noticed his defection.

At first, Ra was disappointed in his subject, insisting Sohorn abandon his newfound interest in his surroundings and return to service in his light. Sohorn found his request unthinkable; how could he leave the warmth of Paranoia's love that rivaled the sun itself? His refusal forced both Ra and himself into an uneasy compromise and Sohorn sacrificed his immortality and guidance for a chance to spend his shortened lifespan with the wolf that had captured his heart. His new vulnerability was terrifying at first, but his fears were soon assuaged with Paranoia's unwavering committal and soothing gestures.

Despite his loss of Ra's support, his servitude had not ended with broken bridges. With his parting, Ra had bestowed upon him a gift; he kissed Sohorn's fur with the molten hues of the rising sun, captivating shades of rose and gold weaving into his furs. It was with this blessing that Ra had left him and though he had not convened with the sun god for some time now, the bond they shared would be forever encapsulated on his form.

Sohorn's pink tongue lapped gently at the side of Paranoia's cheek as the memories faded, the hulking weight of sleep once again obscuring his mind. His eyes drifted closed as he settled back into the realm of dreams under the ever-watchful eye of the ascending sun, its dim light igniting the gilded shades of Sohorn's fur as he lost himself once more to slumber, though this time he found his dreams far more serene, filled with the bubbling laughter of his mate and her bright yet tranquil gaze.