Living with a super talented writer definitely has its perks, for example you can get them to spell check blog posts, sense check C.V.s and on very special occasions (and if you make them lots of tea) write short stories inspired by your doodles! I gave Carachan this sketch of a skull I drew at Harry Potter world and she wrote this very cool short story in response. WARNING: contains heavy traces of fantasy.
Two flaked knuckles; a knock and then she leaned heavy, the knots in the woodwork held her like a hesitant relative. Breaths caught between her collarbone. A little saltblood crept down into her vision, impish. As the oak yawned open she hesitated and her shell of armour hit the floor. The clamour vibrated up the winding staircase, the swearwords crisply scratched mortar from in between the floorslabs.
“Well, you are leaking something that looks similar to the lovely Merlot I opened last night, my dear armoured gentlewoman,” said the wizardess, smothered in her own glee. She stood looking down at the blood seeping into a dented shoulderplate.
“I should think,” the wizardess crinkled, “that you would have some coin, as clearly a mercenary would have.”
The warrior nodded, attempting to push all injury back into her body in a small squeezing gesture.
Casting aside her brown cloak, bleached in places one assumed by incredible experiment, the old woman slowly relieved the broken body’s belt of a purse and went about moving trinkets around.
The mercenary rolled over and looked up: the vast tower stretched up into arches and spirals; every step on the staircase had some odd trinket, on tables and chairs and loveseats a pile of gilded books in some strange languages, fluffy quills in apothecary jars, a tankard with some coat of arms, stuffed ducks, a glass buoy on a string, brass containers with regal handles. Countless mouse skeletons pinned to a board, a strange beast’s wing was nailed to the south wall stretched out like leather. Even the long velvet curtains, opened to show the glittering dawn, had a collection of ultramarine dragonflies pinned into them as if they were to make constellations.
The wizardess hoisted the broken body onto a table, tutting at the shout of anguish, and began removing armour.
The mercenary stretched her head to look away from the awful sight of her own flesh. The hollow black eyes of a human skull looked back from its perch on the windowsill. It grinned.
“You will be all right,” the wizardess said, with a giggle, as she uncorked a huge blue bottle that made the mercenary gasp. “You’ll be all right,” the wizardess repeated. “This, my good woman, is whisky.”