/lit/ - Literature

>>20897233
Go to sleep Bone

>>20890417
Things Fall Apart, unironically. Instrumental for modern African fiction.

>>20886575
Bright Lights, Big City

>>20884231
Modem Waves is worth a read. Fun Americana jaunt

>>20883522

>>20884212
Protag dismantles his entire religion, blows up the high priest, befriends the in universe devil

For context, the protagonist is a wizard soldier kinda gal, and is falling to her death. Help me make the trinket grenade stuff be clear without being overly technical.

So, I do what I do best. I leave another mind to generate the saving idea to repair my current woes while I ready myself for the fall, far away from any quicksilver pool to break it. Should my own Pact be uncooperative, then I shan’t listen to it. And with only sixty feet left before a truly unbecoming second place, I pluck one of the trinket grenades from where I’d stashed it in a pocket of my robe.
The egg-like device is an intricate network of electrum circuitry, encased in glass frosted with runes. A product of Lunar Sultan’s alien psyche, the trinket grenade threatens to blast a Warlock’s Pact out of their soul and forcefully into their surrounds. Madness to give this metal air and clustered owls the Red Queen’s insight. That is, were it not for that same insight guiding my hands. So, I grasp the pin and tug it, letting the barb slice through my glove’s leather, through my necrotic skin, siphon a sacrifice of my soul. And in an instant, the trinket grenade’s frosted glass surges and flickers with rainbow light. The ground draws close. I clasp the grenade.
The bloody light coruscates ever faster, warping the world to a mindless mayhem. The parasol, what skeleton remains of it, slips from my mangled grasp. Thread-thin tendrils of my own iridescent lifeblood follow it. I had to mortify to cast that spell, I knew and my body is screaming as my flesh burns and corrodes to power the energies that the trinket grenade would amplify. Mortification is a terrible thing, so awful that I can only hope that following the fragments of Red Queen’s advice will vindicate it. This pain is worse than death, for it is the death of the soul.
Little can compare to mortifying oneself, drawing out the dreg’s of one’s power and burning their blood to do so, then casting a trinket grenade. To call it a jarring experience would make the transition from Arena Port to the Celestial heavens a pleasant cruise. Making it a fair and comprehensible process. And that blur of bright and dark, hope against despair, Red against Black and White, is not that. It is not that.
The detonation is all-consuming. There are no further limits, nothing to surpass as the artifice throws the power of my soul into the heavens. By the Red Queen, my world was already gray, but now it is not even that! My mind and my senses, human or divine, mortal or blessed, a mere djinni cannot…!

For context, the protagonist is a wizard soldier kinda gal, and is falling to her death.

So, I do what I do best. I leave another mind to generate the saving idea to repair my current woes while I ready myself for the fall, far away from any quicksilver pool to break it. Should my own Pact be uncooperative, then I shan’t listen to it. And with only sixty feet left before a truly unbecoming second place, I pluck one of the trinket grenades from where I’d stashed it in a pocket of my robe.
The egg-like device is an intricate network of electrum circuitry, encased in glass frosted with runes. A product of Lunar Sultan’s alien psyche, the trinket grenade threatens to blast a Warlock’s Pact out of their soul and forcefully into their surrounds. Madness to give this metal air and clustered owls the Red Queen’s insight. That is, were it not for that same insight guiding my hands. So, I grasp the pin and tug it, letting the barb slice through my glove’s leather, through my necrotic skin, siphon a sacrifice of my soul. And in an instant, the trinket grenade’s frosted glass surges and flickers with rainbow light. The ground draws close. I clasp the grenade.
The bloody light coruscates ever faster, warping the world to a mindless mayhem. The parasol, what skeleton remains of it, slips from my mangled grasp. Thread-thin tendrils of my own iridescent lifeblood follow it. I had to mortify to cast that spell, I knew and my body is screaming as my flesh burns and corrodes to power the energies that the trinket grenade would amplify. Mortification is a terrible thing, so awful that I can only hope that following the fragments of Red Queen’s advice will vindicate it. This pain is worse than death, for it is the death of the soul.
Little can compare to mortifying oneself, drawing out the dreg’s of one’s power and burning their blood to do so, then casting a trinket grenade. To call it a jarring experience would make the transition from Arena Port to the Celestial heavens a pleasant cruise. Making it a fair and comprehensible process. And that blur of bright and dark, hope against despair, Red against Black and White, is not that. It is not that.
The detonation is all-consuming. There are no further limits, nothing to surpass as the artifice throws the power of my soul into the heavens. By the Red Queen, my world was already gray, but now it is not even that! My mind and my senses, human or divine, mortal or blessed, a mere djinni cannot…!

>>20882323
Where’s Bone?

>>20875174
Seethe hard enough and it can be whatever you want

>>20874792
You’re a literal who. Granted so am I so yeah join the discord.
https://discord.gg/GqsmDHEuC6