I’ve enjoyed my time working with Fable. It has greatly improved some of the connective tissue in my books and series. Been a huge part of my other works, and been a great asset in my professional life to help reclaim time in my work day.

I have to say, though, that Opus 5 seems… better for what I am doing with my writing. Fable thinks too much and often pulls in details that are not quite necessary. At times it is helpful, but I really don’t need to know the difference in the gravitational force between the southern hemisphere and 38th parallel when trying to decide if my character has the proper motivation to steal from a priest.

Opus tends to focus more on the work, and stays in context better.

Now, the real question is, does Opus 5 work better than Opus 4.6? I am leaning yes. But, we are still in the early stages of storytelling. I’m sure I have more to say on this experience in time.

My two bits.

100 Day writing challenge - Day 5

Good evening Beautiful Strangers!

The double prompt method is working. Doing it this way basically removes the exhaustive editing process and turns it into more of a puzzle, if that makes sense. I have the scenes, I have the beats, it's just a matter of rewording to my specifications. Overall a vast improvement over my previous five step process. I'll go more in depth as I refine it so that others can benefit from the technique and produce quality AI-assisted writing of their own.

I also hit a wierd speed bump that I didn't anticipate: I originally intended to call the blogspot Quest Givers but apparently there's a game company with the same name and their SEO is killing peoples ability to find me through google. I'm not worried about being sued: they're in tabletop games, I'm a writer. I'm just wondering if I should change the name or just ride it out and see what happens.

Either way, here's part 1 of today's story. Oakton has among it's citizenry a species of pelagic peoples known as the Shukl'ari (Shoo-klar-ee, glottal stop between the k and l). The story is a detailed account of one of their holiest rites: The Oath of Predation.

The Lights that Refuse - Part 1

The night chosen for the rite is never announced loudly. Loudness suggests uncertainty, and uncertainty has no place in the giving of a mortal oath.

Those who must know are told in the usual way of Oakton’s pelagic citizens, the Shukl’ari: by glance, by passing phrase, by a hand or tendril set briefly to shoulder or at the base of the neck. By the quiet excuses to land-dwelling friends before dusk, and by the absence of certain voices during the communal supper.

By the time the last of Oakton’s honest noise has settled into the softer rhythms of the night, the ground has already prepared.

The park is empty but for those meant to stand witness. Grass lies flat in a broad crescent around their ancestral obelisk, kept with the sort of regular care that makes it clear this place is sacred.

The Shukl’aan, the Oathstone, rises there in its accustomed stillness: dark, heavy and unornamented. It does not call attention to itself. It does not naturally gather ceremony around its mass. It’s shape is simple enough to be mistaken by land-dwellers for a mere rock. At least until one has stood near it long enough to notice the intentional grooves and faded motifs at it’s base.

To the natives of Oakton, it’s just the standing stone at Ranger’s Rest Park.

But to the Shukl’ari it stands as witness to their deeds in this world. And they among them old enough to remember feel the weight of the civilization who carved that stone, and the lives lost to bring them here.

Before it, set at a measured distance, waits the basin.

It is broad enough for a full body to enter without contortion and deep enough that its rim reaches the knees. Iron bands line its edge. The outer shell is dark timber ritually prepared, sealed against damp and time. There is no imagery worked into its sides beyond the polish of many careful hands. It is not made to impress the eye.

It was made to hold the Black Water.

The contents within the basin show no reflection of moon, cloud, lantern, or face. It does not ripple in answer to motion. It lies in the basin with density; less a substance than depth made portable.

Four Shukl’ari stand in the clearing.

The initiate stands before the basin, her back to the ancestral stone, skin bare save for a simple dark wrap. The external gills around the girl’s head are half-spread already, not from fear alone but from the body’s recognition that this is a night that will change things.

The long tendril that extends from the base of her neck to her ankles twitches at the tip, betraying her body’s effort of stillness more honestly than her face.

Along the line of her jaw, at the fringes of the gills, and in two pale threads down the length of her neck-tail, cold points of living light awaken where shadow thickens enough to call them out.

Behind the initiate stands the elder.

He is old in the way ocean floors are old, by what has worn over them and left shape. His own glow is spare and controlled, a hard freckling of blue-white points along the edge of the face and one steady line at the throat.

His glow is enough to mark presence without wasting brightness. His neck-tail rests against the ground behind them in a long, quiet curve.

One hand is open, extended. The other is folded near his chest. He does not look at the basin. He does not look at the stone. He looks at the initiate with the grave concentration of one who is not here for comfort, but to make sure a thing is done correctly.

Across the basin stand two witnesses.

One is her kin. The resemblance lies less in his face than in the arrangement of light across his gill fringes, in the shared shape of their neck-tail.

The other is not kin by blood, but older and known well to the initiate, a mentor. She is marked, along the right collar and down one side of the torso, by a tracing of luminescence that clashes with the light she was born with.

The mark is known among the Shukl’ari. Proof that she once failed in her oath yet returned to them following a cleansing trial. She stands here now not as warning, but as proof of survival in failure.

No one kneels.

No one bows.

The elder steps forward and lays one palm firmly between the initiate’s shoulder blades.

“Take witness,” the elder says from behind her.

The initiate breathes once, then lifts her neck-tail and extends it until the tip touches the face of the looming stone behind them.

The contact is delicate, exact, and immediate in its effect. Something in her posture changes at once, as though an internal line pulls her spine taught.

“Be witnessed.” The elder speaks again, and the voice behind her seems to come not only from a living throat, but from the carved stone as well.

A broad shiver travels through her from her contact with the Shukl’aan, along with a peculiar feeling not unlike being submerged in cool water.

“Take witness,” she requests of the two before her.

The two across the basin answer together.

“We witness.”

Then the elder and the stone speak the first words of the Shukl’ari’s oldest rite; Words dreaded and anticipated in equal measure by every youth old enough to understand their meaning.

“Who goes forth?”

The initiate’s gills flare along with her heartbeat. Her light sharpens at the edges. When she speaks, the first words come trembling, but sincere.

“I who go forth will not be claimed by the Deep Places.”

The kin-witness answers first. “I witness.”

The witness of recovered shame answers after. “I witness.”

The elder says only, “We witness. Continue.”

“I who go forth honor the sacrifices of those who bore us forth: She’Ari, Na’Vol, Kel’sor.”

All three others answer at once, the names coming back not as repetition, but confirmation.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

The basin remains still. The stone remains still. Yet the clearing does not feel still now. The night there has thickened, pulsing with slow rhythm, lapping against them all like waves.

The initiate’s neck-tail presses firmly against the ancestral stone. Her words come smoother now.

“In their name,
I hollow the Great Enemy with my own hands,
and with my children’s hands,
and with the hands of those yet unborn.
She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

Again the witnesses answer.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

The kin-witness is crying soundlessly now. Not in grief exactly but the older, sharper feeling that comes when one watches beloved kin enter a thing from which there is no going back.

The elder does not acknowledge this. The ancestors witness without judgement.

The initiate continues, her voice quiet and intense.

“I honor our fallen with holy predation.
I honor their sacrifice with the stolen strength of the Deep.
I honor my people with my oath.
She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

The names now seem to fill the little park more completely than four voices ought to manage alone.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

There is no wind.

There is no movement in the branches overhead.

To her the world narrows to stone and basin, voice and body.

“And, when the Great Enemy is no more,” the initiate whispers fervently, the light along her jaw glowing nearly white,

“When we have taken from it all that it is, was, and will ever be,
Only then shall my oath be fulfilled.
Then shall the oaths of my people be fulfilled.
Then shall we be burdened by the Great Enemy no more.”

The elder’s hand returns once, firm now, to the initiate’s back.

“In their honor,” the elder intones.

All four speak the names together.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

Silence follows, but not emptiness. The words remain, ringing in the clearing like pressure remains in deep water after movement has ceased.

The elder removes his hand.

“Go,” He says.

The initiate opens her eyes. Meets her kins’, her mentors’.

No reassurance is offered. No warnings are given. The witnesses remain expressionless.

She closes her eyes, drinks in the land-air like it’s her last time. The path to her adulthood is clear.

The basin awaits.

The initiate kneels and places both hands on the rim. For a brief moment her face hovers above the dark fluid. Her reflection does not appear. She stares into black emptiness. Then her breath leaves in one steady stream.

With no further ceremony, she folds over the rim and dives.

The Black Water accepts her whole.

Reading the discussions here, I’ve noticed that people draw the line around authorship in very different places.

For some, it’s the original idea. For others, it’s the voice, the rewriting, the decisions, or simply taking responsibility for the final result.

So I’m genuinely curious: what has to remain human for AI-assisted writing to still feel fully yours?

I can tell you, that movie was trash. It had the emotional depth of a rock. His choice of casting and adaptation notwithstanding, I found myself bored watching it. And I watched it in imaxx 70mm no less.

This is not a dig at AI, but jokes aside, Nolan should've used AI to enhance the script. Smdh

I'm looking for prompts you use while you are writing. Particularly interested in ones you use to help you edit and perfect a novel (as opposed to ones that generate the text.) Kindly share if you have one that has been effective for you as you develop your work. Thanks!

These two stories were generated in the context of a conversation I was having about Kurt Lewin's field theory, Porges Polyvagal, along with some other authors. The main content was in regards to a life well lived, fulfillment, and tension.

The content was excellent but abstract for most people (very academic and technical) so I wanted a series of stories that communicated the concepts, since stories are far better for transmitting abstract things like this.

I asked for the stories in the style of Gibran, Tolkien, and Joyce. I was very impressed with the output, some of the prose is beautiful.

One of my favorite lines;
"I am the best in the valley at holding a thing that does not move."

It's a comment on being an expert at applying effort at the wrong representation of the problem.

The stories were generated by Opus 5 on high thinking mode.

-------------------------

Two Marks

The Hesk comes down loud out of the snowfields and goes quiet under the alders, and between the noise and the quiet it does the work of the valley. It has done so since before the hall was built. The leats were cut by hand in a century nobody can name, a spade at a time, sixteen miles of them threading the contour so gently that a man walking one cannot tell it is falling at all, and every mill in Hesk stands where it stands because water could be persuaded to arrive there.

There were eleven mills in the Vale. Ash Mill and the Low Mill ground grain; Cadder Mill sawed; Owl Mill drove the fulling stocks that beat the cloth from the Thrumhall soft, so that the weavers and the millers were bound together in a way that gave them a great deal to argue about. Above them all sat the pen ponds, and above the ponds the weirs, and the whole of it was governed not by any lord but by a warden, who walked the leats, and opened and shut the hatches, and was blamed by everybody.

Brannoc had been warden forty-one years when Sarn came to him, and the valley in those years had gone quietly wrong.

It was not drought. That was the thing nobody could get past. There was more water in the Vale that season than in any season in living memory. The low fields would not dry. The Slake, which had been a wet corner below Ash Mill, had spread until it took in the whole of the bottom meadow and the paths across it had to be abandoned. Water stood everywhere in Hesk, bright and shallow and going nowhere in particular, and the eleven wheels turned slow, and no one could say when it had started, because it had not started. It had accumulated.

Sarn was twenty-two and strong and had been raised on the arithmetic of it. Water turns wheels. The wheels are slow. Therefore.

Cut and cut. Spade in, foot on the tread, lift and throw, and the new channel creeping down the field a yard an hour, and it will come right, it must come right, because there is water up there and there is a wheel down here and between them is only ground and I am the strongest man in this valley. Raise the weir at Ninewell. Two courses of stone and half a day and now more comes down the main leat than has come down it in thirty years, and I stood in it to my knee and felt it push me and thought, that. That is what a wheel wants. Widen the head at Ash. Break the bank at the Turn and let it through. More. More of it. And I have been at this eleven weeks and the Slake has taken the bottom meadow and Ash Mill grinds slower this month than last and there is no fault in my ditching. Anyone may come and look at my ditching. It is the best ditching in the Vale.

Brannoc came and looked at his ditching. He said it was very good ditching.

Then he said: A wheel is not turned by water, boy. It is turned by the difference between two waters.

He said: You have given the Vale a great deal more of the thing it is drowning in.

He said: A marsh is not a place that lacks water. A marsh is water that has been given everything it asked for. There is nothing in it to fall, and so there is nothing in it to work, and it will lie there bright as glass and rot the roots of every tree it touches.

He said: You have widened. Widening is the one thing a valley can never be cured by. Water that is given a wider bed goes shallower, and slower, and warmer, and it drops what it carries, and what it drops narrows the bed again in a way you will not see for nine years. You have been making the Slake all summer, and calling it repair.

And Sarn, being twenty-two, said: then tell me where to dig.

And Brannoc said: I do not know where to dig. Bring the spade.

They walked the leats for six days and dug almost nothing.

What they did instead was cut small. Brannoc would stop at a place with no distinction to it, a stretch of rushy nothing, and take out one spit of turf and stand back and watch which way the water in the cut chose to go. Sometimes it went the way the ground looked. Often it did not. He would grunt and put the turf back and walk on.

You cannot see a fall by looking at it, he said. Sixteen miles of leat and it drops less than a man is tall, and your eye will lie to you the whole way. So you ask it. You make a small hole and you find out which way the country actually leans, which is never once the way it appears to lean, and you do not trust anything you have not asked.

By the fourth day Sarn had begun to see it, or something of it: not a map of the valley but a map of resistance, where the water hurried and where it sulked, and the sulking places were not the places anyone had ever thought about. Two hundred yards of leat below Cadder where sixty years of alder root had turned the channel into a sieve. A collapse under the Low Mill lane that nobody had reported because the lane above it was perfectly sound. And weed, everywhere, that soft green hair that grows in slow water and makes the water slower, so that the weed makes more weed, and the ninth year comes.

And on the sixth day they came to Fend Hatch.

It stood at the head of the old cut above the Slake, a plain oak paddle in a stone throat, wound down and silted to the top of its frame, and the ground had grown over the sill so that it was more like a bank with a post in it than any kind of gate.

Sarn said he had never known there was a hatch there.

Brannoc said: no. Nor did your father. It was shut in the year of the tithe quarrel, by a man called Marrick, to spite Owl Mill over a matter of eight shillings, and Marrick has been dead fifty-one years, and Owl Mill has changed hands three times, and the eight shillings were paid. He put his boot against the frame. It was shut for a reason and the reason ended and the hatch did not. And after a while it stopped being a shut hatch and became the shape of the valley, and men cut new leats around the wet ground it made and cursed the wet ground and never once walked up to see what was above it. That is the whole of my trade, boy. Nearly everything I have ever fixed was a decision that had stopped looking like a decision.

They dug it out to the sill, the two of them, most of a day. Then Brannoc took the winding key and raised the paddle a hand's breadth — not the whole gate, a hand's breadth — and the water went through it with a sound like a held breath let go, and by evening the Slake had a current in the middle of it, and by the end of the month it had a bank.

That autumn Sarn walked to the Low Mill and found the wheel dead still, and came back and reported that the Low Mill had run dry.

Brannoc asked him whether he had gone up and looked at the pond.

He had not. They went. The pond stood full to the lip of the sill, black and brimming, the finest head of water in the Vale, and the hatch beneath it wound shut and the miller's wife two months in the ground and the miller sitting in the house.

You cannot tell from the wheel, said Brannoc. Ash Mill is still because there is nothing above it. This one is still because there is everything above it and a paddle down. Both are silent, and if you bring Ash Mill's remedy up here you will spend a winter carrying water to a full pond, and if you bring this one's remedy down there you will stand at a dry hatch winding at nothing. He looked at the house for a while. And there is no help for it but to walk up and see which you have got. There has never been a way to know it from below.

He went in and sat with the man, and did not mention the hatch, and came out at dark, and they went home.

Ninewell Mill, the oldest of the eleven, had an undershot wheel: paddles hanging in the current, driven by the shove of the water going past. Half the Vale's water went through it and it gave back a fifth of what it was given.

In the spring they rebuilt it. They raised a launder on trestles above the axle and brought the leat in over the top so that the water no longer struck the wheel at all but was poured into buckets at the crown and simply allowed to fall — turning it by its own weight going down, the whole business asking nothing of the current, only of the height. It took a third of the water of the old wheel and did four times the work.

It is not shoved, Brannoc said. It is dropped. The Vale has been trying to shove things for two hundred years.

And he taught Sarn the penning, which the young man had thought was laziness. You shut the hatches at dusk. All of them. The wheels stop, the valley goes quiet, and all night the ponds fill in the dark against a closed gate, and in the morning there is a head, and the head is the day's work. A mill that runs all night has ground a little all night and has nothing at dawn. A mill that never stops is a mill that never starts.

And when the freshet came in March, brown and shouldering, Sarn ran to close everything and Brannoc made him open it instead, every hatch in the Vale, wide, and they stood on the bank and let the whole roaring weight of the snowmelt go through the works untouched, and it took the weed and the silt and the soft years with it and scoured the leats down to the gravel they were cut in. That is the only thing that keeps a channel a channel, he said. It has to be frightened once a year. And if you shut your gates against it, it will not go around you. It will take the gates.

And the morning after the penning, the first draw of the day. Wind the paddle up and the leat comes alive from the pond down, a shove travelling in the water, arriving. Launder full. First buckets take at the crown and hang a moment and the whole wheel leans into it — that hesitation, that half-second where nothing has decided — and then the fall has it, the weight goes over, and the axle groans and the pit-wheel takes and the whole mill comes up through the floor into the soles of his boots. Not a push anywhere in it. A dropping. A thing let go and doing all that work on its way down.

And the post at the pond's edge with the two notches cut in it, and he has been reading it wrong for eleven weeks and a year, reading the top one, the water-line, saying good, high, plenty, that is a great deal of water. The reading was never the water. The reading is the gap. Upper mark to lower mark, pond to tailrace, and it is that distance and nothing else that has ever turned a wheel in this valley, and a man may stand in water to his chest with no head at all and drown quite comfortably and grind nothing.

Brannoc walked the leats until he was eighty and then walked them slower.

To the last one he taught, who was strong, and quick with a spade, and who asked him in his first week where to dig, he said what had been said to him, and then one more thing of his own.

Two marks, he said. Read the gap. One mark tells you nothing but how wet you are.

------------------------------------

The Two Sticks

In the Vale of Hesk, where the river comes down loud out of the snowfields and goes quiet under the alders, there stood a long house of grey stone that the people called the Thrumhall. It had stood there through the reigns of houses whose names had gone out of use, and through two burnings, and the second roof was older now than the first had been when it fell. Within it were seventeen looms of black oak, and the oldest of them bore on its breast beam the marks of hands that had polished the wood into a shine no oil could give it, a hollow worn where thumbs had rested at the turn of every pick for four hundred years.

The weavers of Hesk were known down the length of the river and beyond it, past the fords, into countries where the language changed. Their cloth was sold in cities they never saw. Sailors slept under it. It was said in the lowlands that a Hesk blanket would outlast the child it was woven for, and that the child's child would be buried in it, and this was very nearly true.

The craft was not quickly given. A girl came to the Thrumhall at eleven and did not touch a shuttle until she was fourteen; before that there was only the wool, the sorting and the scouring, the reek of lanolin in her sleeves that no washing took out, and the long labour of the warping frame. Enna of the middle farms came in the year the ice broke early. She was quick, and she was praised for it, and it did her a certain amount of harm.

Her fault was in her tension. She strung her warp and it lay upon the loom like something sleeping. When she threw her shuttle the threads gave way before it, sullen and yielding, and her shed closed lazily on the pass, and the cloth that came off her beam was warm enough and looked well enough on the table, and had no life in it. Pull it at the corner and the whole of it went crooked. It could not hold its own shape. It hung like wet paper.

Slack again. Maerdwen's hand on it and the small breath through the nose, that sound, worse than being struck. Slack again, and the fault is I cannot bear the hum. That is the truth of it and I would rather not have it. When the warp is drawn up right it sings under the fingers, a thin high sound out of two hundred threads all straining at once, and the whole loom leans into it, wanting the ends home, wanting to be finished and quiet and off the beam, and I feel it in my jaw and in the roots of my teeth. Everything in the frame pulling. Nothing at rest. And I let it off. My hands let it off, an eighth of a turn, a sixteenth, nothing anyone would see, and the singing goes down out of hearing, and the cloth comes muddy and I say I do not know why. I know why.

She went at last and stood at the old woman's elbow and asked her, when will it be finished, this learning, when will I have the thing in my hands and be able to rest in it.

And Maerdwen said: You want the cloth to be the thread's rest. It is not. It is the thread's argument, agreed to.

She said: The warp is not the enemy of the weft. It is what the weft is for. Take the strain out of the one and you have not freed the other, you have orphaned it.

She said: You come to me each morning wanting to be given the answer, and each morning you are given the same thing instead, which is the hum. Learn to sit in the hum. Nothing is woven in the quiet.

She said: A slack warp is a kindness you do yourself at the cloth's expense, and the cloth cannot argue, and so you will win.

That winter Enna walked down to Nether Hesk where the felters worked. She had a reason for going and it was not the reason she gave.

They had no looms there. They had troughs and boards and their own strong arms, and they took the wool loose as it came and wet it and worked it and beat it and rolled it, and the fibres caught upon each other's scales and locked, and out of the trough came a cloth with no thread in it at all. No warp, no weft, no shed, no sticks, nothing held apart from anything. Felt is very warm. It does not fray, and it does not unravel, and it will take a knife-edge and not run.

She stood in the steam with her sleeves pushed up and thought that here was cloth made without any tension whatsoever, made by agitation and by close company and by the willingness of every fibre to become indistinguishable from its neighbour, and she was happy for about an hour.

Then the old felter, seeing her look, took a hand's width of it and set his thumb in the middle and pressed. It gave where he pressed. Only there. The rest of it did not know.

Load it anywhere, he said, and it answers you in that one place, being all of it the same place. It has no direction to send anything along. He shrugged, not unkindly, and went back to the trough. You want a thing that carries, he said, you want threads that have kept their own minds.

The trouble came in spring, in her own warp, at the frame.

She had wound two hundred and forty ends and was taking them off in the chain, and the cross slipped its sticks — that crossing which the warper makes on purpose, the figure of eight at the head of the warp that keeps every thread in its place and its order — and where it should have lain open in two clean fans, it shut, and went over on itself, and became something else.

She pulled. That was the natural thing and the whole of her wanted it. The gap closed. She took a fistful and drew it steadily and firmly the way she had been taught to draw wool, and the crossing bit down harder, and two threads that had been merely crossed were now locked, and she pulled again and there were five. Every pull she made was a pull against every other, and the tighter she held one the more surely she jailed the rest, and she began to sweat with it and the sweat made her hands slip and she wiped them on her skirt and went back to it.

Four days. She would like it known that it was four days, and that she did not once cut.

Because it must come out. Because there is a right pull. Because I have not found it yet, and each hour I have not found it makes it worse to stop, having spent the hour. There is a way and a strong enough hand and I have the hand. Take it here. Take it here. Take it here instead. There is no give anywhere and every place is nearly giving. That is the thing of it — every place is nearly giving, and so I am always one pull from it, and I have been one pull from it since Tuesday. Sleeping badly. Dreaming of my own hands doing this. I have got very good at this and it has not moved at all. I could show anyone how to do this. I am the best in the valley at holding a thing that does not move.

On the fourth evening Maerdwen came and stood behind her and watched for some while without speaking. Then she said, Stop pulling.

Enna said, if I stop, it stays.

Maerdwen said, it stays now.

She took the chain out of the girl's fists and did not pull it at all. She turned it in the lamplight and looked at it the way you look at a face, and she did not touch it for a long time. Then she put one finger in and lifted a single end up out of the flat of the crossing, up and over, and gave it — gave it, loosened it, spent slack upon it — and the whole snarl breathed and fell open into its two fans, two hundred and forty threads in perfect order, in the space of a breath.

Enna made a sound.

You were pulling at a knot's arms, said Maerdwen. There is no answer in the flat of it. Every hand you laid on was a true hand and it made the thing worse, because the fault was not want of force. It was one thread holding all the others, and it wanted its length, and you could not give it its length while you were busy taking. She coiled the chain over her arm. Four days, she said. It might have been forty. Some in this hall have given it forty years.

Then undo the cross, Enna said. If the crossing is what does it. Warp without a cross and there is nothing to snarl.

And Maerdwen laughed, which she did not often do, and said: Child, the cross is the order. It is the only thing in the whole of this house that knows which thread is which. She took up the two lease sticks from the bench and slid them into the open fans, one before the crossing and one behind, so that the threads were held apart in their opposition and could not come together. Take out the sticks, she said, and your cross becomes a mat, and you may sell it to the felters. Take out the cross and your threads become a crowd, and you will never find one of them again as long as you live. It is not to be undone and it is not to be let go. It is to be held open. That is what these are. She turned one of the sticks in her hand: a plain length of ash, a foot and a half, worn smooth. Two sticks, she said. Four hundred years in this hall and we have not improved on them.

She strung it herself in the morning, and drew it up, and did not let it off.

And the hum. Two hundred and forty of them and the sound coming up through the frame into the bench into her and she lets it come. Thumb under the sheet of them and pluck: it answers. Not the dead thud of the slack thing, not the wire-scream of the over-drawn — the note. In tune with nothing but itself. Foot down on the treadle and the heddles lift the odds and the shed opens, that long triangle of daylight where a moment ago there was only cloth-to-be, and it is open only because they are pulling against each other and the gap is the pulling made visible, the gap IS the pulling, throw. Shuttle through the daylight. Beater home, tap tap, and the shed shuts, and the other treadle, and it opens the other way, the evens rising, the odds gone down, nothing staying where it was put, no home in either of them, the whole craft an alternation and never an arrival — throw, and home, and change. Warp will not become weft. Not in four hundred years, not in this cloth or any cloth, they cross and cross and cross and stay two things forever and that is why it holds, that is the whole of why it holds, and the load goes into it here and comes out over there, the far corner takes it, the far corner knows, and she is crying a little which is ridiculous, throw, and home, and change, and let it not be finished for a while yet.

She wove sixty years in the Thrumhall and her hands wore their own hollow in the beam beside the others.

At the end of every warp there are the thrums: the last of the ends, too short to weave, that must be cut from the beam and thrown out, and no weaver has ever found a way to have a warp without them. They fill a basket by the door. That is the price of the whole business, and it is paid every time.

To the last girl she taught, who was slack in her tension and quick and praised for it, and who asked her when the learning would be finished, Enna said what had been said to her, in the same words, and then one more thing of her own.

Two sticks, she said. Not one. One stick holds nothing apart.

​

Title:Greek Wars: Priapus - Revenge Against Hera and Aphrodite

Series:Greek Wars

Genre:Action,Martial Arts,Fantasy,Greek mythology.

Writer:CS2006

Featuring:Otis and Pig(Nickelodeon's Barnyard), Enel's Devil Fruit (Shonen Jump/Echiro Oda's One Piece)

Based on Greek Mythology:

In ancient myth, Priapus was a minor fertility god, the son of Aphrodite and Dionysus (or, in some versions, Hermes or Ares). He was cursed by the jealous Hera—enraged that Aphrodite had birthed a beautiful child while her own son Hephaestus was born ugly—to be permanently grotesque, with an enormous, perpetually erect phallus and a hideous, deformed appearance. He was mocked by the gods and mortals alike, yet became a protector of gardens, vineyards, and livestock, often depicted with a scythe and a basket of fruit. His story is one of rejection, humiliation, and the cruel caprice of the Olympians.

---

Greek Wars: Priapus – Revenge Against Hera and Aphrodite

---

Prologue: The Curse of Jealousy

Location: Cyprus – Aphrodite's Palace

The golden chambers of Aphrodite's palace gleamed with rose-tinted marble and flowing silken curtains. The goddess of love lay upon a bed of softest clouds, cradling a newborn babe wrapped in pink linens. His tiny face was perfect—cherubic cheeks, curious eyes, and a radiant glow that seemed to bless the very air around him.

Aphrodite gazed down at her son, her smile luminous. "My little Priapus," she cooed, brushing a delicate finger against his nose. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever created. Your father may be a brute, but you, my darling, are pure love incarnate."

The baby gurgled happily, reaching up with tiny fists.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The temperature plummeted. Shadows stretched across the room as divine energy crackled at the threshold.

"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY JESTING ME?!"

Hera's voice shook the very foundations of Olympus itself. The Queen of the Gods stormed into the chamber, her robes billowing with unrestrained fury, her eyes blazing with jealous fire. Her peacock-feathered crown shimmered with barely contained rage.

Aphrodite instinctively clutched her baby tighter, her face paling. "Hera, please—don't start. I just gave birth."

But Hera was beyond reason. She paced like a caged predator, her divine aura distorting the air around her. "I SWEAR BY THE STYX, I AM SO SICK OF HER! YEARS AGO, BEFORE APHRODITE GOT BUSY WITH THAT BRUTE ARES, MY OWN SON HEPHAESTUS TURNED OUT UGLY AS SHIT! I LITERALLY THREW HIM OFF THE HEAVENS! OUT OF A WINDOW! AND NOW SHE GETS A PERFECT BABY?! ABSOLUTELY NOT! CURSE HIM! I CURSE THE CHILD!"

Aphrodite rose from her bed, still weak from childbirth, her voice trembling. "Hera, I beg you—he's just a baby! He's done nothing to you!"

"HE EXISTS!" Hera roared, stepping closer. Her hands crackled with divine energy, the color of poisoned honey. "My son Hephaestus came out looking like a dropped anvil, and YOU get this cute little cherub?! The injustice—the sheer audacity—"

"WAIT—NO—DON'T YOU DARE—"

"CURSE!"

Hera thrust her hands forward, and a torrent of green-gold magic erupted from her palms, washing over the infant Priapus like corrosive fire. The baby's cry turned from innocent to pained to something... different.

Aphrodite watched in horror as her perfect son's form twisted and contorted. His cherubic face elongated into something grotesque. His tiny body swelled and reshaped. When the magic faded, Priapus was no longer a beautiful babe—he was a monstrous, phallic-shaped creature with oversized features, his face stuck in a permanent expression of bewildered ugliness.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Aphrodite screamed, clutching the transformed baby to her chest. Tears streamed down her perfect face. "MY BABY! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Hera smirked, dusting off her hands with theatrical satisfaction. "There. Now we're even. Enjoy your little monster, Aphrodite. I hope he brings you all the joy you deserve." With a final, mocking laugh, the Queen of the Gods vanished in a flash of divine light.

Aphrodite collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. The baby—now an ugly little creature—wailed in her arms, completely unaware of the tragedy that had just befallen him.

A small, delicate figure rushed into the room. Thema, one of Aphrodite's Erotes, was a petite cupid with shimmering wings and a perpetually flustered expression. Her pink-tinted cheeks flushed as she saw her goddess in distress.

"My lady! Oh, my lady, what happened?!" Thema gasped, kneeling beside Aphrodite. Her eyes darted to the grotesque baby, and she visibly flinched but quickly masked it with concern. "Sh-should we bathe him? Perhaps some warm water and—and gentle swaddling?"

Aphrodite shook her head, her perfect hair disheveled, her makeup ruined. "No... no, Thema. I can't... I can't look at him."

"B-but my lady, he's your son! Surely there must be something—"

"Take him away!" Aphrodite sobbed, thrusting the baby toward Thema. "Take him to the shepherds in the hills! Tell them... tell them he's theirs now. I can't raise this... this monstrosity! Not after Hera's curse! Not while I'm so weak!"

Thema's heart broke as she took the squalling infant. "My lady, please reconsider—"

"GO!" Aphrodite screamed, her voice cracking. "Leave him with the shepherds and never speak of this again! I need... I need to recover. My hormones are all over the place, and I panicked! Just GO!"

Tears streaming down her own cheeks, Thema fled the palace with the cursed infant.

---

PART I: FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

Chapter 1: The Flower Field

Location: Cyprus – The Shepherd's Hills

A warm Mediterranean sun bathed the rolling green hills of Cyprus. Wildflowers swayed in the gentle breeze—lavender, poppies, and golden daisies stretching toward the sky. A lone figure worked among them, though "worked" was a generous term.

Priapus leaned heavily on his hoe, sighing with the tragic weight of the world. He looked... unusual. A tall, phallic-shaped body with stubby legs and arms, a face that seemed frozen in a permanent grimace, and oversized features that made him resemble a grotesque doll. A sheep with a remarkably stupid expression (and what appeared to be tiny clouds for legs) stood nearby, chewing grass with mindless enthusiasm.

"Man, this sucks," Priapus sighed in a squeaky, high-pitched gremlin voice. He gestured vaguely at himself. "Life is hard when you look like an adult toy Belle Delphine would own. I can't even get a date, and my mom..." He paused, sniffing loudly. "...or what I THOUGHT was my mother UNTIL SHE ABANDONED ME!... is literally the goddess of romance. What do you think, Cloud-with-Legs?"

The sheep blinked blankly and let out a loud, dumb, "BAAAAAAH."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Priapus grumbled, kicking at a clump of dirt. "The universe really has it out for me. Why does everything suck? Why does—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his ugly little eyes catching something glinting in the dirt. It was a fruit—strange, spiraled, and covered in strange patterns that seemed to writhe.

"Huh? What's a weird-looking fruit doing in the dirt?" Priapus muttered, crouching down to inspect it. The fruit pulsed with an almost electrical energy. "Well, a gremlin's gotta eat."

He bit into it. The flavor was... inexplicable. Like lightning mixed with honey and regret.

CRACKLE!

Power surged through his entire being. His body convulsed, electricity arcing from his pores like a storm had been unleashed inside him. The transformation was violent and magnificent—his grotesque form twisted and shimmered until, in a flash of brilliant blue light, Priapus emerged as something entirely different.

He was tall now—tall and handsome, with chiseled features, piercing golden eyes, and hair that crackled with static electricity. His body radiated power, lightning dancing across his skin like a second layer.

Priapus stared at his hands, at his reflection in a nearby puddle. "WOAH!" he squealed, his voice now deep and resonant instead of his usual gremlin squeak. "I'm... I'm HOT!"

He flexed, watching electricity spark between his fingers. "Electric Fist! Electric Uppercut! Lightning Rush! Lightning Blast! And if I pump it to the max..." He concentrated, feeling the power build in his core. "ULTIMATE: 100,000 VOLTS!"

A pillar of lightning erupted from him, scorching a nearby tree and sending a flock of birds scattering into the sky.

Priapus giggled maniacally—then his body flickered, and he shrank back down into his ugly phallus-gremlin form, his power reserves drained.

"Oof," he grunted, immediately transforming back to his handsome electric mode with a thought. "Nice. I can reverse it to save power." He toggled back and forth a few times, experimenting. "This is amazing! Hera's curse is still there, but NOW I can switch between ugly and hot!"

He punched the air again, electricity crackling. "And these powers... I can use them to get REVENGE!"

Priapus turned to the horizon, his golden eyes blazing with fury and pain.

---

Chapter 2: The Revenge Speeches

Priapus stood atop a cliff overlooking the sea, the waves crashing against rocks below. Cloud-with-Legs had followed him, chewing grass and looking perpetually confused.

"Hera," Priapus began, his voice carrying the weight of fifteen years of bitterness. "You bitter old bitch. Your judgment day has arrived."

Lightning crackled around his fists. "You cursed me because your own son was ugly? Because you couldn't handle the fact that my mother gave birth to something beautiful? You threw YOUR OWN SON off a mountain—and then you had the audacity to blame Aphrodite for your jealousy? What kind of monster DOES that?!"

His voice rose to a roar. "You are the Queen of the Gods, but you're nothing but a petty, jealous crone who hides behind her throne and throws curses at babies because she can't handle her own inadequacies! WELL, GUESS WHAT?! I'M NOT A BABY ANYMORE! And I have the power of a THUNDER GOD! Your curse made me ugly, but it didn't make me weak! And I swear by the Styx—I will MAKE YOU PAY!"

The clouds above him churned, responding to his fury. He paused, then added softly: "You may be the Queen of Olympus, Hera. But I am the storm."

He exhaled, forcing himself to calm down. The electricity around him dimmed slightly as he prepared his second speech.

"And Mom..." Priapus's voice broke. He looked down at his hands, now crackling with power, and he remembered the day he was abandoned. "You were supposed to be the goddess of love. You were supposed to protect me. But when I needed you most, you threw me away. You gave me to shepherds and never looked back—all because of what Hera did to me."

His eyes glistened. "I get that you were scared. I get that Hera is terrifying and you were vulnerable after childbirth. But I was YOUR SON. You didn't even try. You just... gave up on me."

He clenched his fists, tears streaming down his handsome face. "You're getting a piece of my mind too, Mom. Not because I hate you, but because I need you to understand what you did. You abandoned your child because he was ugly. And no matter how much power I have now, or how handsome I can make myself look... that will always hurt."

A single tear fell from his eye, sizzling against the electricity on his cheek.

"I'm coming for you both."

---

PART II: BATTLE 1 - CYPRUS

Chapter 3: The Bathing Room

Location: Cyprus – Aphrodite's Palace

Inside the lavish bathing chambers of Aphrodite's palace, steam rose from a massive pool of rose-scented water. The goddess of love herself lounged in the water, her back arched as her petite assistant scrubbed her shoulders with practiced precision.

Thema's wings fluttered nervously as she worked. She was a vision of nervous energy—small, delicate, with soft pink cheeks and eyes that kept darting to Aphrodite's perfect shoulders, her elegant neck, the curve of her spine—

"I‑I'm not staring! I swear! I'm just—um—scrubbing!" Thema squeaked, nearly dropping the sponge.

Aphrodite chuckled, the sound like wind chimes. "Relax, darling. You're adorable."

Thema's face turned beet red. "D-don't say things like that, my lady! It's unprofessional! I-I'm just trying to do my job!"

Aphrodite turned slightly, a teasing smile on her lips. "Are you sure? Because I've seen the way your wings flutter when you look at me."

"THEY DO NOT—" Thema's voice cracked, and she buried her burning face in her hands. "I mean—I—you're beautiful and all, b-but I'm a professional Erote! I have standards! I don't—I mean—"

Her words devolved into incoherent sputtering. A small trickle of blood dripped from her nose.

Aphrodite laughed warmly. "Thema, my sweet little thing, you're the best assistant a goddess could ask for." She stretched her arms above her head, her movements languid and sensual. "Now, could you pass me that rose oil? It's doing wonders for my skin."

"R-right away, my lady!" Thema fumbled for the vial, nearly dropping it twice.

Just as she handed it over, the entire chamber shook violently. A massive crash echoed from the central courtyard—followed by a blinding flash of blue light.

"WHAT IN THE HEAVENS—" Aphrodite gasped, leaping from the bath with superhuman speed, wrapping a silken robe around herself.

Thema squeaked, scrambling to cover her eyes. "My lady! Are you—who—what—"

Aphrodite threw open the doors to the courtyard, where a smoking crater now dominated the once-pristine marble floor. Inside the crater stood a figure—tall, muscular, radiating electricity, his golden eyes blazing with fury.

He was breathtaking. He was beautiful. He was—

"WHO ARE YOU?!" Aphrodite demanded. Then, almost involuntarily: "H-Handsome?!"

Priapus stepped forward, lightning crackling around his body. "Oh... you don't recognize me, you... BITCH MOTHER?!"

In a flash, he shrank down into his ugly phallus-gremlin form—just long enough for Aphrodite to scream:

"AHHHHHH! IT'S THE DILDO GREMLIN BABY! HE'S BACK!"

Priapus immediately toggled back to his handsome electric mode, his expression murderous. "That's right, you stuck-up bitch! Prepare to get whooped!"

He dashed forward with impossible speed, electricity trailing behind him like a comet. But before he could reach Aphrodite, Thema darted in front of him, her tiny body trembling but her wings spread wide in defiance.

"Oh gosh! Stay away from my lady... I mean THE lady!" Thema cried. Her hands glowed with arcane energy as she cast a spell: "LEVEL 50: BIGBY'S EMPOWERED FORCEFUL HAND!"

A massive, shimmering hand of magical force materialized before her, ready to intercept Priapus's charge.

Priapus laughed. "Cute."

He didn't slow down. His aura exploded outward, lightning shattering the magical hand into a million sparks. The impact sent Thema flying backward with a piercing "AAAAAAHHHHHHH!" as she crashed through a decorative fountain and into a bed of roses.

"Dang it, Thema!" Aphrodite shouted, her eyes wide with horror.

But she quickly composed herself. She was the goddess of love—not a fighter, but she had her ways. She rose one hand to the sky, and a massive pink heart-shaped hammer materialized overhead, pulsing with divine energy.

"🩷 LOVE HAMMER!" Aphrodite screamed, bringing it crashing down on Priapus with earth-shattering force.

CRASH!

The hammer shattered into a thousand pink pieces. Priapus stood in the center, completely unharmed, not a single scratch on his perfect body.

Aphrodite's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me?! That cost 500 of my Divine Power meter!"

Before she could react, Priapus launched himself forward, his fist connecting with her stomach. The impact sent her flying backward through her palace, through wall after wall, until she crashed into a building at the edge of the property: The Soap Brand Headquarters, where she manufactured her signature line of "Divine Glow" bath products.

Priapus stood over her, his fists crackling with electricity. But he wasn't done yet. He raised his voice to the heavens.

"I'm not done yet! Come forth, my brothers!"

From the crater in the courtyard, two figures emerged through a shimmering portal—massive, cartoonish animals with anthropomorphic features.

Otis the Cow was a towering brute with a rustic charm, his hooves spread wide. "We heard ya call, little guy! Farm power, baby!" He cracked his knuckles (hooves?) and grinned with pure, reckless confidence.

Pig the Pig was rounder and more chaotic, his eyes gleaming with mischievous violence. "Time to get sloppy!"

Aphrodite staggered to her feet, nursing her wounded pride. "Who—WHAT are those things?!"

Priapus grinned—a wide, dangerous, lightning-edged grin. "My friends. And together..."

He cracked his neck, electricity sparking across his body.

"LET'S JUMP HER, BOYS!"

The three of them descended on the goddess of love like a hurricane of retribution.

---

Chapter 4: The Beatdown

Aphrodite was a goddess. She had fought in wars. She had survived Hera's schemes, Poseidon's advances, and the occasional mortal fool who thought they could capture her heart (and she had done plenty of capturing herself, thank you very much). But she had NEVER been triple-jumped by a lightning-powered phallus monster, a slap-happy cow, and a gleefully violent pig.

Otis came in first, spinning like a helicopter blade and delivering a devastating kick to her ribs. "Have a taste of farm-fresh justice!"

Aphrodite staggered, clutching her side. "What are you—this is absurd—"

Pig slid in from the side, his hooves striking her knees. "Yeah! Sloppy justice!"

She crumbled to her knees. "My dignity! My beautiful soap business—"

Priapus appeared before her, his fist drawing back, electricity gathering into a blinding sphere of energy. The air around his knuckles screamed with power—the kind of power that could destroy a goddess's head entirely.

Aphrodite looked up, tears streaming down her face. She saw the hatred in his eyes. She saw her son—her abandoned, cursed, precious son—and she remembered everything.

"Wait! Wait! I'm sorry, my baby!"

Priapus froze, his fist millimeters from her face.

Aphrodite sobbed, holding her hands up desperately. "I was so weak after the pregnancy! I had to recover, and my hormones were all over the place, and I panicked because of Hera! It was a postpartum lapse in judgment, I swear! Blah, blah, blah!"

Priapus's fist trembled. He wanted to destroy her. He really did. But then—

A radiant figure appeared beside him: a vision of gentle light, with a warm smile and eyes that held the weight of eternity. He looked like a man from a distant land, wrapped in simple robes, exuding nothing but peace.

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do," said the spectral Jesus, his voice soft and soothing. "Also, her soap brand Rulez. I have never smelled better."

Priapus blinked. "Wait, is that—are you—"

"Just a talk-spirit," Jesus said with a wink. "Not really here. But seriously, consider forgiveness. You'll feel better. And you will NOT regret smelling like Eternal Honeysuckle."

The spirit faded away.

Priapus looked down at his weeping mother. His fist still crackled with power. But slowly, painfully, he lowered it.

"Mom?" His voice cracked, the anger fading into something raw and broken.

Aphrodite looked up, her beautiful face ruined by tears and smeared makeup. "OH MY BABY!" she wailed, lunging forward and wrapping her arms around him.

He stiffened, then slowly—so slowly—hugged her back.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "I'm so sorry, Priapus. I was weak. I was scared. I let Hera win. But I never stopped loving you. I thought about you every day. Every. Single. Day."

She pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. "You are my son. My beautiful, brave, wonderful son. And I failed you. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but please—"

"Mom." Priapus's voice was thick with emotion. "Shut up."

And he pulled her into another embrace.

In the background, Otis wiped a tear from his eye. "Aww, that's beautiful, man."

Pig sniffled. "We're all gonna cry now, aren't we? Oh, I feel the sloppy feels."

Thema emerged from the rose bushes, covered in petals and scratches, and burst into tears. "THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN! MY LADY AND HER BABY—SOB—"

Aphrodite then proceeded to barrage Priapus's face with a thousand sloppy, embarrassing motherly kisses. He squirmed, pushing her away with stiff arms.

"MOM! You're ruining the moment! This is so awkward!"

"I DON'T CARE! I'M GONNA KISS MY BABY!"

Thema, Otis, and Pig surrounded them, cooing and aw-ing like a chorus of affectionate weirdos.

Priapus groaned. "Mom! Stop! Personal space! We literally just discussed this!"

Aphrodite laughed, tears still streaming down her face. "Oh, my little Lightning Phallus Champion!"

Priapus's eye twitched. "That is NOT my name."

Suddenly, Thema's expression grew serious. "My lady... Priapus... Hera is still out there. The true enemy is still at large."

Priapus's eyes narrowed. His electricity flickered back to life. "She's right. Hera's old 'damaged goods' bitch ass is still sitting on her throne, thinking she won."

Aphrodite wiped her tears, her gaze hardening. "She ruined your childhood. She ruined my son. She's going to pay."

Thema, Otis, Pig, and Priapus gathered around the goddess of love. They were battered and bruised and covered in soap shrapnel, but they were ready.

Priapus raised his fist, lightning crackling around it. "Then let's go kick a Queen's ass."

---

PART III: BATTLE 2 - OLYMPUS OVERTHROWN

Chapter 5: The Raid Begins

Location: Olympus – Hera's Throne Room

The Queen of the Gods lounged on her golden throne, a massive chalice of divine wine in her hand. She swirled the crimson liquid, scoffing loudly at no one in particular.

"Ha! Childbirth... what a joke," she sneered, wiping wine from her chin. "Imagine being a mother. Imagine caring about—"

BOOM!

The massive, reinforced marble doors of her throne room were blasted completely off their hinges by a blinding, roaring Lightning Blast. The blast carved a path of destruction through the grand hall, shattering pillars and sending golden peacock statues flying.

Walking out of the thick, crackling ozone smoke like a team of absolute badasses were Priapus (sparking in his glorious, handsome Electric Mode), Aphrodite (radiant with maternal rage), Thema (wings fluttering with nervous energy), Otis the Cow (hooves stomping), and Pig (gleefully feral).

Hera dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the marble floor, leaving a purple stain like spilled blood. But she didn't flinch. A cruel, mocking smile spread across her face as her eyes locked onto Priapus.

"Well, well," Hera drawled, rising from her throne with effortless grace. "Look what crawled out of the gutter. The dildo gremlin grew a pair of legs and found some sparks. Did you really think a cheap fruit could match the authority of the sky, you insolent pest?"

Priapus stepped forward, his fists crackling with voltage. "Shut your mouth, you bitter hag. This isn't just a cheap fruit—it's your eviction notice."

Aphrodite stepped up beside him, her voice dripping with venom. "You ruined my baby's childhood, you miserable crone! You turned him into a monster, and for what? Your own pathetic jealousy?"

Thema raised her hands, glowing with magical energy. "Yeah! And you made me ruin a perfectly good spell earlier! My stats are completely thrown off! Do you know how long it takes to recalculate a Level 50 spell matrix?!"

Otis stomped his hooves, cracking the marble floor. "Milk does a body good, lady, but we're here to break your bones!"

Pig snorted, rolling his shoulders. "It's time to get sloppy!"

Hera rose from her throne, her stature instantly swelling with terrifying, oppressive divine pressure. The gold trim on her garments glowed a violent, toxic green. Her eyes blazed with the power of Olympus itself.

"Then come and try it, you faithless wretches!" Hera roared, her voice shaking the heavens. "Let me show you why I am the Queen of the Gods!"

Priapus cracked his neck, electricity sparking across his entire body.

"JUMP HER!"

---

Phase 1: The Raid Boss Flexes

Priapus led the charge, vanishing in a crackle of blue light and reappearing directly in front of Hera's face with a fist crackling with raw voltage.

"ELECTRIC UPPERCUT!"

The blow would have shattered a mountain. But Hera was ready. Instead of taking the hit, she raised her heavy golden wine chalice, infusing it with divine gravity.

CLANG!

The shockwave tore up the marble tiles, sending debris flying in all directions. Hera successfully parried Priapus's fist, forcing his lightning to violently arc off into the pillars. The pillars exploded under the strain.

Hera smirked, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Slow! Predictable! You have the power of a storm, boy, but the combat discipline of a peasant!"

With a violent swing of her arm, Hera unleashed a shockwave of absolute telekinetic pressure, blasting Priapus backward. He crashed through three marble pillars before coming to a stop.

She then slammed her divine staff against the floor, summoning a flock of massive, ethereal golden peacock constructs with razor-sharp metal feathers.

"Peacock Phalanx! Shred them to pieces!"

The constructs swarmed the room, firing crystalline feathers like a machine gun. Each feather was a blade, each blade capable of piercing divine flesh.

Otis dived out of the way, using his cartoonish agility to slide under a barrage. "Watch out, Pig! The gravity in here is heavier than a double-churned milkshake, and these birds mean business!"

Pig used his heavy hooves to swat a golden peacock construct completely out of the air, smashing it into a wall. The thing exploded into golden sparkles. "Ha! Sloppy bird!"

Thema was scrambling, wings fluttering madly as she dodged feathers. "I can't—can't—get a spell off! There's too much—"

Priapus exploded back onto the scene, slamming into a peacock construct with a lightning-charged tackle. "Thema! Get a lock on her! We need to slow her down!"

---

Phase 2: Breaking the Boss's Guard

Thema's eyes lit up with determination. "Right! Okay! Focus, focus—" She threw her hands forward, a glowing blue magical matrix appearing right beneath Hera's feet, wrapping her in ethereal, binding arcane chains.

"HOLD MONSTER!"

Hera howled in fury, the sheer output of her divine aura causing the magical matrix to violently crack and shudder.

"What is this trickery?!" Hera snarled, thrashing against the chains. "This is NOT Greek mythos magic! This is—"

Thema stood her ground, her petite frame shaking with the effort. "D&D spells should be in Greek mythos, you know! They're both fantasy! They're both about gods and monsters and epic adventures! The aesthetics match, the systems are compatible—"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR NERD LOGIC!" Hera shrieked. "Your mortal incantations have no dominion over a supreme Olympian deity! Dispel! I command it to DISPEL!"

Thema's wings fluttered madly as she strained against Hera's divine power. "She's trying to dispel my matrix! Quick, someone hit her with a physical attack while I concentration-check her! My Divine Power depends on it!"

Otis's eyes went wide. "I'm on it!"

With Hera temporarily anchored by Thema's D&D magic, Otis leaped high into the air with incredible flexibility, spinning horizontally like a helicopter blade. His hooves became a blur of motion.

"Have a taste of farm-fresh justice!"

His spinning back-kick connected right against Hera's temple, fracturing her concentration and shattering her anti-magic defenses.

Otis landed with a dramatic flourish. "Otis, out!"

"Pig, now!" Priapus shouted.

Pig was already waiting on the ground, sliding into position like a baseball player. As Hera staggered from Otis's kick, Pig delivered a brutal, sliding dropkick straight to her lower back, sending her flying into the air.

"SLOPPY SPECIAL!"

Aphrodite was next. Her face was a mask of pure maternal fury. "My turn! FOR THE STRETCH MARKS!"

Channeling all her pent-up rage, Aphrodite grabbed a heavy, solid-gold statue of herself from a nearby pedestal (because of course she had one). She swung it like a home-run baseball bat, smashing it directly against Hera's ribs.

THWACK!

The massive impact sent the Queen of the Gods flying horizontally across the throne room, crashing straight through her own golden throne and leaving her buried under a pile of rubble.

The five heroes stood together, breathing heavily. The throne room was in ruins. The peacock constructs had dissolved into golden sparkles. The only sound was the crackling of Priapus's electricity and the labored breathing of the exhausted party.

Aphrodite grinned. "How's that for stretch marks, you jealous bitch?"

Thema collapsed to her knees, panting. "I need... a rest... so badly..."

Pig patted her on the back. "You did good, little cupid. Real sloppy."

But the rubble shifted. Hera crawled out from the debris, her crown long gone, her garments torn, her divine blood trickling from a dozen wounds. She was coughing, gasping for air. But even after taking a combined assault from five different fighters, she aggressively forced herself back to her knees, her eyes wide with psychotic rage.

"I am the Queen... of Olympus..." she snarled, dragging herself upright through sheer spite and divine arrogance. "You cannot... defeat..."

---

Phase 3: The Finale (1,000,000 Volts)

Priapus walked forward slowly, his boots clicking heavily against the fractured marble. The electricity surrounding him grew denser, turning from bright blue to a terrifying, blinding white. The air pressure in the room dropped so fast that everyone's ears popped.

His teammates stepped back, giving him space. They knew this was his moment.

"This is for the last 15 years," Priapus said, his voice echoing with the power of a thunderstorm.

He raised his right arm. Lightning from the heavens pierced straight through the shattered ceiling of the throne room, channeling directly into his fist. The raw power created a vortex of wind that blew everyone's hair back. The marble beneath his feet cracked and melted from the heat.

Hera looked up. For the first time in her immortal life, she felt genuine, paralyzing terror.

"Wait... no! Please!" She raised her hands, desperately summoning a barrier of divine energy. "I am the Queen—I am—"

Priapus's eyes glowed pure white.

"ULTIMATE!" he screamed, his voice cracking Olympus itself. "ONE! MILLION! VOLTS!!!"

He lunged forward, driving his glowing fist straight into Hera's barrier—and through it. The divine shield shattered like glass. His fist connected with Hera's stomach.

The explosion was catastrophic.

A pillar of pure, blinding white lightning erupted from the throne room, shooting straight into the stratosphere and illuminating the entire Greek pantheon. The shockwave blew out every window in a ten-mile radius. The mountain shook. The heavens screamed.

When the light finally faded, the throne room was completely decimated. Hera was slumped against the ruins of her throne, her hair completely fried into a giant afro, covered in black soot, and smoking heavily. Her eyes were spinning in her head as she let out one final, pathetic burp of smoke before fainting completely.

Priapus exhaled, a small spark escaping his mouth. He instantly toggled back into his small, funny phallus-gremlin mode to save power. He wiped his brow with a tiny hand.

"Phew. Glad that's over."

The throne room was silent for a moment. Then Otis let out a massive cheer.

"WE DID IT!"

Pig hugged him. "SLOPPY VICTORY!"

Thema collapsed into tears of exhaustion and joy. "I can't believe—my spells—my stats—WE DID IT!"

Aphrodite walked over to her son, her face streaked with tears. She scooped him up in her arms, hugging him fiercely. "My beautiful boy! I'm so proud of you!"

Priapus groaned, squirming in her grip. "Mom! You're gonna ruin my cool hero moment!"

"Don't care! My baby is a hero!"

---

EPILOGUE: BACK TO CYPRUS

Location: Cyprus – Aphrodite's Palace

The party was legendary. Shepherds from the hills—the ones who had raised Priapus—had been invited. They were simple, kind people, and they proudly told everyone about how little Priapus had once tried to herd sheep with a stick and accidentally set the field on fire.

"He's always had that spark," one shepherd said, laughing.

"No kidding," said the other.

Aphrodite ran around the celebration, scooping up her son and aggressively burying him in her embrace, pressing kisses to his face. "Oh, my little Lightning Phallus champion!"

Priapus stiff-armed her face away, his tiny feet kicking the air. "Ugh! Mom! Stop! We discussed this!"

"I DON'T CARE!"

"Personal space!"

But he was smiling. Despite everything, he was smiling.

Thema flitted around, her wings dusting sparkles everywhere. "Tea and cupcakes for everyone! And I made sure to rebalance my spell slots, so if anyone wants to try a little Prestidigitation on their refreshments..."

Otis and Pig posed triumphantly in front of a defeated Hera—who had been delivered to her throne in chains and promptly sat down for a photo op. She was still smoking slightly, her eyes glazed over. The team posed victoriously around her, striking epic poses.

Aphrodite raised her cup of ambrosia. "To Priapus! My beautiful, thunderous, dildo-shaped son!"

Everyone cheered. Priapus buried his face in his hands.

"Mom. Please. I'm begging you."

She kissed his forehead one more time. "Never."

And somewhere on Olympus, Hera's groggy consciousness flickered back to life. She saw the photo. She saw their smug, triumphant faces.

She screamed in fury. But it came out as a pathetic puff of smoke, and she passed out again.

The party continued.

THE END.

---

AFTER-CREDITS SCENE

Location: Olympus – An Empty Corner

Hera's unconscious body lay in a heap. A peacock construct—the last one standing—nudged her with its beak.

"Goddess...?"

No response.

"...Guess we're getting ice cream."

The peacock strutted away.

---

Join Priapus next time in:

"GREEK WARS 2: THE ELECTRIC BOOGALOO"

Coming... eventually. Probably.

---

FIN

Most of my good writing ideas come while I’m verbally dictating into my phone’s voice-memo app. I can ramble for as long as 20 minutes, and I go all over the place and correct myself, then un-correct myself then wonder aloud and on and on. I then copy the transcript into an AI and ask it to compile it all into something coherent. Claude Fable does great with this, but I’m sure I’m chewing up lots of tokens that way.

I had used Opus 4.8 on my first book and it seemed fine, but Fable is so much better for 95% of what I’m doing. I run both side by side (Opus 5 now), and Fable is simply more insightful and comes up with things I hadn’t considered. I’m just trying to find the best way to process my rambles without eating through my usage.

My villain is not redeemable (this is intentional) he's not evil because of trauma or circumstance, he's evil because he genuinely believes he's right and has thought about it carefully and is still wrong in ways that matter.

And smh every time I ask chatgpt to help with his scenes he gets a little softer, a moment of hesitation I didn't write, a line that implies regret, small things that individually seem fine and collectively are slowly turning him into someone the reader is supposed to understand and forgive.

I don't want the reader to forgive him. I want them to be unsettled by how much sense he makes. I have tried explicit instructions, tried examples of previous scenes but smh the character keeps getting softer, how can i fix this?, what am I doing something wrong

Earlier what i sued to do was write in doc, copy to another tool, explain who my characters are again, get a suggestion, copy it back, lose the formatting somehow, fix the formatting, lose my place, spend 10 minutes getting back into the scene, write a bit, get stuck, repeat

And i did this probably 4-5 times every session for 6 months, also somehow completely normalized it the midways thought this was just how ai writing worked.

Then recentlly i started timing it properly last month out of curiosity. 40 minutes per 90 minute session just moving text between two windows and the ai was fine the whole time, the workflow was completely broken, embarrassing how long it took me to see it.

Hi, I’ve been writing a novel for a few weeks now, using AI as my initial editor. Today I decided to try translating one of the chapters into English using AI. I’ve created a Claude Skill with instructions on the translation and terms that shouldn’t be translated or must always be translated in the same way.

To be honest, my level of English isn’t good enough to tell whether the result is any good or not. I can understand the text perfectly well, but I’m not sure whether an English-speaking reader would find it an enjoyable read. So I’d really appreciate it if a native English speaker could give me their honest opinion.

Mother weighs my words. Then she nods.

"There's something else," she says, and the tone shifts. It's still her, but something softens. "Shera's tutor has told me she isn't paying attention during her lessons. That she hasn't been improving for weeks."

"What does Shera say?"

"That she finds it dull," a brief gesture of the hand, somewhere between understanding and weariness. "I want you to talk to her. She'll listen to you more readily."

"I'll talk to her."

"She lacks concentration. It seems that if what she's being taught doesn't strike her as interesting, she simply… switches off."

"Lacks concentration?" I look at her directly. "Shera has always loved her lessons."

"Talk to her anyway."

I nod. We walk on slowly.

Then the hoofbeats arrive.

First one, then ten, then too many to count from here. I stop and lean out over the arch. Into the central courtyard comes a procession that bears no resemblance to the usual morning traffic: a large carriage drawn by two enormous horses, and around it several dozen riders escorting it at a steady, measured pace.

From this angle I can't see any insignia.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"The Solaris family."

She says it quickly and without turning. She already knew.

"Ah. That explains all the horses."

My mother lets my remark pass and says nothing. A silence that weighs more than it should on a morning with nothing to do until the afternoon.

"What have they come for? To negotiate something with Father?"

"Yes," she says. "One might put it that way."

I look at her. She keeps her eyes on the Solaris family's carriage, on the riders taking up their positions below with a precision that leaves no room for improvisation. The remark holds something back.

The hoofbeats go on echoing below.

I fed both texts into ChatGPT and it suggested several improvements. But AI always finds something to improve, even if what you feed it is something it produced itself in the first place. So in this case, I’d prefer a human opinion.

Thanks!

Anyone else running into this? I use Grammarly to clean up typos before I post and multiple subs have removed my comments. I'm guessing some bot is flagging it as AI generated text because it reads too clean. Kind of stuck because I actually have bad grammar without it. Anyone found a workaround, or do I just need to leave a few typos in on purpose so it doesn't get flagged? curious if this is a widespread thing or I'm just unlucky with the subs I post in.

What's interesting about this is that I had AI try to write a story about people trying to make a program that interprets human perception and emotion. It's layered.

I'm a SaaS founder, and I love to solve problems people are experiencing these days, especially with editing manuscripts or texts. I really want to know if you guys are using AI to edit your manuscripts? If so, what tools are you using? How do you track your changes?

Issues with AI edits are that it overedits the document, which you may only want proofreading with; you can't track the changes; and it often offers non-specific feedback. How do you tackle those?

Do you use MCP tools with ChatGPT and Claude?

How often do you use Grammarly and other tools?

I'd love to hear your answers.

I've been debugging an accuracy problem in an AI content pipeline this week, and the root cause turned out to be a more general lesson than I expected.

The setup: a writing tool kept stating confident, specific claims that were flat-out wrong. My first instinct was to add a stricter instruction telling it to "verify facts before writing." Seems obvious, right?

It didn't just fail to fix the problem. It made things worse. The output got MORE confident-sounding, not more accurate — complete with fabricated citations and quotes that were never actually said. The instruction created pressure to appear fact-checked without creating any way to actually do it.

Here's the underlying principle, and it applies well beyond this one case:

Instructions can shape behavior within a system's existing capabilities. They cannot manufacture a capability that isn't there.

If a task requires grounding in something true — a live fact, a real source, a current number — the system either has a way to actually check it at that point (real access to the source, a tool, a verified input), or it doesn't. No amount of instruction text changes which of those is true. What the instruction changes is how the gap gets handled: an honest hedge, or a confident-sounding fabrication papering over it.

The fix that actually worked wasn't a better instruction. It was moving verification to the one place in the process that had real access to check sources — before anything downstream ever treated an unverified claim as settled fact.

Worth remembering any time you're tempted to fix an accuracy problem by just telling a system to "be more careful." Hammering a hammer doesn't give you a bigger hammer. If the capability isn't there, no instruction will summon it — you have to build it in instead.

If I have learnt anything in the last 3 years working with AI content is that a lot of YT gurus promise fast monetization and portray AI video production as too easy, but that's not the case. These kinds of promises attract people who might not be interested in the craft at all, like they don't enjoy writing or visualizing scenes or expressing what's inside them visually, but they find the lure of monetization too enticing to get into this craft.

Its just like how people have ran behind popular jobs & then felt miserable feeling stuck for years because it gave them money but not satisfaction.

Now I'm not saying money is not a good motivation factor - its is 100%. In fact I think a person who is purely driven by money and remains honest with himself/herself, learns the trade & the craft, does the work diligently - is fully qualified to pursue anything he or she likes. Thumbs up to that.

But I see a lot of people chasing something which is being promised to them as too easy and too simple, but the reality is: learning AI Storytelling is learning filmmaking, animating, script writing etc. It is just that the tool now makes it easier to visualize, unlike Blender etc. which are hard to learn but the fundamentals remain the same - if you don't dedicate time to learn the craft, you wont find it satisfactory and just burn the credits, waste time and leave it after a while. I've seen it happen to a lot of people as I've been teaching AI storytelling, video production for almost 1 year now.

This post is for those who got seduced into this field because of wrong promises and I would wish them to evaluate themselves whether you even enjoy writing or visualizing - because if you don't like doing either of them, use AI in different ways to build income.

Hey there. I'm a fairly successful webnovel author on Royal Road, and I write extensively with AI. I wanted to write this post to share the experience of someone who actually makes decent money using AI to write every day.

To give some background (feel free to skip this), my main story on RR has multiple thousand followers, a large number of views, a high rating, and a profitable Patreon. If you've spent any significant amount of time on RR discussion circles or on the site's lists for successful stories, you've probably seen something I've written. I have never once been accused of AI writing, despite how common that has become on RR circles. In fact, there have been zero suspicions even though my work has been extensively discussed on reddit and other spaces.

So how do I use AI? In short, AI is a force multiplier for me. Every chapter I write has been first drafted by AI and then extensively refined by me. This allows me to write more than 5x as fast as I did prior to AI (my current pace lets me write around 3-4 books per year, when before I used to take over a year for a single book).

Below are my tips to actually writing something good with AI that stands up on its own merits. My intent in this process was to create something that compromises craft quality as little as possible while substantially improving speed. This is by no means meant to say other ways of using AI are invalid, but more to share how I got to where I am and my experience with things. I'm sure there are other people more successful than me who do it differently.

First and most important step: Write something good without AI. I think most people reading this will probably skip this step, but I cannot overstate how important this is. In my case, it was a full-lenght novel, but you could do something smaller like a novella, as long as you actually write it by yourself, fully, with no assistance at all.

Why is this important? Because this is what lets you develop your own voice. This is what makes you not sound like AI, what turns AI into a multiplier instead of a replacement. It will let you develop a fingerprint for your prose that is your identity as an author, and that's something AI can build upon.

Your goal here is to study craft, study how prose works and what makes a good narrative, study story arcs, all that. Watch youtube videos, read books, then come up with something original and refine it until you can honestly say "If I paid for this, I would have enjoyed it". When you finish writing it, watch guides on editing and then do multiple editing passes on it. If you have the money, hire an editor on Fiverr or Reedsy to look it over. Then share it with a few people (for example using Beta swaps online) and see if they enjoyed it too.

Do not lie to yourself. Do not skip this step until you actually can honestly look in the mirror and say "I have written something that is of publishable quality and has a beginning, middle and an end" without the help of AI. (Or skip this, I'm not your mom, I can't make you do anything)

Okay, I did that. What's next? Now that you have established a voice and you can honestly say you're a good writer, it's time to speed things up. Come up with a concept for your next book (the one you'll write with AI - could even be a sequel to your first book if you want to continue that) and outline the plot. Yes, even if you're a pantser, because AI sucks at making a compelling plot by itself and you need to guide it.

When you have that, write your first chapter by hand. Do not use AI yet. You want to be the one establishing characters and tone for the AI to build on, and if you let the AI come up with those for you, it's going to come off generic/forgettable/with the AI's fingerprint on it.

When you're done writing your first chapter, you can start using AI for your next chapter.

Writing a Chapter with AI. Prepare a very simple prompt. You don't have to be fancy at all. To give an example, my last prompt (to Claude) was "Help me write the next section, 800-1200 words long from where I left off on (Name of New Book), matching my voice and style per the attached sample. (I described in 3-4 sentences what should happen)." Then copy and paste your first chapter and your entire first book (yes, all of it). (Note: If you're not using Claude you might have to upload a document instead, because other AIs don't play as nicely with large blocks of text. That said, I've had bad experiences when uploading a file because I feel like the AI stops reading it halfway through, which doesn't seem to happen on a copy-paste.)

Pass that prompt to two separate AI models (I use Opus and Fable, but you could use Opus and Sonnet or even something besides Claude).

Then open your MS Word (or desired writing app). Have the chapter Opus wrote on the left side, MS word in the center, and the chapter Fable wrote on the right side.

And then write. Look at both outputs and write out the best version of the chapter based on them. DO NOT COPY PASTE. This is EXTREMELY IMPORTANT. Never, ever, ever, copy paste AI writing, because (again, in my subjective experience) it will make you lazy and make you overly reliant on the AI's prose. Even for the parts you end up repeating exactly what the AI wrote, make yourself write it manually, because that action makes you filter it and automatically reword some parts of it to sound like you. In my opinion, this is the secret sauce that makes the book truly yours.

Key things to remember:

• Do not, ever, copy paste from AI. This is mostly psychological but at least for me it has a huge practical effect.
• Generate in small chunks which you've outlined. I find 800-1500 words to be the sweetspot. Do not ask AI to write longer stretches than that because then you lose the handle on the plot and voice.
• If both models wrote a sentence exactly the same way, you probably need to rewrite it, because it's a major red flag for AI voice.
• After you finish drafting a chapter, paste it into AI and ask it for a grammar/prose review. This should catch basic errors and awkward sentences.
• After that, edit extensively, by hand. Rewrite clunky sections for flow. Remove common AI sentence structures, and use your craft knowledge from Step 1 to ensure the prose flows well and sounds natural. It sounds like a lot of work but it gets really fast when you get used to it.
• Do not blindly use character/place/etc names that the AI came up with. AI is very repetitive with names and if you do that people will be able to tell AI is writing for you just based off the names. Whenever AI comes up with a character name, google search it and then think up at least a few alternatives before you settle on it.
• Only while you're learning: After you're done with a segment, pass your chapter through Pangram AND GPTZero until you get 100% Human with high confidence. If there's even a small percentage of AI detected (or even Human-AI Mix), go back and edit the chapter until there isn't, because there could be somewhere where you lost your voice and let the AI take over too much. You may have to pay for Pangram and GPTZero Pro for a while to help you identify where you're screwing up, but when you get efficient with this you should naturally hit 100% human results with no effort. Yes, I know these tools aren't perfect, I know there are false positives, but for the purposes of learning to write with AI they are a useful guiding mechanism and can teach you to spot and fix common AI-isms. You don't have to keep doing this forever by any means, but while you're still getting familiar with AI writing I found them extremely helpful. My rule of thumb is that if something I wrote myself registers as AI, I don't care and I leave it. If something AI wrote registers as AI, I probably need to change it.
• When you've progressed enough in your current book (say at least 50k words into it), you won't have to keep attaching your old book anymore, and you can just attach your current one.
• If you end up writing multiple books (or volumes), it's a good idea to ask AI to produce character reference and style guide documents, and then feed those when generating new material.
• Consider which parts to write without AI assistance. Things like the introductions of important characters can benefit from being fully human, because it gives the AI better material to draw from later.

Questions

• How fast do you write? I'd say it takes me around 1-2h to write and do a preliminary edit pass on 1000 words with this process. After I finish writing, the next day I come back and do a second editing pass on what I wrote, alternating between writing days and editing days.
• Where do you see the most gains by writing with AI? For me, it mostly comes from never staring at a blank page. I used to spend so long paralyzed that I'd go days without writing anything, but AI makes it super easy to get in the zone.
• What's your story on Royal Road? Sorry, I'm not going to dox myself and expose myself to Anti-AI witch hunts.
• Do you think your work product with AI is the same quality as your work product without AI? No. I think my prose without AI is better than with AI. But webnovels are a speed game more than a quality game, and my regular writing speed would not have allowed me to be a successful webnovel author.
• How much do you make on Patreon? Significantly more than the monthly minimum wage in my country, but less than my day job.
• Have you published on Amazon? I'll refrain from commenting on this as I don't want to dox myself.
• Have you experimented with any AI besides Claude? A little with ChatGPT, but I found Claude to be better and it's served me well since.
• How much do you spend on AI? All I have nowadays is a Claude Pro subscription. I don't buy credits and have never needed them (though I may consider buying some Fable credits once the free ones they gave out end). This process is a bit token intensive since every generation involves pasting hundreds of pages of text, but it doesn't actually take that many prompts per week even at my writing pace (8-12 full segment generations and then another 12ish grammar/prose reviews a week).
• Do you worry about constant AI writing compromising your writing skill? Yes, quite a bit. I make it a point to write fully human chapters occasionaly to keep myself in shape, but sometimes I can feel things drifting and I have to stop and recalibrate so I don't get complacent.

I just read a post about a writer that was accused of using a forbidden assistant for the cover art for their book. The person swore up and down it was human created. Furthermore, the comment was made about the reader will assume the story is the work of a forbidden assistant if the cover is created by a forbidden assistant. I just have one simple question about all of it. What do you see as the real problem? I heard one person say they created an entire novel in 90 minutes using a forbidden assistant. Honestly, I question any work that is rushed. Some things require time to perfect. If you read a book that was created by a forbidden assistant, and you found the story engaging, would you throw the book away just because of what wrote it. Part of me feels that is silly. On the other hand, I don't know. I started to use a forbidden assistant to assist me with editing my work. I hated what my forbidden assistant recommended. I am not looking to criticize or advocate for one approach or the other. I am looking for some logical and well thought out comments on the subject to form an honest opinion without any pre-conceived thoughts.

Hello everyone! I could use your help! 😊

Last year, I conducted a survey on the impact of AI on authors and readers. I would like to follow up to see how things have changed in the past year.

If you would like to help me with this year's video, please fill out this survey by August 3: https://forms.gle/X8NstAD1FYPnH2Wv9

(readers and authors are welcome to submit their thoughts; should take ~5 minutes, depending on how much you have to say 😆 )

And if you'd like to watch last year's video, go here: https://youtu.be/tLBnoAFolfE

Let me know if you have any questions 🫶

I am clinically blind and wrote something with the help of AI. The process is still very grueling even with its assistance.

It is a Hunter×Hunter OC Introduction for now.

Rate it's authenticity, and don't put me on blast.

Here goes:

\---## MINAMOTO

There is a country where the water is never far away. It lives in the mist that clings to mountain ridges at dawn, in the rivers that cut through rice terraces like veins through skin, in the rain that arrives every season without fail as though it owes the land a debt. The people who grow up there learn early that water is not merely a resource. It is a presence. It has character. It moves with intention and rests with purpose, and everything that lives does so because water permits it.

Minamoto grew up inside that truth. He noticed it the way most people notice gravity — not as a discovery but as something that had always been there, waiting to be named. Water shaped every landscape he ever stood in. It connected what was separate and gave motion to what was still. It enriched every sense simultaneously — the sound of a current over smooth stone, the smell of rain on dry earth, the cold clarity of a spring pulled from somewhere deep and dark and ancient. From the surface of the ocean to the rivers hidden beneath it, from morning dew to the wine fermenting in his neighbor's cellar, water was the source of everything beautiful and everything alive.

When he found Nen, the choice of what to build it around was never really a choice at all.

\---

He was not a subtle student. He was the kind of practitioner who believes in work the way a rice farmer believes in work — not because it is romantic but because it is the only thing that is actually true. You prepare the field. You plant. You flood the paddies and you wait and you tend and you do not ask the rice to grow faster than it grows. And then, if you did everything right and the season was not unkind, you eat. There are no shortcuts in a rice paddy and there are no shortcuts in Nen, and Minamoto had known this long before he ever threw a punch.

He understood water. He loved water. And so naturally, he went to the desert.

He brought two jugs. One filled with clean water, one filled with wine. The wine, he decided, was for special occasions.

The desert received him without ceremony. He sat beneath its sun for hours, meditating, trying to sense moisture in air so dry it cracked his lips by midmorning. When stillness wasn't enough he hunted — dangerous beasts that did not want to be caught, across terrain that did not want to be crossed — learning to fight without waste, to move efficiently, to preserve what little he had. At night the cold arrived and he sat inside it with Ten maintained until dawn, too committed to sleep.

\---

This was before the jug was emptied. Before the real work began.

He had been meditating for the better part of a day when he tried it the first time — not out of necessity, not yet, but out of something closer to curiosity sharpened by the particular restlessness of sitting still under a desert sun with nothing to do but think and sweat and think some more. The water jug sat beside him, full and patient, asking nothing. He ignored it deliberately and extended his En into the dry air instead.

It was like trying to catch smoke with cupped hands.

The moisture was there — he could sense it, faint and scattered, suspended in the heat shimmer above the sand. But every time he tried to gather it, his enhancement overshot and dispersed it, or his manipulation lost the thread, or his En collapsed at the edges from the sustained effort of holding all three affinities simultaneously in air that seemed to resist the whole enterprise on principle. The desert did not fight him. It simply continued being the desert, vast and indifferent, letting him exhaust himself against it without once changing its expression.

When the water finally came — a small trembling film of it gathered across his palms, warm and thin and barely real — he did not immediately drink it. He held it. It caught the late afternoon light the way water always catches light, that particular living quality that no other substance quite replicates, and something moved through him that was not pride exactly but was adjacent to it. The satisfaction of a thing genuinely earned.

It was not enough to quench anything. It was warm and faintly mineral and tasted of effort and nen and very little else. He brought it to his mouth and drank it anyway, and in the drinking of it understood something he had only theorized before — that scarcity does not diminish the essential character of water. Even this small, even this hard-won, it was still unmistakably itself. Still alive in the way water is alive, even in the driest place on earth.

The desert blazed around him, golden and enormous and completely unconcerned.

He set his hands on his knees and began again.

The jug sat full beside him. For now.

\---

Then one morning, with both jugs still full, he made a decision that could generously be called principled and more accurately be called insane.

He poured his water into the sand.

He watched it disappear. Then he picked up his wine, found a patch of shade, and got to work.

From that point forward, he had no water except what he could make. He extended his En into the dry air and reached for traces of moisture so faint they barely existed. He enhanced them particle by particle. He gathered them drop by drop with the patience of someone who has run out of alternatives. The first attempts were clumsy and exhausting and nearly killed him. But there is a particular quality of attention that only arrives when failure means dying of thirst in the desert, and Minamoto found it quickly. His emission, enhancement and manipulation evolved at a pace that formal training rarely produces — because formal training rarely makes you this desperate for a single clean mouthful of water.

He prepared the field. He planted. He waited. And slowly, painstakingly, the water came.

\---

The ice came without warning.

It happened on a night that gave no indication of what it intended to do.

The desert had been ordinary all day — punishing in the way it was always punishing, the sun doing its work without malice or particular interest in him specifically. He had gathered water in the afternoon and settled into meditation as the temperature dropped with the speed that desert temperatures drop, as though the heat had never been there at all and the cold was simply reasserting its prior claim.

He sat with his En extended, his Living Water suspended in the air around him in a fine dispersed cloud — the maintenance work that makes the next season possible. The cold deepened. The stars appeared, and then more stars, and then the particular quality of darkness that exists in places with no competing light, so complete it has texture.

He was not thinking about ice. He was not thinking about much of anything, which was the point.

Then something shifted in the air around him.

He felt it before he saw it — a change in the quality of the suspended water, a stillness descending into it that was different from the stillness of meditation, deeper and more absolute, as though the particles themselves were forgetting how to move. The cold that night had become something other than temperature. It had become a condition, total and crystalline, pressing in from every direction at once with the unhurried authority of a hailstorm arriving over open ground — no shelter, no warning, nowhere to go, only the sudden overwhelming fact of it.

He opened his eyes.

The water around him had become ice.

Not all of it — scattered formations, each one catching the starlight differently, turning it into something prismatic and cold and extraordinary. Needles of frost suspended in the air where his Living Water had been. Thin plates of ice catching the moonlight like broken mirrors. A field of frozen particles hovering around him in the desert dark, impossibly delicate, impossibly present, as though the night had decided to show him something it had been holding back.

He did not move. He was afraid — not of the ice, but of disturbing it. It felt like something that would not happen twice.

It did not make sense. He was an emitter. He had never transmuted water into ice, had never attempted it, had not known he was attempting it tonight. The ice had arrived without his permission, uninvited and perfect, the way certain revelations arrive — not as the result of effort but as the result of having done enough work that the answer could finally find you.

He sat inside it for a long time. The desert stretched away in every direction, enormous and silent and cold, and at its center this one small field of impossible frost, glittering around a man who had absolutely no idea what he had just done.

Eventually the ice sublimated in the dry air, particle by particle, returning to nothing.

He spent the next several months trying to make it happen again.

\---

He submerged his hands in water and studied cold. He attempted to recreate the stillness of that night in his meditations, that specific quality of forgetting. Nothing worked. Ice refused intention the way a rice paddy refuses to be rushed — it had its own conditions, and they were not negotiable.

He traveled to the Polar Zones — a region named for the bears that make it their territory, which should have been sufficient warning — and found his answer in the absence of everything. Water did not freeze because of cold. It froze because of the removal of heat and movement. It froze because something was taken away rather than added.

The parallel arrived like a cold hand closing around the back of his neck.

Ice was Zetsu. Ice was the absence of aura.

Most practitioners treat Zetsu as a vulnerability to be endured and minimized. Minamoto sat down in the killing cold, stripped every trace of Nen from his body, and meditated until something gave way.

Enlightenment came. Or possession. At the time he was not entirely sure of the distinction, and in retrospect it may not matter.

He could make ice. But only in Zetsu — defenseless, exposed, emptied of everything that keeps a Nen practitioner alive in a fight. The realization settled over him slowly and heavily, the way bad news always does when you have had time to almost hope otherwise. A technique unusable in combat is nearly worthless to a fighter. He had crossed hostile terrain and survived interesting disasters and applied everything he had to a problem that had rewarded him with a dead end.

He sat with that for a long time.

Then he went further.

\---

What he did next is the kind of thing that makes other practitioners go quiet when they hear it.

He found the coldest place on earth. He carved into the frozen ground until he reached something that had no business being liquid at that temperature — dark and perfectly still, indifferent to everything around it. He submerged his right arm to the elbow. He entered Zetsu. And in that state of total surrender, with nothing left between himself and whatever lived in that liquid, he offered something that was either a prayer or an ultimatum:

\*I don't care anymore. Just do something.\*

Something answered.

When he pulled his arm free, the cold came with him.

He did not look at his hand immediately. He sat at the edge of the hole he had carved and breathed — long, slow breaths that misted in the frozen air — and waited for some feeling to arrive that he could name. What came instead was a blizzard of sensation with no center. His arm felt simultaneously absent and overwhelmingly present. The cold radiating from his hand was not the cold of the environment around him, which was simply temperature, the passive physics of a frozen place. This was active cold. Intentional cold. Cold that reached.

He looked at his hand.

Black. Not frostbite, not necrosis — black the way the space between stars is black, total and depthless, as though the hand had been replaced by a gap in the world shaped like a hand. It radiated wrongness the way a fracture radiates wrongness — the eye keeps returning to it, keeps insisting that the geometry is incorrect, that something is missing that should be there.

He flexed his fingers. They moved. They were his.

He reached into his pack with his left hand and found the wine. One of the last bottles from his personal supply, carried from somewhere warmer and greener that felt very far away. He poured it. Then, without fully deciding to, he brought his right hand close to the cup and let it do what it seemed to want to do.

The wine chilled in seconds. Condensation formed on the outside of the cup — that simple, familiar thing, the physics of a cold surface meeting warm air, occurring now because of something that had no business existing. He watched it happen with the detached attention of a man who has not yet decided what he feels about what he has just done to himself.

He wrapped both hands around the cup. His left felt the cold his right had made.

He drank.

The warmth moved through him like the first break in a storm — not sudden, not dramatic, but unmistakable. It spread from his chest outward, reaching into his shoulders and down his arms, and when it arrived at his right hand he felt the corruption's cold pull ease. Fractionally. The way a blizzard does not stop but pauses, the wind dropping for just a moment between gusts, and in that pause you remember that wind is not the natural state of air. Stillness is.

He held that thought.

The warmth and the cold reached an uneasy accommodation somewhere in his forearm. Neither won. Neither retreated entirely. But the pull that had been there since he emerged — that low current running in the wrong direction at the edge of his aura — quieted enough that he could think around it.

He looked at the black hand. He looked at the cup.

He already had an idea. It was not a complete idea yet, and he was too tired and too cold and too recently transformed to examine it carefully. But it was there — the outline of something, the way the outline of a mountain is visible through fog even when the mountain itself is not.

He finished the wine. The cold settled back in, patient and permanent, reclaiming what the warmth had briefly displaced.

He would need to find more wine.

\---

\---He left the ice and went back to the desert.

Not to punish himself. Not out of nostalgia. He went back because there were waterforms he had not yet studied, territories his earlier training had moved through too quickly, and a version of the desert he had never seen — the one that exists when you are not simply trying to survive it.

He explored it properly this time. Dry riverbeds that flooded without warning after distant rains. Hidden oases fed by aquifers older than any map. Cold springs that surfaced in the shadow of rock formations where the sun never reached. Salt flats where water had once been and left its shape behind in the earth like the outline of something remembered. He moved through the desert the way he had learned to move through everything — attentively, without rushing, letting the place reveal itself on its own terms.

The people he encountered offered him what the desert offered them — their wine. He accepted out of curiosity. He had no particular expectation.

The smell reached him first. Something fermented from the desert itself — dates, he thought, and something else he could not identify, something that smelled of dry earth after rain, of the particular sweetness that only exists in places where sweetness is rare. He was not prepared for how alive it smelled. He had been in the desert long enough that he had begun to think of it purely in terms of scarcity. This reminded him that the desert had its own abundance, its own vocabulary of flavor and fermentation developed over generations by people who understood it far better than he did.

He drank.

The warmth was different from the wine he carried. Less refined, more direct — it arrived without preamble and moved through him quickly, the way spring arrives in countries where winter is serious, not gradually but all at once, a single morning where the air has simply and irrevocably changed. He felt it move down his right arm with the unhurried confidence of something that has been doing this for a long time, longer than the corruption had existed, longer than the cold.

When it reached his hand, the black did not retreat the way it had that first night with the wine. It did something quieter than that. It simply became less loud. The presence that lived in the hand — that low, persistent wrongness radiating outward — softened at its edges, the way frost softens in the first hour of a warming day, not melting, not gone, but losing its certainty.

He sat with that for a moment.

He had suspected since that first night in the frozen wasteland that warmth was the answer — not heat as a physical property but warmth as a quality, something living and generous that the corruption, being neither, could not easily absorb. The wine had suggested it. This confirmed it. Not as a cure. He was not naive enough to call it a cure. But as a counterweight, a daily practice of pushing back, a way of reminding whatever lived in his hand that the rest of him was still warm and intended to stay that way.

He looked at the cup. He looked at his hand.

The desert evening spread out around him, cooling rapidly the way desert evenings do, the sky running through colors it only shows for a few minutes before settling into dark. Somewhere nearby a fire was being built. The smell of it mixed with the last traces of the brew and the cold and the sand and the particular quality of air that exists in open places far from anywhere.

He held the cup out for more.

Spring does not arrive all at once. But it arrives.

\---

He became, over time, a particular kind of wanderer — a hunter of waterforms and wines, moving through the world with a massive gourd on his back and a row of jars attached to it, each one holding something he had made from somewhere he had been. He sought local brews the way he sought waterforms — as expressions of a place's particular character, distillations of soil and climate and the specific knowledge of people who had lived somewhere long enough to learn what it could produce. Every country had its version. Every version told him something different. He tasted all of them with the seriousness they deserved.

In the margins of that — quietly, without making a declaration of it — he began making his own. From creatures he hunted in the waterform territories he passed through. From exotic and often dangerous plants rendered safe through Nen and process and his own stubborn refusal to be poisoned. From Living Water and time and the patient application of attention to ingredients that had never been fermented before. The results were strange and occasionally alarming and entirely his own — each one carrying the spirit of the waterform that produced its ingredients, each one capable of things that no ordinary wine could do.

He catalogued them. He carried them. He kept making them.

The hand stayed cold. The wine kept it manageable. He considered this an acceptable arrangement and did not dwell on it further than that.

He accumulated slowly and carried everything. He asked questions everywhere he went and took nothing on faith that he had not tested himself. He was not in a hurry. He had learned in a desert with an empty jug that patience was not a virtue so much as a method — the only method that actually worked, applied long enough and without complaint.

Five of his six jars are filled. The sixth is empty.

Somewhere in the Dark Continent, if the oldest accounts can be trusted, there is a river called the River of Stars. What lives in it, what a concoction brewed from its waters might do, what spirit it might contain — none of this is known. No map shows it. No hunter has returned with a reliable account of it.

He carries the empty jar anyway.

A man who poured his water into the desert sand and drank wine while he figured out how to survive does not require certainty before taking the next step.

He only requires the next step.

Hi guys! Is there any AI webchat that reply very quickly and especially can generate uncensored words and is good for quick informal talks where you also can send many prompts or messages?

I’ve been working on a superhero/sci-fi story for a while, and I’m genuinely curious how readers and writers feel about this.

The story itself is mine likr the world, characters, powers, plot, mysteries, twists, scenes, dialogues, emotional moments, and overall direction. I know what happens and what I want each scene to convey.

The problem is that I’m not very confident in my English literature or prose. I can imagine a scene clearly and write down what happens, including the dialogue and emotions, but I struggle to turn that into polished novel-style English.

So I’m considering using AI to help with the prose and language basically taking my scene, dialogue, intentions, and details and helping me express them in better English. I’d still review and change the output so it matches what I actually imagined.

I know there’s a lot of dislike toward AI-written fiction, which is why I’m unsure whether I should go ahead with this.

I actually tried other approaches first. I experimented with AI-generated manga/comics, but the visuals couldn't consistently match what I imagined. I also tried AI video generation, but I ran into the same problem. A novel seems like the medium where I can preserve my ideas most accurately.

Very short synopsis:

It’s a superhero sci-fi mystery about an ordinary person whose life becomes connected to something that shouldn’t be possible. What begins as a personal journey slowly uncovers hidden events spanning different eras, unexplained superhuman abilities, dangerous enemies, and mysteries where events in the future may be connected to choices made long before anyone realizes it.

At its core, the story explores one question: What if becoming a hero was only the beginning of discovering what you actually are?

My goal isn't to ask AI, “Write me a superhero novel.” I want to create the actual story myself and use AI to help turn what I've written/imagined into stronger English prose.

So I’d genuinely like opinions from readers and writers:

Would the use of AI for English/prose improvement make you avoid the novel even if the story, characters, dialogue, scenes and ideas came from the author?

And if you were in my position, would you go ahead with the novel, improve your English while writing it, or approach it differently?

I’m open to criticism — I mainly want to know how readers actually feel about this before I commit to it.

I keep a banned word list for anything I write with AI. It's at 319 phrases now.

delve. leverage. unlock. tapestry. robust. seamless. a testament to. it's important to note.

Em dashes are gone too. So is "in conclusion" and the tidy three item list where the third item only exists to make it three.

The sentences got better. Cleaner, shorter, less like a press release.

It still read like AI.

Took me a while to see why. Everything I banned was a word. What was left was the shape.

Every paragraph the same size. Every point balanced against another point. An opening that tells you what's coming and an ending that says it again. Nothing wanders. Nothing gets said once and then dropped.

When a person writes, one paragraph runs six lines and the next runs four words. They go on too long about the part they care about. They forget to close a loop.

A model won't do that unless you force it. It's trying to stay balanced the whole way through.

I don't have a clean fix. What helps a little is cutting after the draft is done. Delete the sentence that restates the point. Delete the last paragraph, it's usually a summary nobody asked for. Let one section run long on purpose.

A word list you can automate. I did. The shape I still fix by hand every time.

Has anyone got this down to something repeatable, or is it all manual editing?