~Starnun Stories~
-Commission Information-
If you've happened across this carrd, chances are you've come across one of my myriad characters, or my twitter! I write for Heroes of Favik, and I do commission writing, both NSFW and SFW. While you may find my rates a tad high, I do have to feed myself and pay bills!
How to Commission:
My rates are between .15 - .20 USD per word, we can haggle!
Feel free to contact me if you find any of the following characters on Final Fantasy XIV: Koya Parno, Vjlhalm Rjngsmjr, Yanteq Iriq, and Singing Blade!
Email me at [email protected].
Payments are done via Paypal, to be exchanged upon accepting a commission request.
Commission Parameters, Do's/Don'ts
Regarding writing, I do original fantasy and sci-fi settings, Final Fantasy, and World of Warcraft.
As I am over 18, and feature mature themes in my work, I request that only those above 18 years of age contact and commission me.
Regarding SFW commissions, mature themes (violence, substance use, sexual themes, etc.) are fair game. Negotiate your specifications and feel free to contact me for any amendments!
Strictly NSFW commissions come with some hard limits: I WILL REFUSE ANY COMMISSION DETAILING underage characters, non-consensual acts, bodily waste and slovenly hygiene, animals, murder/pleasure killing, torture, and grotesque body modification/transformation (extreme macro, distended limbs, misplaced genitalia, and characters generally devolving into formless flesh sacks).
Anything not listed here is fair game, please clearly outline your preferences in commission negotiations, and your request email. Include the general outline for the scene, and your preference regarding characterization - you can leave it to me or deliberation if you're unsure, but I prefer to know, that I may quickly begin work. Deadlines are to be determined, contingent on the length of your request, and my availability.
Belligerent clients WILL BE BLACKLISTED.
Writing Samples
Below are excerpts of my work, as an example of how and what I write. Some works are in progress, others are complete. Enjoy!
-Vestigial Souls: Grishkii's Tale-
(Work in Progress)
Grishkii gazed off into the distance, airy-headed as ever. With naught the will to articulate a thought, she sat for what must have been half the day, beneath the venerable willow. Tall pinkies should be here by now! Always scold us, but for pinky it’s excuses, excuses, excuses! She huffed a heavy sigh, lofty ears hung low to her slight mantle as she made a bed of her stock: rawhides, chunks of preserving salt… Nothing pinkies wanna get themselves, she mused, her four-foot frame situated atop a stack of insulating fur.
The day passed on above the willow leaves, a balmy spring breeze wafting through lazing branches and fiery-red locks alike. Any other time, she would fuss about with her wayward tresses, but not today. A mouth-gaping yawn rumbled free, heralding want for sleep as she lay beneath the tree, content to gaze vacantly at the few wispy clouds gliding through the firmament blue.
Sleep, yes, pinkie take too long, not even come… With that assurance her lids grew heavy, the mercantile snot-ball rolled to her favoured right, gathering furs into a makeshift pillow, whisking off to slumber mere moments later…
… She stirred with a groan, shifting upon her back as a nagging crick pinched at her neck’s side. Loosely bundled hides made for awfully poor pillows. Could the sun drag any longer through the sky? A tardy trader, a sore neck. Why Ventar hate me?
Her gut rumbled a hungering lamentation of its own. “Day too short, not enough time. Maybe go home…”
Ping-ping-pang… A lofty ear perked toward the muffled jingling carried upon the wind. Metal, flat metal striking against one another, it had to be. Pulled from the droning wait of the day, she reached to peel back the flap of her right ear, leaning toward the faint breeze. Pong-pong-ping… Again, like busied scullery pans, the clanging rhythm played upon the breeze.
The intrepid snotling scrambled down the stack of furs, careful to smoothen the edges from her nap. Pulling at the fringe tassels of her dress, she patted down the vibrant fabric, pulling free the plethora of blue, red, and white beads adorning her neck. With goods in tow, she made for the foreign jingle, drawing ever nearer amid the sparse woodland.
Auburn eyes spread wide with relief as the sight of a wandering figure, stubborn donkey in tow, met her from the south of the waving willow fronds, “Hi! Hello! Here, trade, approach!”
Stout legs sprang her high as they could, what with her arms lugging the stack of furs, nearly dwarfing her meager size. The familiar visage of a human came into view: towering, brushed, lobe-length hair having matted thick with sweat against his scalp, a well-trimmed face of hair lining a pleasantly masculine countenance, weary eyes a rich brown.
He parted his lips, gnawed and nervous, “I-I, you’re the trader, Gr-grrrr…,” his husky timber trailed off.
“Grishkii! Here, furs have, come and trade!” Practically leaping for the limber giant, a smile tugged upon her wide, verdant cheeks, ears stood astute. “What your name? Late! You late!”
Flushing shameful red, the human reached a hand to scratch at the nape of his neck, deep eyes averted from the goblin lass. Grishkii couldn’t stifle an impish smile at confounding one of such greater stature. “You get lost! Lucky find me.” Her head bobbed in selfish approval.
“I-I yes, well, never having been out here, I-,” sputtering, what wounded pride remained left him in that moment through a heavy sigh, “... Fine, have you...” he glanced at a crumpled scrip clenched in his right hand, “... skins and salt?”
Ever smiling, the fiery-haired half-pint nodded, swaying side-to-side, flaunting what wares she held coiled within her meager limbs. “Here, all here, trade and keep bargain!” She bounced on her toes, trading glances between the human and burdened beast.
A pan, pot, and pewter a pewter fork! Her auburn orbs grew wide once more. That fancy-shiny. All wares were hanged, strapped to the donkey’s flanks alongside packs and pouches housing this or that bauble. Perhaps a fire-starting kit? Grishkii herself made use of such an implement.
The goblin’s intrigue coaxed a quirk of the man’s densely coated brow as he proceeded to wrest free a smooth oak box, a brass latch holding shut. Grishkii bounced from foot-to-foot, noticing the man’s arms strain some in hefting the container. “Tools? Tools hope, what you said bring!”
Stepping a couple feet from her, the cloaked merchant knelt, with a muffled pop of his knees, settling the box atop the ground with the clanging of metals. He fiddled with the latch, pulling it free, and with both hands revealed an array of steel axe heads, gleaming with quality finish. Many trees fall to these, yes-um!
With a final leap of her moccasined feet, Grishkii set the hides down, flanked on each side. “Salt at small house, come see! Come!” Not a moment of respite allowed, she gestured come-hither with each hand, scampering off toward the sturdy willow tree, man in tow. “Not long, promise good wares; all wares - a good-um person me am!” Rounding the mighty trunk, the man having to duck beneath the odd drooping branch as an arch-roofed hut came into view, flush against the tree trunk.
Grishkii swelled with pride, having scraped and woven many a bark mat for this hunter’s hideaway. The gargantuan Gauthian Willows made perfect habitats for such a home. Scrambling to her knees as she neared the dwelling, it’s true size revealed as she hurried passed the deerskin curtain serving as a door. Huddled within the wigwam, her’s was a snug fit, with room only to hobble about hunch-backed and sleep curled beneath her favoured, albeit fraying, bear-skin mat. Pinkie not fit, too big…
Patting about the darkened hovel, she grasped a firm chunk ensconced within a bark-fiber wrap. She poked her red-headed mein out from a corner in the entry, the trader stood, impatience tapping through his right foot, brow shimmering with sweat.
She held an arm out beyond the door-drape, wrapped salt chunk offered up upon her palm. Fluttering her lashes, her head canted left, “Come long. Stay for night?” Exhaustion was, after all, glimmering along his brow. Sighing, he fell to his knees, arms held close as he crawled forward upon his elbows. Tent not big enough… Dismayed, Grishkii frowned at the man, sitting cramped before the entrance, brow strained. Hardly a proper abode for her sweltering guest, he’d take her kind for little more than squat savages - if they hadn’t already!
The sweat stained trader sighed, tunic clinging heavy to his skin, “While I appreciate the gesture, there are other accommoda-”
“Stay! Day old, not safe walk alone! Here…” Grishkii rummaged through her bark-fiber pack, pulling free a half-eaten loaf of pemmican.
The preserved loaf sat as an offering within the bowl of her hands, orbs of beaming amber entreating the trader’s hunger. He stay, no hurt. Tummy full!
“Baaah, you little- fine! Good Venetar above, I’ll stay the night. But I’m sleeping -outside- this… this… This!” The trader threw his arms wide, palms skyward. “Afraid I’d be made infirm, curling to sleep in here.”
Grishkii’s ears wilted, compromise was no native tongue of a hunter - a goblin, no less. “Fine, fine, me come, too.” She fetched her ragged bearskin, following in the trader’s wake as he crawled out, toward his tiring donkey. The beast released a relieved snort, the trader wrested a rolled mat from atop the creature’s numerous burdens. The bedroll unfurled, Grishkii hobbled over next to the trader, as he worked to smoothen out the night’s scant accommodations. A brisk breeze drew chills down the goblin’s spine, blowing her hair as a fiery banner, blended seamlessly against the aging sun, which slipped beneath the horizon. The death of day, faint pangs of sorrow beset the shortstack, entranced by the receding sun.
“Best shut our eyes soon, aye? We’ve respective journeys tomorrow.”
The trader’s words stirred Grishkii’s trance, “Oh-! Yup-yup, me snooze-um, too!”
Flopped back upon her bearskin, she pulled it taut around her, rolling atop her right side. The starry night subsumed her; myriad heavenly embers flickering about the inky sky. What up there? More than light, me think. Heavy-lidded, the haze of sleep ferried her among the stars…
-Great Favik, City of Stone-
Standing as a stone-carved bastion amid the Meridan woodland, her walls, a testament to the Pretenders’ War of 1201st year of immaculate Zoresthar - yesteryear’s news to most Lyrrians. Once a fortress town of no more than several thousand, the previous century has proven most prospective for the region, even unto my arrival far-flung traders and upstart cottagers alike flock, safely ensconced within her bastion of masonry and streets well-patrolled.
Arriving amid one such band of hopeful humans, the hairs on my nape stood in awe as the true towering span of Favik’s bastion stood defiant against the shrouded Meridan forest - truly a thing of wonder, that such a fleeting race could manage this feat. Banners royal blue streaked across the parapets, the Lion of Silmerhelve exuding pride upon each, in the high-hanging sun of midday. The noble walls were, however, belied by a rakish rabble of guards. Standing before the gate in a ramshackle toll booth, a dirt-faced ox of a man permitted entry at an extortionate fee, all the while his scruffy-faced friend gawped at me with the gaze of a brute. A “Lyrrian prize” he fancied me.
My misgivings were short-lived, stepping through the great portcullis, wrought of mighty iron, I was welcomed by the ease of step I had so yearned for on the route here; roads, my dear reader, the humans had paved the city thoroughfare! In fact, there wasn’t a plot of packed dirt to be found near the entry - though, the diverging paths, each seeming to circle the city flush to the walls, were mere cobblestone. The urban bustle is something to behold at least once; a dazzling array of market awnings complimented by the exquisite aromas of food carts lining the main street, peddling all manner of cuisine - a fellow Lyrrian even offered a friendly wave from one such establishment!
While I could have tarried all day, lost in each inn and shop, every street-laid mat of each merchant, I carried down the road - the Grand Crown Lane, I heard a local call it. Some way down the path, I took note of what was in hindsight an architectural staple; statues carved in the gnarled likeness of a wizened old man - a sorcerer of sorts - stood in stony vigil every few structures I passed. Ever my inquisitive self, I questioned a suitably aged local as to their purpose, and he spoke as a preacher uon the pulpit! Tithos, he said, is the local god of local favor, a wise elder demanding a stoic heart and social obligation from his flock - at least I recall as much. I will admit losing some of his sermonized jargon. He pointed me toward the city’s grand temple, tucked away in a quarter of the city seldom travelled by foreigners, though I hadn’t the time to spare a visit.
The royal keep of Favik, raised high above the common dwellings and shops, is as much a feast on the eyes as the city walls. Ringed by formidable fortifications in it’s own right; roofed towers, and open-air battlements provide ample vantage points, it dawned on me, standing before it’s grandeur, that the city as a whole served as killing fields for any would-be invader - a chilling thought in the castle’s shadow. While I could not spy any guards from my vantage, the sight alone instilled in me a want to return and enter the castle proper!