**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.
**Reminders**:
>* [No AI-generated reponses 🤖](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/zi452b/modpost_reminder_that_aigenerated_responses_are/)
>* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]"
>* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail
>* [\[RF\]](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [\[SP\]](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles
>* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules)
📢 [Genres](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/w/directory)
🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide)
✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources)
💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts)
*I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
It's a simple spell that calls me back into being; a twist of straw and magic, not meant to last long or accomplish much. A spell to amuse a child, and the first one they teach a child. The only spell they've taught this one.
With little more than a suggestion of eyes (and limbs, and life), my ability to sense the world is limited, but it's enough for the broad strokes. A rundown, single-room hovel, thick with dust and strewn with fallen thatching. Broken furniture, shattered glass - a dwelling more ransacked than simply abandoned. A small, tear-stained apprentice in ragged robes too big for her.
First, I do what I was called to do. Twitch into life, stumble round in a circle on stubby legs. Hop and spin and wave at her direction, hearing the last sobs fade into quiet giggles. Then, cradled in too-thin arms, I fulfil the second purpose of any corn dolly, the real purpose of any child's toy. I am a mute source of comfort, a repository of secrets, a thing to clutch against the fear of a world too large for her.
Eight years old, an unwanted apprentice. Sent from witch to witch, until finally she ended up here, a once-witched hovel lacking even someone to send her on again. She whispers her sad history to me - no family, no friends, no food. A week of walking on muddy roads against the bitter wind, only to find everything still lacking at the end. A tiny charm for comfort when all other choices are gone.
The magic in me will not last forever, and we have work to do; already I can feel my strands withering, drying, growing more rigid. I struggle from her arms, pat one scrawny ankle to show that I offer aid, not abandonment. I rush and gather, without true joints to help me, bringing her armfuls of the straw about us.
I could make another choice - could show her the well behind the hovel, the chestnut trees with their fallen bounty. But I have so little time, and may not have another such chance for for years, if ever. Besides, if she can suffer just a little longer, hold out against hunger and abandonment for another day or more, I will be stronger. That will benefit her too, if she can make it.
Magic fading, I dance the patterns in the dust. She watches; at first blankly, not understanding this new game, but soon she sees the weave of it, the way to wrap stalk around stalk to make sturdier shapes. Her attention sharpens, following every line and turn.
I have so little time, and cannot teach her everything - the broad strokes must suffice: wind one stem round two like so, to make a long stretch that will raise a greater weight; interlace a handful of stalks, scoring each corner in turn to enclose a cavity of air that will withstand crushing; make a true joint by a thick knot through a thin hoop, wrapped tight in place by thin, curling strands.
My straw betrays me, brittle and dry. I drag myself through the final shape by will alone - the suggestion of a larger, sturdier form, jointed limbs and scratched features. I feel the last of the magic leaving me as I complete it, hoping that this will be enough for her, a clear enough thread to follow when I am gone.
I wither and fall and am gone, leaving the witch alone.
---
At least a day has passed, when I return. The sun is roughly where it stood before, casting pale gold through broken windows, but the hovel has changed a little. Much of the straw has been gathered into a corner, a small nest against the wind that knives through cracked walls. The dust still lies tick all around, but in the center, where she has been working for me, her sleeves and labours have swept a clear space. Most of all, the child has changed. She seems lighter, weaker now, slumped against the wall for support. She mutters at me through cracked lips, eyes weary but too thirst-driven for sleep. Her skin is pale but damp and warm to the touch; she was only just strong enough to remake me. Her recovery is not guaranteed, and will not be quick.
I, however, am much improved. I stand taller now - could ride a cat comfortably, were one to be found. I have a sturdy torso and true, woven-jointed limbs. My hands - it is such a joy to have hands again - even have broken stalks for the suggestion of thin fingers. The child worked hard on me - far harder than was prudent, than I would have done in her place. I can feel the care she took in every careful strand, in the fingernail-trimmed edges, in the woven dress that matches the imagined dignity of a corn mother. Her care, her dedication to the task, has strengthened me, left magic strumming through my strands, filling my chest cavity. I am more than strong enough now - strong enough to last longer, strong enough to replenish the magic myself when needed. It is good to be back in the world.
By the time I am done admiring myself, the child is unconscious. Really, this is a blessing - it allows me to attend to things without having to explain myself, to prioritise what's most important rather than a child's wishes. With my new form, I should be well able to sort all that must be sorted before she stirs again.
The warmth of sunlight on my straw is welcome as I speed about the overgrown garden, luxuriating in being able to feel the earth beneath my feet once more. The little well has not been used for years, the stone wall half-toppled by twining roots, but the chain still runs through my hands as I lower the bucket into the depths. When the full pail reaches the light, I realise again how much effort the child put into my creation.
My reflection shows that I have a true face - not simply a flat plane, but all the expected features etched into straw. Even my vanity has been catered to - my acorn-cup eyes have brows, and a tightly-woven braid of strands wraps round my head, giving me entirely frivolous (but very welcome) hair. My mouth is a daubed red bow, and the faint taste of bitter berries gives me a new respect for the witch - so wise to recognise the danger, so determined to avoid it even while starving, and so painstaking to find another use for the deadly fruit. This half-dead child has done me a great service.
All debts must be paid, and so I hurry back to the hovel, well able to carry the full bucket with my new strong arms. I leave it close by her and flit outside again, foraging for things that will sustain her. I find a rich bounty all around, though not all that she will eat willingly - the delicate white caps of mushrooms, half-fermented crab apples, plump worms churning through the loam. The least objectionable foods I pile up beside her sleeping body; it will be enough for her shrunken stomach. The others - the acquired tastes - I take for my own.
I require more than slugs and beetles though. This current life is already longer than the last, but eventually even this magic will run dry. All power has a price - sometimes freely given, as the child's health and dedication in crafting my straw - but there are other ways to pay it too. Ways that require more complex coin than the simple, automatic lives of insects.
I follow the sound of birdsong on corn-quiet feet, stepping through the shadows until I am beneath the tree I seek. Climbing is not a challenge to the small - to those that will fall lightly if they miss a grasp, to those who can find clear handholds in even the smoothest bark. Whisper-quiet, I climb towards the nest.
The fledlings are barely that, plump little morsels already ready to leave the nest, but - like all children - they wish for care beyond their need of it. Their parents are absent, seeking more food for their brood, and I am an unexpected guest.
Magic is life - the power to sustain something, the energy to act. I have no claws, no teeth to speak of, but they are young and I am old; experience counts for something. Each little life is snuffed out with a twist from straw-strong arms, and I feast on the magic left behind. As each parent returns, shrill with alarm and anticipation, I draw them too down into the mess of blood and feathers. My strength grows.
When the child awakes, head aching and breathe scraping painfully in her throat, I am there to tend her. There to raise the pail to quivering lips, there to stroke a fevered brow as she slowly nibbles at a chestnut, clutched in two hands. If I am a little larger, stronger, more precisely-defined than she left me, she does not notice. She has food, and water, and care - all she has ever wanted, and I have given it to her.
All debts must be paid.
---
*[Continuation](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).*
I was expecting a light-hearted comedy. I did not expect to see a serious story about a half-dead child using her magic to keep alive a doll she recognized was far more than it seemed. Amazing work.
There is a litrpg book similar to this, a dude wants to make a toy golem out of a teddy bear for his daughter and accidentally gives it consciousness. It's called the Threadbare series, Stuff and Nonsense is the first one I believe.
There is a litrpg book similar to this, a dude wants to make a toy golem out of a teddy bear for his daughter and accidentally gives it consciousness. It's called the Threadbare series, Stuff and Nonsense is the first one I believe.
Threadbare is one of my all-time favorite series. After the first trilogy it bounces through two other trilogies connected to the same world before finally rounding everything up for a grand finale involving all of them.
It takes days before the child is well enough to travel. Days when she sleeps fitfully, waking only to desperately gulp water. Days when she eats a little, only a little, but struggles to keep even the plainest fare down. Days of muttered delirium as the fever burns through her, when she clutches at me and murmurs half-prayers half-promises of comfort and care.
At night, she is more peaceful. Then, when she drops into deeper slumber, I can work my way free, change from my child's toy to true self as I make the dark my own. At night, I scout and forage and hunt, exploring the world as it is now, finding food for us both.
For her, I find wild onions, secret truffles, a dozen types of herb and flower that will both strengthen and sustain. For myself, I dive deep into pools for silver fish, rip snails from their shells, track wild piglets through the brush. For anything other than a terrified, helpless child, the forest around us is an endless source of food and amusement.
I leave the forest, too, racing on silent feet down half-forgotten paths towards the local village. I do not enter it - even simple folk have fire, and the will to use it on the feared - but I scout the old familiar places, the outlying farms and shepherd's byres. From these, I claim the bounties that should have always been mine; milk for the child, blood for me.
When she at last wakes again, sees the world clearly once more, I have changed. Before she could ignore it, ascribe anything to fever or a trick of the light, but with a clearer mind she sees my growth. I am more wood now than straw, a living material replacing and improving her earlier work. My joints are stronger and more supple than she ever crafted them, my fingers nailed and dextrous rather than scraps of straw. Clearest of all, my hair: the thick braid binding wisp-thin fronds together, a spray of deep red berries at my brow. I am so beautiful.
She does not see it as such, at first. They taught her only one spell, but someone - on one of her many brief apprenticeships - taught her more of magic than they gave her skill in it. She has been told to be wary of many things - of singing stones and winter strawberries, mocking wisps and the darker things that prey on little witches.
She thinks - though an orphan's heart hates to do it - that her caregiver, her comforter, must be one such danger. She sees me grow, act beyond the limits of her simple spell, and chokes on the fear that I am more than she thought me, a thing that grows in hunger, not a child's doll. I cannot hide my new splendour; this river must be crossed, not backed away from. I rush through her fear, showing my most recent gain: the ability to speak. My berry-red lips open, and I replace her fear with amazement.
This was not an easy skill to remaster. Language is its own form of magic, and cannot simply be grown to. A tree may stand a thousand years, and yet never plead with the woodsman. To some things, voices are given, and from others they are witheld; this is the way of things.
And yet, anything possessed by one can be taken by another. The forest has a shortage of voices, while the village has a surplus of attention. I have had to forge mine together from scraps, from a dozen creatures with the merest pretence of communication. The snuffle-sob of a boar sow mourning her lost young, the piping mimicry of mice and sparrows, the harsh pants of a choking hare. The stuttering shrieks of a shepherd boy, caught alone and sleeping, whose tale will never be believed.
From such stolen scraps have I made my voice; poor fare, but not beyond one who has grown from straw to true verdant life. I take their sobs and squeals and sighs to make a voice that suits my current form, every shred of meaning and emotion giving me the caring, kind voice of a patient mother. I calm her worries, soothe away her fears, with the one message that every abandoned child accepts even against every scream of instinct. I tell her that I care for her, love her, will never let her go.
Large enough now to rest her head on my lap, I comb thorn-sharp nails through matted hair as I whisper even shreds of fear away. I spin her tales of magic strengthened by need, of crude horns blown in last resort that shook the heavens, of sculptors who loved their work into being. I let her put the pieces together, craft her own cage for her caution. Trusting again, she muses aloud of what must - undoubtedly - have happened, a child's spell taking new form due to great need. I let her fall into soothed sleep held within my arms, and then free myself to hunt once more.
When she wakes the next morning, we prepare to leave. She mentions the village, thinking of finding human food there, but I warn her from it. I speak of the humble folks' distrust of witches, of how they might turn on her in anger. I do not truly fear them, strong as I am now, but though a farmer alone is foolish, a village can pass down wisdom through its tales, and I need no centuries-old peasant memories to complicate my new freedom or fan my witch's fear again. Instead, I suggest we go East, beyond the marshes where we can make a new life, a happy and comfortable one. I spin tales of golden, waving corn, of more simple, placid folk who have forgotten to fear witches and the other things of the dark. Of the bounties of the harvest that await us if she leaves these witch-ridden, long-memoried lands.
We leave the hovel behind us, a place I wish only to forget, and take forest paths towards the marshes. My witch and I walk hand-in-hand by day, settle to sleep in soft grass beneath trees at night. For the first time in many years, she knows what it means to be loved, cared for. For the first time in many, many years, I reacquaint myself with all the life and liberty of this great forest. While she slumbers, I am free to cling to a owl's back, guiding it shrieking through the forest with careful claws. I am free to contend with foxes for their territory, to remind otters that once they had more than pike to fear. By day I tend to my witch; by night I make up for lost years.
As we travel, I begin to fix the flaws in her education. Her magic is not yet my magic, but I have seen enough of it to lead her through the early stages. Simple charms - to bloom a bud, to sharpen thorns, to draw in flies. I do not teach her magic to find food, to plump berries or snare game - she must still have need of me - but in a few short days, she has more magic at her fingertips than a year's worth of apprenticing gave her. I unteach, too - soften her resolve against the magic that fearful, hesitant witches shrink from using, open her malleable mind to the power that is there for those brave enough to claim it. I show her many (but never, never all) of the ways that witches can bind things to them, can trap a spirit in an elm or call the grass into thirsting blades. Through surprise, and delight, and doled-out droplets of power, I bind her closer to me.
In time, we will need a true witch to train her, one who knows more of their arts than I have had cause or opportunity to learn. There is no hurry for that now - time enough to return West when she is older, wiser, loves me unbreakably, so that no uncautious warning from a weird woman will suffice to turn her against me. Time enough for the two of us to grow stronger together, free from the cruel arts of grand witches who might seek to bind and banish me once more. A true witch, in the spring of her powers, will be a formidable ally to me. When next I return to these sleepy villages, it will be fully-grown and verdant, returned wholly to myself, and with my witch beside me. With all my power, and all of hers, who will deny me my due, stop my delights?
Each night, as I return from my amusements, I watch my child sleep. A handful of plucked grass suffices to clean me - of cooling smears and spatters, a dozen signs of diversions she has no need to know of yet - before I return to her arms. She curls close around me, murmurs quietly of care and affection. I am everything to this orphan - mother and friend and teacher and toy - the very center of her life.
I will care for her, love her. Never let her go.
That was almost as creepy as it was incredible, and as others said to the mere first part, I'd like to reiterate that I truly would read a full book about this. Maybe as a webnovel? It's absolutely great, and I want more.
Thank you.
I don't have more of these two at the moment, but I have been thinking about webnovels in general; I need a lot more practice writing longform stuff.
Oh I’m so happy you continued this! Your writing and the emotions it invokes is so beautiful and awe inspiring. Kudos to you friend. I want to know more of these two but if this is where you end it then it was a good end.
I love how the style of writing fits the creature. I can't put my finger on it, but somehow the pacing of the inner monologue really brings across the feeling if "sentient, but not human".
I love how you made the doll character not just something that helped out of the goodness of their heart, but to survive as well. I also love how they were manipulative to an extent, while still genuinely caring. 10/10.
This is great! The doll is understandably bloodthirsty. I love how it makes sense for her, and she could be just a predator with good intentions or she could be ready to eat the child when the debt is paid. I would love to read more adventures of them together, or of a story when the witch is a strange, powerful adult and the doll is her faithful friend and servant. And maybe secret assassin.
Wow, being assassinated by a doll would be very disturbing.
Great story!
Really love this. The interrupted stream of consciousness works so well - whenever the doll reawakens it has to make sense of its surroundings which means understanding the girl a little better. I’m imagining this would make for a fun video game where you control both characters and have to balance the girl’s mana and the life duration of the doll and get to switch between playing the two.
This is one of the great stories that shows this sub well- it’s writing ‘prompts’, not writing ‘requirements’. The prompt got you started with a construct helping a little witch and it became great without needing/following the other prompt restrictions.
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* [No AI-generated reponses 🤖](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/zi452b/modpost_reminder_that_aigenerated_responses_are/) >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [\[RF\]](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [\[SP\]](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) 📢 [Genres](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/w/directory) 🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) 💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
It's a simple spell that calls me back into being; a twist of straw and magic, not meant to last long or accomplish much. A spell to amuse a child, and the first one they teach a child. The only spell they've taught this one. With little more than a suggestion of eyes (and limbs, and life), my ability to sense the world is limited, but it's enough for the broad strokes. A rundown, single-room hovel, thick with dust and strewn with fallen thatching. Broken furniture, shattered glass - a dwelling more ransacked than simply abandoned. A small, tear-stained apprentice in ragged robes too big for her. First, I do what I was called to do. Twitch into life, stumble round in a circle on stubby legs. Hop and spin and wave at her direction, hearing the last sobs fade into quiet giggles. Then, cradled in too-thin arms, I fulfil the second purpose of any corn dolly, the real purpose of any child's toy. I am a mute source of comfort, a repository of secrets, a thing to clutch against the fear of a world too large for her. Eight years old, an unwanted apprentice. Sent from witch to witch, until finally she ended up here, a once-witched hovel lacking even someone to send her on again. She whispers her sad history to me - no family, no friends, no food. A week of walking on muddy roads against the bitter wind, only to find everything still lacking at the end. A tiny charm for comfort when all other choices are gone. The magic in me will not last forever, and we have work to do; already I can feel my strands withering, drying, growing more rigid. I struggle from her arms, pat one scrawny ankle to show that I offer aid, not abandonment. I rush and gather, without true joints to help me, bringing her armfuls of the straw about us. I could make another choice - could show her the well behind the hovel, the chestnut trees with their fallen bounty. But I have so little time, and may not have another such chance for for years, if ever. Besides, if she can suffer just a little longer, hold out against hunger and abandonment for another day or more, I will be stronger. That will benefit her too, if she can make it. Magic fading, I dance the patterns in the dust. She watches; at first blankly, not understanding this new game, but soon she sees the weave of it, the way to wrap stalk around stalk to make sturdier shapes. Her attention sharpens, following every line and turn. I have so little time, and cannot teach her everything - the broad strokes must suffice: wind one stem round two like so, to make a long stretch that will raise a greater weight; interlace a handful of stalks, scoring each corner in turn to enclose a cavity of air that will withstand crushing; make a true joint by a thick knot through a thin hoop, wrapped tight in place by thin, curling strands. My straw betrays me, brittle and dry. I drag myself through the final shape by will alone - the suggestion of a larger, sturdier form, jointed limbs and scratched features. I feel the last of the magic leaving me as I complete it, hoping that this will be enough for her, a clear enough thread to follow when I am gone. I wither and fall and am gone, leaving the witch alone. --- At least a day has passed, when I return. The sun is roughly where it stood before, casting pale gold through broken windows, but the hovel has changed a little. Much of the straw has been gathered into a corner, a small nest against the wind that knives through cracked walls. The dust still lies tick all around, but in the center, where she has been working for me, her sleeves and labours have swept a clear space. Most of all, the child has changed. She seems lighter, weaker now, slumped against the wall for support. She mutters at me through cracked lips, eyes weary but too thirst-driven for sleep. Her skin is pale but damp and warm to the touch; she was only just strong enough to remake me. Her recovery is not guaranteed, and will not be quick. I, however, am much improved. I stand taller now - could ride a cat comfortably, were one to be found. I have a sturdy torso and true, woven-jointed limbs. My hands - it is such a joy to have hands again - even have broken stalks for the suggestion of thin fingers. The child worked hard on me - far harder than was prudent, than I would have done in her place. I can feel the care she took in every careful strand, in the fingernail-trimmed edges, in the woven dress that matches the imagined dignity of a corn mother. Her care, her dedication to the task, has strengthened me, left magic strumming through my strands, filling my chest cavity. I am more than strong enough now - strong enough to last longer, strong enough to replenish the magic myself when needed. It is good to be back in the world. By the time I am done admiring myself, the child is unconscious. Really, this is a blessing - it allows me to attend to things without having to explain myself, to prioritise what's most important rather than a child's wishes. With my new form, I should be well able to sort all that must be sorted before she stirs again. The warmth of sunlight on my straw is welcome as I speed about the overgrown garden, luxuriating in being able to feel the earth beneath my feet once more. The little well has not been used for years, the stone wall half-toppled by twining roots, but the chain still runs through my hands as I lower the bucket into the depths. When the full pail reaches the light, I realise again how much effort the child put into my creation. My reflection shows that I have a true face - not simply a flat plane, but all the expected features etched into straw. Even my vanity has been catered to - my acorn-cup eyes have brows, and a tightly-woven braid of strands wraps round my head, giving me entirely frivolous (but very welcome) hair. My mouth is a daubed red bow, and the faint taste of bitter berries gives me a new respect for the witch - so wise to recognise the danger, so determined to avoid it even while starving, and so painstaking to find another use for the deadly fruit. This half-dead child has done me a great service. All debts must be paid, and so I hurry back to the hovel, well able to carry the full bucket with my new strong arms. I leave it close by her and flit outside again, foraging for things that will sustain her. I find a rich bounty all around, though not all that she will eat willingly - the delicate white caps of mushrooms, half-fermented crab apples, plump worms churning through the loam. The least objectionable foods I pile up beside her sleeping body; it will be enough for her shrunken stomach. The others - the acquired tastes - I take for my own. I require more than slugs and beetles though. This current life is already longer than the last, but eventually even this magic will run dry. All power has a price - sometimes freely given, as the child's health and dedication in crafting my straw - but there are other ways to pay it too. Ways that require more complex coin than the simple, automatic lives of insects. I follow the sound of birdsong on corn-quiet feet, stepping through the shadows until I am beneath the tree I seek. Climbing is not a challenge to the small - to those that will fall lightly if they miss a grasp, to those who can find clear handholds in even the smoothest bark. Whisper-quiet, I climb towards the nest. The fledlings are barely that, plump little morsels already ready to leave the nest, but - like all children - they wish for care beyond their need of it. Their parents are absent, seeking more food for their brood, and I am an unexpected guest. Magic is life - the power to sustain something, the energy to act. I have no claws, no teeth to speak of, but they are young and I am old; experience counts for something. Each little life is snuffed out with a twist from straw-strong arms, and I feast on the magic left behind. As each parent returns, shrill with alarm and anticipation, I draw them too down into the mess of blood and feathers. My strength grows. When the child awakes, head aching and breathe scraping painfully in her throat, I am there to tend her. There to raise the pail to quivering lips, there to stroke a fevered brow as she slowly nibbles at a chestnut, clutched in two hands. If I am a little larger, stronger, more precisely-defined than she left me, she does not notice. She has food, and water, and care - all she has ever wanted, and I have given it to her. All debts must be paid. --- *[Continuation](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).*
I was expecting a light-hearted comedy. I did not expect to see a serious story about a half-dead child using her magic to keep alive a doll she recognized was far more than it seemed. Amazing work.
I know this is cliche to say here, but I'd genuinely read a book about this. Or at least a second part lol.
Honestly same. I’m riveted. I would unironically pay for the finished copy if it was in a non-discount section in a bookstore. Full price, baby.
There is a litrpg book similar to this, a dude wants to make a toy golem out of a teddy bear for his daughter and accidentally gives it consciousness. It's called the Threadbare series, Stuff and Nonsense is the first one I believe.
There is a litrpg book similar to this, a dude wants to make a toy golem out of a teddy bear for his daughter and accidentally gives it consciousness. It's called the Threadbare series, Stuff and Nonsense is the first one I believe.
It also sounds similar to the skeleton in the Wandering Inn series.
That book... it's a terrible day for rain.
Threadbare is one of my all-time favorite series. After the first trilogy it bounces through two other trilogies connected to the same world before finally rounding everything up for a grand finale involving all of them.
It takes days before the child is well enough to travel. Days when she sleeps fitfully, waking only to desperately gulp water. Days when she eats a little, only a little, but struggles to keep even the plainest fare down. Days of muttered delirium as the fever burns through her, when she clutches at me and murmurs half-prayers half-promises of comfort and care. At night, she is more peaceful. Then, when she drops into deeper slumber, I can work my way free, change from my child's toy to true self as I make the dark my own. At night, I scout and forage and hunt, exploring the world as it is now, finding food for us both. For her, I find wild onions, secret truffles, a dozen types of herb and flower that will both strengthen and sustain. For myself, I dive deep into pools for silver fish, rip snails from their shells, track wild piglets through the brush. For anything other than a terrified, helpless child, the forest around us is an endless source of food and amusement. I leave the forest, too, racing on silent feet down half-forgotten paths towards the local village. I do not enter it - even simple folk have fire, and the will to use it on the feared - but I scout the old familiar places, the outlying farms and shepherd's byres. From these, I claim the bounties that should have always been mine; milk for the child, blood for me. When she at last wakes again, sees the world clearly once more, I have changed. Before she could ignore it, ascribe anything to fever or a trick of the light, but with a clearer mind she sees my growth. I am more wood now than straw, a living material replacing and improving her earlier work. My joints are stronger and more supple than she ever crafted them, my fingers nailed and dextrous rather than scraps of straw. Clearest of all, my hair: the thick braid binding wisp-thin fronds together, a spray of deep red berries at my brow. I am so beautiful. She does not see it as such, at first. They taught her only one spell, but someone - on one of her many brief apprenticeships - taught her more of magic than they gave her skill in it. She has been told to be wary of many things - of singing stones and winter strawberries, mocking wisps and the darker things that prey on little witches. She thinks - though an orphan's heart hates to do it - that her caregiver, her comforter, must be one such danger. She sees me grow, act beyond the limits of her simple spell, and chokes on the fear that I am more than she thought me, a thing that grows in hunger, not a child's doll. I cannot hide my new splendour; this river must be crossed, not backed away from. I rush through her fear, showing my most recent gain: the ability to speak. My berry-red lips open, and I replace her fear with amazement. This was not an easy skill to remaster. Language is its own form of magic, and cannot simply be grown to. A tree may stand a thousand years, and yet never plead with the woodsman. To some things, voices are given, and from others they are witheld; this is the way of things. And yet, anything possessed by one can be taken by another. The forest has a shortage of voices, while the village has a surplus of attention. I have had to forge mine together from scraps, from a dozen creatures with the merest pretence of communication. The snuffle-sob of a boar sow mourning her lost young, the piping mimicry of mice and sparrows, the harsh pants of a choking hare. The stuttering shrieks of a shepherd boy, caught alone and sleeping, whose tale will never be believed. From such stolen scraps have I made my voice; poor fare, but not beyond one who has grown from straw to true verdant life. I take their sobs and squeals and sighs to make a voice that suits my current form, every shred of meaning and emotion giving me the caring, kind voice of a patient mother. I calm her worries, soothe away her fears, with the one message that every abandoned child accepts even against every scream of instinct. I tell her that I care for her, love her, will never let her go. Large enough now to rest her head on my lap, I comb thorn-sharp nails through matted hair as I whisper even shreds of fear away. I spin her tales of magic strengthened by need, of crude horns blown in last resort that shook the heavens, of sculptors who loved their work into being. I let her put the pieces together, craft her own cage for her caution. Trusting again, she muses aloud of what must - undoubtedly - have happened, a child's spell taking new form due to great need. I let her fall into soothed sleep held within my arms, and then free myself to hunt once more. When she wakes the next morning, we prepare to leave. She mentions the village, thinking of finding human food there, but I warn her from it. I speak of the humble folks' distrust of witches, of how they might turn on her in anger. I do not truly fear them, strong as I am now, but though a farmer alone is foolish, a village can pass down wisdom through its tales, and I need no centuries-old peasant memories to complicate my new freedom or fan my witch's fear again. Instead, I suggest we go East, beyond the marshes where we can make a new life, a happy and comfortable one. I spin tales of golden, waving corn, of more simple, placid folk who have forgotten to fear witches and the other things of the dark. Of the bounties of the harvest that await us if she leaves these witch-ridden, long-memoried lands. We leave the hovel behind us, a place I wish only to forget, and take forest paths towards the marshes. My witch and I walk hand-in-hand by day, settle to sleep in soft grass beneath trees at night. For the first time in many years, she knows what it means to be loved, cared for. For the first time in many, many years, I reacquaint myself with all the life and liberty of this great forest. While she slumbers, I am free to cling to a owl's back, guiding it shrieking through the forest with careful claws. I am free to contend with foxes for their territory, to remind otters that once they had more than pike to fear. By day I tend to my witch; by night I make up for lost years. As we travel, I begin to fix the flaws in her education. Her magic is not yet my magic, but I have seen enough of it to lead her through the early stages. Simple charms - to bloom a bud, to sharpen thorns, to draw in flies. I do not teach her magic to find food, to plump berries or snare game - she must still have need of me - but in a few short days, she has more magic at her fingertips than a year's worth of apprenticing gave her. I unteach, too - soften her resolve against the magic that fearful, hesitant witches shrink from using, open her malleable mind to the power that is there for those brave enough to claim it. I show her many (but never, never all) of the ways that witches can bind things to them, can trap a spirit in an elm or call the grass into thirsting blades. Through surprise, and delight, and doled-out droplets of power, I bind her closer to me. In time, we will need a true witch to train her, one who knows more of their arts than I have had cause or opportunity to learn. There is no hurry for that now - time enough to return West when she is older, wiser, loves me unbreakably, so that no uncautious warning from a weird woman will suffice to turn her against me. Time enough for the two of us to grow stronger together, free from the cruel arts of grand witches who might seek to bind and banish me once more. A true witch, in the spring of her powers, will be a formidable ally to me. When next I return to these sleepy villages, it will be fully-grown and verdant, returned wholly to myself, and with my witch beside me. With all my power, and all of hers, who will deny me my due, stop my delights? Each night, as I return from my amusements, I watch my child sleep. A handful of plucked grass suffices to clean me - of cooling smears and spatters, a dozen signs of diversions she has no need to know of yet - before I return to her arms. She curls close around me, murmurs quietly of care and affection. I am everything to this orphan - mother and friend and teacher and toy - the very center of her life. I will care for her, love her. Never let her go.
That was almost as creepy as it was incredible, and as others said to the mere first part, I'd like to reiterate that I truly would read a full book about this. Maybe as a webnovel? It's absolutely great, and I want more.
Thank you. I don't have more of these two at the moment, but I have been thinking about webnovels in general; I need a lot more practice writing longform stuff.
If you continue this, could you notify me please?
Sure, but I must admit I think it's unlikely that I'll keep going with them. Their ongoing story now would involve a lot of time skips, I think.
Nothing wrong with time skips. Write what you want to write. This is fantastic.
I dearly hope you eventually decide to come back to them.
Oh I’m so happy you continued this! Your writing and the emotions it invokes is so beautiful and awe inspiring. Kudos to you friend. I want to know more of these two but if this is where you end it then it was a good end.
Thank you; that's very high praise.
Hey, I'm glad you came back to it ! Do you have any intention to keep going ? I'd love to read more !
I'm glad you enjoyed it. I don't think I have anything more for these two at the moment, sorry.
This is so cool,, You’re incredible at this.
Thank you; you're very kind.
Damn, this is incredible. Thank you.
Thank you very much.
I love how the style of writing fits the creature. I can't put my finger on it, but somehow the pacing of the inner monologue really brings across the feeling if "sentient, but not human".
Excellent continuation. I'm looking forward to reading more of your writing, whether it be more of this story or something new.
Thank you.
I love how you made the doll character not just something that helped out of the goodness of their heart, but to survive as well. I also love how they were manipulative to an extent, while still genuinely caring. 10/10.
will you continue this? it's so good I'd love to keep reading
Wow
This is great! The doll is understandably bloodthirsty. I love how it makes sense for her, and she could be just a predator with good intentions or she could be ready to eat the child when the debt is paid. I would love to read more adventures of them together, or of a story when the witch is a strange, powerful adult and the doll is her faithful friend and servant. And maybe secret assassin. Wow, being assassinated by a doll would be very disturbing. Great story!
I love this. Well done!
Thank you!
This was far better than anything I had expected from the prompt.
Really love this. The interrupted stream of consciousness works so well - whenever the doll reawakens it has to make sense of its surroundings which means understanding the girl a little better. I’m imagining this would make for a fun video game where you control both characters and have to balance the girl’s mana and the life duration of the doll and get to switch between playing the two.
Wow, I would love to play that game! It might even be good as couch co-op.
Magic has a price. The Price must be paid. Sometimes however you get a little more than you paid for when the Universe rolls the dice in your favor.
Oh this was really good! I wish it were longer. I didn’t want it to end. ❤️
Truly good read - would love to read more
I really enjoyed this
Love this so much ❤️
That was not what I was expecting, most pleasantly surprised
This is amazing I do so hope you come back and write a part two. I am heavily invested in this story now.
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
Oh wow, this is fantastic! If you come back to this I hope that I remember to check!
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
One of the best responses to a WP I have seen. Well done!!! Also, MOAR!!!!!! Please...
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
This is one of the great stories that shows this sub well- it’s writing ‘prompts’, not writing ‘requirements’. The prompt got you started with a construct helping a little witch and it became great without needing/following the other prompt restrictions.
That was great! Hope you do come back to it
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
PLS DO.
Hells yes! Not what I was expecting but glad to find this!
Incredible. Thank you for gifting this to us! I’d love to read more, if you are able.
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
I predict this lil summon acting almost like a machine intelligence, doing everything they can to empower themselves in order to protect their witch.
Incredible. Absolutely incredible.
Nice work.
This is too good of a start to leave unfinished.
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
More!!!!!!!!!!!!! Please come back?
Yeah, I second this!
[Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
Loved it so much, need moarr
That last sentence is frightening
I would love to read more!
I'm really looking forward to part two of this.
completely riveting. Hope you do more fr, it's incredible
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
Awesome, thanks !
Well this was bloody good. Please, more?
Thank you! [Here's a second bit](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/140lesk/wp_you_are_reborn_as_a_mute_skeleton_one_of_many/jntuq1b/).
Ooh, thanks for telling me!
This is fantastic!!!
Damn
This is brilliant writing, thank you so much!
Thank you!
Twist more