Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱

@woodenvelt

amateur author, professional educator, life-long artist, hobby gardener, she/her 🚫 No AI 🚫 Member of @hookandquillpress.com

176 Folgt1.425 Follower4.430 Posts

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Ist das dein Profil?Übernimm es — dann gehört dir woodenvelt.dirty.social.Profil übernehmen

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· 28d

You should totally watch it! There's only one season out right now, but it is an excellent comp.

A meme with two panels. The left panel is a picture of Mayor Tom Loftis from Widow's Bay, high on mushrooms and clutching a leather planner to his chest. The panel on the left shows the cartoon character Courage the Cowardly Dog looking frightened and holding his paws up to his mouth. The text reads: Someone said that Tom from Widows Bay is the human version of Courage the Cowardly Dog and I haven't recovered yet.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· 28d

Thief of Death is my weird little baby that doesn't fit neatly into any box. BUT I think it has The Mummy's humor and adventure vibes mixed with a cozy found family and a compassionate, handsome guy who talks to the dead like Surreal Estate. #SummerOfStories #Wrencer #WritingPrompt

A two panel scene from the 1999 horror adventure The Mummy. The top panel shows Beni standing on a river bank with horses and people in the background. Beni says, "Hey, O'Connell! It Looks to me like I've got all the horses!" The bottom panel shows O'Connell standing on the opposite river bank with Evie and Jonathan behind him. O'Connell says "Hey, Beni! Looks to me like you're on the wrong side of the river!"

A still image from the tv show Surreal Estate. It shows main character Luke Roman played by actor Tim Rozon wearing a black peacoat and sitting next to a boy in overalls holding a firetruck toy. The child is a ghost and Luke is talking to him, trying to comfort him and help him move on to the afterlife. Words on the image say Handsome guy, dressed in black, helping ghost kids.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· 28d

Spencer and Bruce find an altar to the Gray Lady in the Fain ruins. They probably should have followed Wren's advice to look but not touch. From book 2 of my romantic fantasy wip about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

It all seemed to happen so slowly, Spencer felt as though he was hanging above the floor for an eternity, staring up at the swirls of clouds and stars painted on the slight dome of the ceiling, before the ground rushed up to meet him. He hit with a hard smack that knocked the wind out of his lungs and left him gulping like a fish flipped onto the dock.

“So much for looking, not touching.” Bruce groaned from the ground beside him. Evidently the lash of power had traveled across the entire room. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer wheezed once he could speak again. “I hope I didn’t offend Her somehow.”

“We put flowers on the Lady’s altar at home all the time.” Bruce grunted as sat up and clutched his aching head. “Surely that wouldn’t piss Her off?”

“Well, I wouldn’t think so, but gods and their mysterious ways.” Spencer shrugged. The floor was cold and hard against his back but he wasn’t quite ready to try sitting up yet.

“Oh. Huh.” Bruce muttered cryptically. “Spence… I don’t think you made Her mad. I think maybe you did the opposite.”

“What does that mean?” He groused as he scrabbled upright. Bruce grabbed his arm and helped lever him into a sitting position, then pointed towards the offering shelf. Spencer’s orchid had vanished and a small opening had appeared in the wall behind the bronze bracket. The candlelight glinted against something pale in the dark recess.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 12

The first time Wren met Bruce, it very nearly ended in tragedy. Fortunately, Spencer got there in the nick of time. #SummerOfStories #WritingCommunity #Wrencer #WritingPrompt

Wren stepped back. Top Knot stepped forward, pacing her, and lunged. She threw up her right arm, knocking his hand aside with her dagger hilt and punching him in the gut with her left fist. She felt the brush of hard muscle across her knuckles. No armor, Wren noted, then skittered back another step and dove sideways as the path opened up between the beds. The soldier mirrored her steps and moved along the opposite walkway, placing the lettuce bed between them.
Fine. We’ll play ring-around-the-rosies then. Wren smiled wolfishly at Top Knot as he stalked sideways, matching her pace from across the way. He returned her grin with one of his own, showing off a mouthful of white teeth and a scar across his chin. Then he winked at her and leaped across the lettuce.
He caught Wren’s right wrist, wrenching it upwards to put her off balance while squeezing hard to encourage her to drop the knife. She was forced to let herself be dragged halfway into the vegetable bed just to keep her footing. She aimed a knee at Top Knot’s tender bits, but he turned and caught it on the thigh instead. A flash of white and green ignited in Wren’s peripheral vision.
“No worries, Reggie. I got her,” he called out as he twisted Wren’s arm a little. Some distant part of her mind wondered how one of Davey’s kneebreakers knew Reggie, but it was lost to the dull grind of pain in her shoulder. Knowing she couldn’t outmuscle the oaf, Wren opted for another tactic. She dropped the knife from her right hand and caught the handle with her left, thrusting towards her attacker’s unprotected middle section. Her blade slid into flesh, and Top Knot inhaled a sharp hiss. Wren was about to plunge her knife in deep and drag it sideways, spilling the man’s guts in the middle of the butterhead lettuce, when a hoarse shout stopped her short.
“Wren, no!” The worry in Spencer’s voice touched some deeper part of Wren that overrode her instincts and froze her in place.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 12

Cadimus learns a bit more about Violet over a cup of tea. From my cozy/smutty dragon romance WIP about a dragon and a Wizardess. #SundaySnips #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts

With her eyes shining like sapphires and her honey-colored hair glinting with strands of gold, Violet looked like a treasure sitting in an overstuffed chair by the fire. Dragons were hoarders by nature and though Cadimus’s personal collection tended to run towards written works rather than jewels, he could still appreciate the allure of a shiny bauble resting against a velvet cushion.

“I am afraid I am not familiar with the title, ‘Wizard-at-Large.’ What does it mean?” The dragon asked as he set the tray of tea and biscuits on a cushioned footstool between them.

“Wizardess,” She corrected him.

“Of course, my apologies.”

“Accepted.” Violet smiled warmly at the dragon as she lifted the heavy earthenware mug to her lips with both hands. Regrettably, Cadimus didn’t have any delicate cups to offer her. All his crockery had been fashioned to accommodate his larger, talon-tipped hands.

“Oh, this is very good,” she breathed out in a satisfied sigh, eyes half lidded with pleasure. That was something Cadimus had always enjoyed about human faces, how expressive they were. An arch of a brow, a curve of a lip, a widening of the eyes and you knew very nearly everything they were thinking and feeling. “I have tea in my supplies of course, but it’s just never the same out of a tin cup brewed over a campfire.”

“So, wizardess-at-large? Are you on the lamb for some heinous crime?”

Violet laughed, a soft little chuckle that bubbled up out of her like a sweet mountain spring.

“No, nothing like that. At-large simply means that I am not currently affiliated with any particular scholarly organization or academic institution. A free agent as it were.”

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 12

Welcome to #SundaySnips! A once-a-week prompt game for writers hosted by myself and @hookandquillpress.com No summer gathering is complete without a refreshing beverage. Share a snip featuring a tasty drink. #WritingCommunity #Writingprompt #Writesky #HQpress

A graphic advertising the Sunday Snips hashtag, a weekly blue sky writing community tag. The word for July 12 is drink. Share a snip from your WIP featuring the word of the week. Use #SundaySnips and don't forget to include alt text. Synonyms, vibes, and variations on the word are welcome! Hosted by woodenvelt.bsky.social and Hook and Quill Press. The background is a green grass lawn. There is an image in the bottom left corner of a yellow octopus stuffed animal sitting on top of a charcoal grill wearing a chef’s hat that says Grillbert and holding a spatula and large fork. In the top right corner there is a graphic of mustard and ketchup bottles.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 11

Not exactly bliss, but Wren and Spencer are discussing what a blissful future would look like. This is post-spice. #SummerOfStories #WritingCommunity #Wrencer #WritingPrompt

“Let’s assume for a moment,” Spencer’s fingers traced her jaw, lifting her chin gently until Wren’s eyes met his, “That between the two of us, we can deal with the necromancer, and curses, and square your debts with the Blackboots. Then what?”

Wren opened her mouth, a flippant remark poised on the tip of her tongue, and then closed it again just as quickly. It had been fear mostly, fear of what she couldn't have, keeping her from truly considering what a life with Spencer could be like. Now that he was the frightened one, staring down at Wren with haunted but hopeful eyes, it was suddenly easy to slide a knife into fear’s guts and bury it like an inconvenient witness under the floorboards of her heart.

“It looks an awful lot like this,” she said softly, turning her head to kiss his palm. “Tea by the fire. Comfortable robes and dusty books. Occasional forays into ghost infested ruins.” And because Wren could be herself here, without at least a hint of sarcasm, she added “A minimum of one rooftop chase a month, just to keep things interesting.”

“I can’t follow you to Portsbridge,” he whispered the words against her brow with a faint tremor edging his deep voice. “The Gray Lady isn’t welcome there.”

Ah, there it was. The real burr under his saddle.

“Well, the funny thing about shops is that you can set one up literally anywhere. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Fenholt is lousy with them. People sell practically everything there.” Wren looked up, catching Spencer’s worry clouded eyes with her own and grinned with all the wild abandon she felt thundering in her heart.

“Would you really reorder your whole life,” he asked as a smile tugged the corners of his lips, “just to accommodate me?”

“Remind me again, Spencer,” she snorted, “What have you been doing these past few weeks if not rearranging your whole life on my behalf?”

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 10

Hazel learns Sam's mother has a hip injury that's bothering her. From Herbs and Iron, a cozy romantasy about a witch returning home to reopen her gran's herb shop and reconnect with the blacksmith she left behind. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Herbs&Iron

Laughter rumbled out of the blacksmith, and in that laughter, Hazel spied the boy she knew. It was brief and all the more precious for its brevity, a glimmer of past joys cracking through the dour clouds that hung over River Row now.

“Amma has a pain in her hip,” Sam explained, his smile replaced by a concerned frown. “She uses a cane now, and even a head nurse does far too much standing and walking up and down long halls.”

“Is it from an injury or age-related?”

Hazel stepped over a rolled-up tarpaulin and propped her bucket on the wagon sideboard. A list of potential remedies was already assembling itself in her thoughts.

Mint camphor and ginger for a topical rub, with green tea and fish oil daily– wait, Sam’s mum won’t eat fish… flax seed as a substitute then.

“It’s from an injury.” A dark expression passed over the blacksmith’s face, like the shadow of a hawk gliding over a field mouse, there and gone again. “But it’s an old one that’s gotten worse with age.”

“What did the doctors say?”

Nothing much,” Sam shrugged. “Surgery won’t fix it. They suggested the cane and stretching exercises. They prescribed her one dram of wine in the morning and one at night for the pain.”

“Bloody butchers,” Hazel swore sharply. “They think any problem that can’t be solved by cutting someone open can’t be solved at all. Here.”

Hazel shoved the bucket into Sam’s arms, not waiting to see if he’d take it before she turned and began clambering her way across the crowded wagon. Hazel couldn’t do anything about lives lost or buildings burned. She didn’t know if the scars the Baelmen carved into Raven Cross would ever fade. She hadn’t even been here to bear witness, whisked away to Peltham while the people she was meant to serve, the people Goodwyn witches had served for generations, suffered alone. Those problems were too large, too complicated, and too far in the past for Hazel to repair. But an arthritic hip? That was a problem she knew how to solve.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 9

Who wouldn't want to smooch this guy? 😅

A fake ad made with canva for a men’s cologne called eau d’afterlfie. The name of the cologne is at the top of the image with the slogan the scent of eternity beneath it. The background is a black and white image of graveyard at the base of a mountain.There is a black and white image of a fancy cologne bottle in the corner with the name of the scent eau d’afterlife on the bottle. There is a black and white image of the actor Tom Ellis from the tv show Lucifer beside the cologne bottle. He is meant to represent the original character of Spencer Thorne in the author Samantha Breaux’s book, Thief of Death. He is staring pensively into the distance with his arms crossed. His hair is shoulder length and his has a short beard.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 9

There is smooching. From Thief of Death, a romantic fantasy about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

“Is this about last night?” Spencer made his voice soft, but firm, willing Wren to hear the truth in it. “No one is going to throw you out into the street just because you had a bad moment.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Her laugh was a broken thing, harsh and brittle. “A moment?”
“They buried you alive. It’s not surprising it left a mark.”
“Life has left marks all over me.” She smirked as if her hardships were all a part of some grand joke, but Spencer wasn’t laughing. That smile faded, too, washed away by a frustrated sigh. “I’ve never lost my nerve on a job before.”
“This is more than a job. You are more than some string of successes and failures.” Anger rippled beneath Spencer’s calm surface, not for Wren. For the villains who had convinced her she had to earn every crumb of affection. “You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone here.”
“Maybe I need to prove it to myself.”
“Fair enough.” Spencer knew better than to give her the fight she was looking for. He caught her chin in a delicate grip, tipping her face upwards until he lost himself in her endless umber eyes. “So long as you understand you don’t have to prove it to me.”
Spencer teetered on his low perch as Wren surged forward, capturing his mouth with hungry lips.
Last night she’d been a bundle of nerves, panicked and trembling in his arms. Today she was a conqueror, a queen staking her claim with the hot glide of a tongue and a nip of sharp teeth. Kissing her was like drinking fire and hoping you drowned. He steadied himself with an arm around her waist and a hand cradling her neck. Wren went for the high ground, crawling into his lap and straddling his hips. Her hair fell like a veil around Spencer’s face, trapping him in a world that smelled of jasmine and tasted of honey and cream.
“You keep saying all these things and meaning them,” she growled against his lips. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
“More of the same would be my preference,” Spencer teased, trailing kisses down her throat.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 9

No one in Thief of Death is all that into fashion, but here is a scene where Wren is dressing up because she has been invited to dinner with Spencer's aunts. #SummerOfStories #WritingCommunity #Wrencer #WritingPrompt

“Fuck!”
Wren popped her finger into her mouth, the pinprick coating her tongue with the bloody taste of salt and copper. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she resumed pushing a silver needle through thick blue brocade. “I’m not a family dinner sort of person. And I haven’t done my own tailoring in years.”
But Spencer had asked, his face a mix of hesitant and hopeful beneath that ridiculous hat, and Wren had said yes without hesitation. There was no backing out, now.
She finished the last stitch and knotted the thread. The honed edge of her dagger cut the string as easily as any pair of sewing shears. A few shakes to knock loose stray threads and the brocade vest was ready. Wren buttoned it over a billowy white blouse she’d scavenged from Spencer’s attic.
She’d been pleasantly surprised to learn that the rectory was literally stuffed to the rafters with cast-offs and hand-me-downs donated after funerals. Most of it was moth-eaten rubbish, but there were occasional gems wedged between the layers of accumulated junk and Wren had done her best to liberate something she could stitch into serviceable dinner wear.
Angling the mirror above the washstand, Wren skimmed her hands over the sapphire blue cloth. Her blood sacrifice must have appeased the dark gods of thread and stitching. The darting she’d added to the vest caressed her modest assets like a lover and the altered hem on the brown wool skirt fell beautifully, hitting just below her ankle. Wren twisted the front half of her hair back from her face into a small bun at the crown of her head, pinning it with another attic find, a tortoiseshell comb. She let the rest fall around her shoulders in a cascade of golden-brown waves.
“There. That’s as close as I’m going to get with the supplies at hand.”

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 8

Wren is in a bit of a pickle. She's pretty used to it by now. From book 2 of my romantic fantasy wip about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

The air at the top of the temple was hot and humid, carrying the promise of rain as thunder rumbled in the distance. The breeze barely moved, sitting heavily between the thick pillars that ringed the wide floor, holding up the peaked pyramid roof. By all rights, Wren should have been sweating instead of shivering.

At least it’s a nice view, she told herself, ignoring the bitter little voice in the back of her mind insisting she should enjoy it because it was the last thing she was ever going to see.

The sun was setting in the distance, painting the sky in bloody streaks of red and filling the temple with a lurid, rosy glow. Apart from a Blackboot watching her in the shadow of a pillar, Wren was alone. That is, unless you counted the two dead soldiers she’d knifed in Urbum Viventium. They were strapped to their own boards, flanking her on either side. The Magnus had been inordinately pleased by the idea of using Wren’s own life force, siphoned by Shandavara’s Amulet, to reanimate the men she’d already killed.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 8

Very much this energy.

A snip of a reddit post where someone with the useer name cowboy postbop comments being recommended to stop using em dashes because ChatGPT uses them a lot. The post includes a screenshot from the movie office space where two characters are sitting in a cubicle talking. The caption reads No Way. Why should I change? He's the one who sucks.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 7

Wren stumbles across Spencer's hiding place for the Necromancer's Yoke, the cursed necklace they are working to destroy. From Thief of Death, a romantic fantasy about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

A soft thud sounded on the rug behind her, followed by a muffled jangle. The room was dark still, cut through by a few ribbons of pale light slanting in from outside. Wren glanced down with low expectations. Brother Spencer’s armoire had yet to reveal anything more interesting than a surprisingly posh purple satin robe.
Shining like ivory in a wedge of moonlight, the cylindrical bone case rolled lazily across the floor. Wren could hear the necklace inside tinkling softly with each revolution until it came to rest beside her stocking-covered toes.
The smart thing to do was take it and run. Forget the scriveners and poems and lost Fain cities in favor of putting as much distance as possible between herself and Var Krugan. Maybe she’d find a lava flow on Isla de Fuego and throw the Necromancer’s Yoke in. Spencer would be angry, but he’d also be alive.
Gingerly, Wren lifted the case. It was cold and smooth against her skin, like marble in winter. And there was something else, a buzzing or voices maybe? Something just on the edge of hearing that made her ears ring. Wren worked her jaw like the mountain guides had taught her until something popped. The ringing faded, leaving her hands as cold as ice. Glancing down, Wren stared at her fingers gripping the silver cap on the end of the case like they belonged to someone else. She’d loosened it a quarter turn already.
“The weather’s terrible on Isla De Fuego this time of year anyway.” Wren wrenched the cap closed with a forceful twist and shoved the case back inside the wardrobe. “Middle of hurricane season. With my luck, I’d get blown right off the island.”

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 5

Reminder #SundaySnips friends, alternate meanings and synonyms are welcome. I had to go with vibes myself, using griddle instead of grill. From my WIP about a down on her luck trapper in a world where bottled demons power human machinery. #WritingCommunity #Writingprompt #HQpress #DemonBottle

“What can we get you today, eh?” The vendor waved at a menu full of brightly painted pictures bearing next to no resemblance to the foods they represented. “Everything’s fresh and handmade. Chicken or goat tacaňos, one for six bits or two for eight. For a kiss from a pretty lady, I’ll throw in a tonic water, gratis.”

“No goat,” Millie shuddered. “I ate so much goat in Hellion Hills, it’s a wonder I didn’t sprout a pair of horns.”

“A demon trapper, eh?” The vendor moved two spatulas over the iron griddle in a steady rhythm, sorting strips of chicken and goat into separate, sizzling piles. “Beautiful and brave, Florita.”

Rolling her eyes, Millie dropped eight bits on the counter. “I’ll take two chicken tacaňos with crema and a tonic-water. No kisses, just coin.”

“For you, Florita, anything.” The vendor flashed her another brilliant smile, white teeth dazzling against burnished copper skin. His spatulas flew, portioning meat and rolling it deftly into pale flatbread before dropping it in a vat of sizzling oil. It was hot work. Sweat soaked through the young man’s thin linen shirt making it stick to his muscular chest in interesting ways.

Millie tried to let the pleasant sight distract her from the steady buzz of the demons powering his cart, but it was no good. Sulphur tickled her nose and that feeling she could never quite explain hummed under her skin. She felt two small scorchers, one each for the griddle and the oil vat, and an ice demon keeping the drinks in the chiller cold. There were like pebbles in her boot, persistent irritations poking against something tender.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 5

Welcome to #SundaySnips! A once-a-week prompt game for writers hosted by myself and @hookandquillpress.com This time of year is full of BBQs and backyard gatherings. Grillbert's watching the burgers so you can share a grill related snip. #WritingCommunity #Writingprompt #Writesky #HQpress

A graphic advertising the Sunday Snips hashtag, a weekly blue sky writing community tag. The word for July 5 is grill. Share a snip from your WIP featuring the word of the week. Use #SundaySnips and don't forget to include alt text. Synonyms, vibes, and variations on the word are welcome! Hosted by woodenvelt.bsky.social and Hook and Quill Press. The background is a green grass lawn. There is an image in the bottom left corner of a yellow octopus stuffed animal sitting on top of a charcoal grill wearing a chef’s hat that says Grillbert and holding a spatula and large fork. In the top right corner there is a graphic of mustard and ketchup bottles.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 4

The most epic stuff in Thief of Death is during the final climax, which I'll hold on to for spoilery reasons. But this is a pretty good one. Wren save's Bruce's butt and gets an assist from Spencer's owl. #SummerOfStories #WritingCommunity #WriteSky #WritingPrompt #Wrencer

Wren’s heart thundered in her chest as she ran, pushing her legs to their limit. She already knew working with criminals meant constantly watching your back. Evidently, working with honest folk meant saving them from themselves when they decided to do something stupidly heroic. She eyed the distance to the ladder and knew there was no making it before the first bolt loosed. Especially not with Spencer’s twitchy stiff belching out black flash. The question was, where would a Blackboot with an itchy trigger finger plant their first flag?
“Incoming!” Wren shouted, skidding into place beside Bruce. Stupid men thinking a little armor and a big fucking sword made them invincible. She heard the soft click of the crossbow releasing half a heartbeat before the bolt thudded into her makeshift shield. If she’d been any slower, that bolt would be sticking out of Bruce’s back instead of a barrel lid. Dropping the cracked lid to the ground, she grabbed a handful of Bruce’s tabard and dragged him down to eye level. “I’ll take the archer, you keep the knee-breakers off Spencer’s back.”
Surprise ghosted briefly across the mercenary’s face before he grunted in agreement. Had he expected her to cower in a dark corner somewhere until all the fighting was over? Probably. But Wren didn’t have time to worry about Bruce's opinion of her. She could already hear the soft click-click of the crossbow crank winding back for another go.

Wren ignored the sting of rusty iron biting into her palms as she flew up the ladder. Fear, doubt, pain– none of it was useful now. She stuffed it all down deep and let her focus narrow to a thin filament. It tethered her to the silhouette above, pulling her steadily towards a problem she intended to solve. Wren was so intent, she didn’t notice the owl until it was on top of her. Black wings parted the air above her head as the bird banked sharply, wheeling past her. Wren hooked her arms in the ladder rungs to steady herself.
“Saltbeard’s Balls!”
The colorful curse overhead was followed by a clatter and thud that sounded an awful lot like a crossbow hitting a rooftop. On the owl’s second pass, Wren swore she felt feathers brush her cheek. Still clinging to the ladder, she watched the shadowy raptor glide lower, veering towards the scaffolding on the adjacent building. With a snap of charcoal wings, Strix landed on a crooked railing and let out an ominous hoot.
Feathery bastard. Wren grinned, her lips twisting into a smirk as she pushed herself upwards even faster than before.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 4

Hazel is dreaming and her gran's familiar is leading her towards something important. From #Herbs&Iron a cozy romantic fantasy about a witch coming home to reopen her gran's herb shop and reconnecting with the blacksmith she left behind. #WIPSnips #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts

Tail raised like a crooked flag, Tom padded to the stairs without bothering to see if Hazel followed. The shadows of dreaming distorted the stairwell, turning it into a narrow tunnel that stretched on far longer than it should. Hazel’s every step felt heavy and shifting, like plodding across loose sand, and it was a relief to finally reach the bottom.

Long Tom turned left, stalking confidently into Gran’s workroom. The whole back half of the building was given over to processing plants and distilling remedies, but it was this rounded room, stone walls jutting out like a swollen thumb from the rest of the cob structure, where Gran had spent most of her time. In the waking world, the room was empty of everything except a few dry-rotted shelves and some broken crockery. Here in the dream, it looked just as Hazel remembered it: crowded and cozy, filled with the smell of simmering pots and drying plants and the earthy tang of herb magic saturating every breath.

If Hazel had her druthers, she would have lingered there indefinitely, but Long Tom was on a mission. The cat touched one fluffy paw to a hatch in the floor, and it sprang open, revealing wooden steps leading into a pitch-black hole. Gran had called this her still room, a cellar where more temperature and light-sensitive compounds were distilled. Hazel followed Tom into the darkness, cold creeping further up her skin with every downward step.

There was a light in the darkness. It was the same pale green-gold as Long Tom’s eyes. The color of sunlight shining through tree leaves. The darkness stretched around her again. Cold and clinging, it warped the distances all out of shape until Hazel thought she might spend eternity walking towards the light.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 3

Wren & co sneak out of Fenholt in a way that is very on brand for them. From book 2 of my romantic fantasy wip about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

A heavy thump shook Wren out of her spiraling thoughts. It was followed by the clatter of cobbles shifting to the softer crunch of gravel. Then everything lurched to a stop, crushing Wren’s face even deeper into Spencer’s chest. Why did gods delight in giving her exactly what she wanted at the moment she was least able to enjoy it? The wagonbed sagged as someone climbed in the back. Boots thumped. Wood creaked. Muffled voices rose and fell. Finally the lid of their box slid away, leaving Wren squinting up at the bright blue sky framing a familiar silhouette.

“How’re you holding up, Stabby?” Bruce grinned down at her. The mercenary’s broad smile carved dimples in his cheeks and pulled at the scar on his chin, turning the jagged line white against his light brown skin.

“A damn sight better than the last time I got shoved in a coffin.” Wren took the hand Bruce offered and he tugged her upright, his warrior’s queue wobbling slightly with the motion. Once Wren was steady on her feet, Bruce turned back to Spencer and hoisted his cousin up with the same ease.

“Sorry for the bumps, Brother Spencer.” The driver stood beside the wagon with his hat in hand, turning the straw brim in nervous circles. “My usual passengers ain’t much bothered by a rough ride.”

“No need to fret, Paulie.” Spencer smiled and worry fell away from the driver’s face. “We wanted discretion, not comfort, and you certainly delivered.” He dropped down to the ground, wincing a little as his feet sank in the gravel. Bruce followed, his chain hauberk jingling as he landed.

“Last time?” Molly’s voice buzzed at Wren’s periphery, like a gnat she couldn’t swat. “So getting smuggled out of the city in a funeral wagon is a regular sort of day for you?” The woman was a last minute addition to the group, one of Bruce’s most reliable sergeants. Or so everyone kept saying. Wren’s lips drew thin and tight as she eyed the woman who was, despite Bruce’s repeated reassurances, a stranger.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 2

Spencer and Wren annoy Bruce with their flirting. From book 2 of my romantic fantasy wip about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

“Here’s as good a spot as any,” Wren sighed, flopping down onto the stone steps.

“They’re waiting,” Spencer wheezed, suddenly aware of how hard he was breathing. Letitia watched them from the next landing, glinting scarlet and gold in the sunlight.

“And they can keep waiting,” Wren answered, matter of factly, passing him a canteen. “I’m not going to let you kill yourself climbing a thousand steps just because those old scarecrows don’t remember living people need water and rest.”

“She’s right.” Bruce crouched down beside Wren. “We need to pace ourselves or we won’t be any good when we get… wherever.”

Outvoted and honestly, parched, Spencer sank down between the two of them and dutifully drank his water. Molly passed around dried jerky and a few leftover breakfast flatbreads while they all sagged against the sun warmed stones. When his heart stopped hammering quite so hard against his ribs, Spencer stood back up and dusted off his robes.

“Maybe we should have gotten up earlier,” he sighed, offering Wren a hand to her feet. “Before the sun was up so high.”

“Or maybe we should have slept in even later,” Wren countered with a smirk. “Until after the sun went down a bit?”

“I think if you had your way, we’d never have left the tower at all,” Spencer grinned in return.

“I think if you two don’t knock it off, I’m going to leap right off the side of this bloody pyramid,” Bruce grunted and mounted the next step.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 2

#AwesomeCharacters Readers meet Spencer as he is digging up a corpse in a graveyard. Except, it's not a corpse, it's Wren who's been buried alive by the Blackboots, her former thieving crew, for running off on them 8 years ago. #Wrencer #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts

Swinging the lantern again, Spencer turned his attention back to the corpse. With the thin shroud torn away, it became obvious it wasn’t a corpse at all, but rather an angry woman.
She crouched in the farthest corner of the pit from him, gulping in air like someone who had been slowly suffocating to death, which, in all fairness, Spencer supposed she was. She’d thrown the shroud down at her bare feet, revealing dark canvas pants and a plain jerkin over a black shirt with loose sleeves. A coarse hemp rope trussed her wrists in front of her. More of the same bound her ankles with enough length between them to walk but not run.
Not the usual burial gown.
The woman fixed Spencer with a calculating glare, reminding him of a cornered animal that might snap if he got too close. Tanned skin, dark eyes, and a sharp line to the nose and cheekbones gave her the look of the Islas States, but then, so many different peoples mixed and mingled in Fenholt, appearances hardly denoted anything. The woman’s scowl was softened somewhat by full lips in an oval face and a bedraggled braid glinting chestnut brown in the lamplight. Pretty, or at least she would be if she wasn’t covered in dirt and squatting in a grave.
“So… you’re not dead then, are you?” Spencer asked.
“Of course, I’m not dead! Why would you think that?” She sputtered.
“Because you were in a coffin, under three feet of dirt, with a burial shroud wrapped around you?”
“I can see how that would be misleading.”
Dark eyes raked over him, and Spencer felt the woman making judgments and drawing conclusions. Despite the burn in his legs from crouching so long and the chilly breeze prickling his skin, Spencer did his best to remain still. He had been taught to meet a spirit’s storm with his calm, and he could only hope the advice would serve him equally well in this new situation.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 2

I'm Sam and I primarily write fantasy, usually low fantasy with a romance that's key to the story. I have FAR too many WIPs but mostly I talk about Thief of Death and its sequels. I am an educator by day, working with elementary kids. #SummerOfStories #WritingCommunity #Wrencer #WritingPrompt

A three by three grid advertising the wip book Thief of Death by author S.M. Lawrence. The top row of squares from left to right shows the title in bold print on a turquoise background, a monochromatic map of the city, and a digital sketch of the female main character. The woman has tan skin, a long brown braid, and a slightly mischievous expression. The center row shows from left to right the male main character, a quote from the book, and a black and white photo of an angel statue. The male main character is pale with shoulder length, wavy dark hair and a concerned expression. The bottom row shows from left to right a photo of a graveyard, a digital sketch of a skull with turquoise flames surrounding its head and turquoise pinpricks for eyes, and a photo of several old books and manuscripts.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 2

How could I forget?!

An image from the cartoon King of the Hill showing Bobby Hill yelling That's my purse, I don't know you. The word purse has been crossed out and replaced with the word charagma.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jul 1

Scarf = Shawl Wren's cover gets blown. From Thief of Death, a romantic fantasy about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer

A door chime tinkled ahead and a man staggered into the street, arms full of parcels and eyes everywhere but ahead of him. Wren saw it coming miles away. It was an old game, as familiar as a favorite lullaby, and etched just as deeply into her bones. Some little scrapper, tow-headed and ten years old if he was a day, collided with the man in a shower of brown paper and baubles.
If she had been a proper mark, some sweet young acolyte who said her prayers at bedtime and helped old ladies across the street, Wren would’ve stopped and helped the man. Instead, she hoisted her robes clear of the wreckage and stepped over the half dozen ink pots rolling in circles on the street.
The day I fall for an oopsie daisy is the day I start putting bells on my coin purse and wearing it on a string around my neck.
Wren watched the patterns of the crowd, the bob and swell as it turned around her, and spotted the first scrapper’s accomplice quickly enough. A scrawny girl with a faded green shawl tucked around her narrow shoulders angled sharply around the man scrambling after his dropped goods. Wren gave credit where credit was due; the girl’s change-up was clean, executed with the polished ease of a dancer switching partners mid-whirl.
A bony shoulder dug into Wren’s chest, a little sharper than was necessary, and she dropped her hand to catch at the girl’s wrist. There was nothing in Wren’s borrowed pockets to steal, of course. She’d tucked her valuables so far into her knickers no one was getting at them without dinner and a kiss first. But instead of the expected light touch around her waist, Wren felt a sharp tug at her back– right between her shoulders. The girl tweaked her hood and whirled away onto the next dance partner.
Black wool fell like a curtain around Wren’s shoulders, leaving her head bare in the afternoon sun. Someone had paid Little Miss Green Shawl to snatch her hood off and that someone would be watching from near rather than far.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jun 30

Bonus: My favorite smutty read of the month has been another entry in the Dream Together series by Lyonne Riley. Bred by the Satyrs is a fun why choose with sweet satyrs and a sultry cam girl. While I really enjoy all of Lyonne Riley's work, I enjoy her Trollkin Lovers series the most.

Book cover for Bred by the Satyrs by Lyonne Riley. It shows a curvy red haired woman in pink workout clothes with a yoga mat slung over her shoulder standing in front of a row of gym lockers. She is looking over her shoulder towards the audience. The silhouettes of three satyr heads are in the foreground behind the title, giving the impression of them watching her from a distance.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jun 30

Summer is when I catch up on all the reading I'm too busy to do during the school year, so here's a June Reading Roundup. #ReadingRoundup #Booksky #Writesky #Books Some of my fav reads this month have been 🧵

Book cover for Ilona Andrew's portal fantasy novel This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me. The cover shows a large swooping bird creature that is white with an orange crest on the left and top and a fantasy tower and city on the bottom and right.

Book cover for the fantasy romance Knight's Fire by Juliet Caruso. The cover shows a knight in armor with a fur cloak holding a woman in a purple fantasy dress with long black hair blowing in the wind. They are in a snow storm with snowflakes billowing around them.

Cover for the cozy and humorous fantasy The Demon Overloard's Retirement Plan by M.H. Foster. The cover is turquose with a gold filigree border and imps making angry faces in the top corners. There is an image of a goat sitting on a throne in the center of the cover.

Book cover for the cozy fantasy Brigands and Breadknives by Travis Baldree. The cover shows a fantasy scene of an adventuring party camping at night with a pine forest and mountains in the background. A goblin girl with a chicken on her head and an oversized patchwork coat is smiling in front of a campfire with a pot hanging over it. A humanoid mouse wearing a red cloak is sitting on the end of a wagon writing on some papers to the left of the fire. To the right of the fire a tall elven woman with short white hair is holding a sword. A large horse is standing beside the elf and behind the wagon.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jun 30

Guess what? @charliedeltawrites.bsky.social isn't the only one who gets cute animal visitors. I have a baby possum napping in a half empty bag of garden dirt on my porch.

A close up photo of a crinkled bag of garden dirt beside a basket. Within the folds of the bag you can see the face of a small possum with a pink nose, whiskers, black eyes and gray fur. The possum's face has been circle with a red marker to make it more visible.

A close up photo of a crinkled bag of garden dirt beside a basket. Within the folds of the bag you can see the face of a small possum, it's mouth is open in a trademark possum hissing pose.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jun 30

Quote your OC and their favorite food🎣 Funnily enough, Spencer offers her scones with soft cheese and jam (along with tea) during their first proper meeting. #Wrencer #WritingCommunity #OC

A digital drawing of an original character named Wren Bower from the romantic fantasy novel Thief of Death by Samantha Breaux. Art is also by the author. The drawing is of a woman in fantasy garb with long brown hair in a braid over her shoulder and brown eyes looking off to the side. Her skin is tan, she is wearing a black cowl, a white shirt, and a blue vest.

A photograph of scones on a plate, split in half and spread with strawberry jam and a bit of cream cheese.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jun 29

A photograph of senator Bernie Sanders in a coat on a snowy street. The caption reads I am once again asking Bluesky for an edit button.

Samantha Breaux 🌻🌱@woodenvelt· Jun 29

Wren has yet another brush with Murphy's Law. From book 2 of my romantic fantasy wip about a priest of the dead and a thief with a heart of gold. #WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity #Wrencer