i really wanna write for parshaara again... rest in Piss
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( rabbit. )
a shack, placed indiscriminately of its location, in the middle of damn-it-all nowhere. she had taken the day to explore the area on her own, sticks and rocks finding their way into her footwraps and scratches jagged along her arms from stray branches lining her path. when she spots it, she holds her magical staff at the ready, gripping the steel of it like her life depended on it. and maybe it does, at the moment.
except it doesn’t– as soon as she hears that small, small voice, she slides the staff back into its slot on her back, sighing. a person, lying on the ground, looking groggy and uncomfortable, from … lack of sleep? she closes the door silently behind her, letting the lock click shut.
“ i hate to intrude on your sleep, friend. ” she takes a breath, sinking nails into closed palms. friend. presumptuous much? “ did not think anyone was … here. “
haven’t seen one like this before.
for a moment she sinks back into the pile of hay, before swinging her limbs forward as she stands up all corners and elbows and odd edges. a dead june beetle, a bit of hay, old charcoal is rubbed from a frock that hangs from her shape almost comically as she meets the woman eye to eye.
desmid attempts to hold her gaze briefly, temporarily, but quickly casts her eyes downwards instead --- liquid gray meets baby blue for only a breath. flax in her mother’s garden, mosaiced colors that gave way to liquid afternoons. as soon as she caught her eyes, already her head is turned, gazing somewhere else in the room.
“ are you the inquisitor? the real one? ” a pause. “ one time someone kept saying she was you. i shot her in the stomach. ”
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FIRST THREE IN MY INBOX GET KISSES
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the first thing desmid sees is a faceful of hay. joints crack as she rolls over, dry crinkling when she ends up directly on a stack of papers, all WILD CONCLUSIONS and bay leaf diagrams. she squeezes her eyes shut for only a moment, trying to convince her body to allow her a few scant moments further of sleep to no avail. she is awake, wild eyed, dry eyes already wandering.
the next thing desmid sees is a shadowed shape stepping into the dim building, quiet footsteps on noisy wood. a splitting creak nearly obscures the sound of someone entering. sun slips through the cracks of the door, and suddenly a headache is pressed squarely behind her eyes, imminent and ever present even from where she curls in the hay loft. the glint of sunlight off of wood stings, aches, smarts.
“close the door,” she manages to stammer out, thumb pressed to her brow ridge.
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The Bull could lift me, but he never does. He could lift me and throw me! Just like that!
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There should be more singing. More singing in the Inquisition-- not just the choir or the priestesses or anything. Everyone should sing!
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@mhaoir liked for a starter
“You gonna eat that?”
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Capillary capillary capillary capillary. Capillary. Capillary.
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no money no family there is no way cassandra allegra portia calogera filomena pentaghast is straight in miami
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Where can I buy knitwear? Does the Inquisition have a knitwear vendor? They should.
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ONE IS IN POWER! THE OTHER IS NOT!
ONE OPPRESSES! THE OTHER DOES NOT!
ONE IS A CHOICE! THE OTHER IS NOT!!!! HOLY SHIT
HATING TEMPLARS AND HATING MAGES IS NOT THE SAME ARGHGHHHGH
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HATING TEMPLARS AND HATING MAGES IS NOT THE SAME ARGHGHHHGH
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“Of thinking. Of hearing. Of saying. Doesn’t it get to be too much?”
"Do you ever get tired? I'unno. I'd be tired."
“Tired of what?”
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