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ehlnofay · 9 months

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Summerfest Day 6 - IN BLOOM

The door to the tower room is much too heavy – that’s the next thing Efri needs to try to get them to change. She has to shove her whole weight against it with her shoulder to budge it, which is a dangerous game with her hands full of books and paper and an inkbottle and pen with a chewed nib. She doesn’t drop anything, luckily; but she does bash her ankle on the hefty slab of wood, which is almost as bad.

She doesn’t bother to knock, because why should she – she entered very audibly. Instead she just marches, vaguely irritated, past the entryway – almost slipping on the silky blue rug (honestly, she’ll need to make them remodel the whole place at this rate) – and into the room proper. One of the chests has been moved, she notices at a cursory glance; the Archmage is watching her from the desk, twisted around in his seat, brows knitted. He doesn’t have his hood on, which startles Efri far more than the change in furniture. (She can see his whole face. It’s weird.)

His lips press tightly together inside the little window left by his facial hair. It’s an expression she normally would not be able to see so clearly and does not make it any less weird. But Efri’s not one to be rude – when she remembers to try not to be, at least – so, very politely and with no small effort, she says, “Hi,” and doesn’t mention it.

The Archmage’s lips go even thinner.

“Hello,” he replies slowly. “You didn’t bring your friend.”

Efri shakes her head. Hair tumbles in her face – she cut it just a mite too short when she gave it a trim last week, and now it’s doing all sorts of silly things – and she purses her lips funny-like to blow it away. “Sissel’s talking to one of the teachers,” she informs him. She frowns. “And Kazari’s resting, but you didn’t ask, because you still haven’t met them, because you still haven’t fixed the stairwells.”

(The stairs are too narrow, the turns too tight, and Kazari – taller than Efri standing on four legs and at least twice as long – doesn’t even want to try to climb them for fear of getting stuck.)

(She didn’t want to come up today, anyway; something about being bothersome. But she has wanted to come up before – like two weeks ago, when they had to explain the Saarthal thing, and a week and a half ago, when they had to ask why no-one was telling them why the College doesn’t have books about Saarthal anymore – and besides, it’s the principle of the thing.)

One of the magic lights fizzes and bobs. The Archmage’s eyes flicker away. “We’re not widening the stairwells,” he says, voice dry, hands beginning to fuss with something on the desk.

“Yes,” Efri tells him, “you are. It’s not fair otherwise.”

He tips his head so she can’t see his face. (It might actually be a more comfortable arrangement for both of them.) “These are my rooms. I’m the only one who needs to be able to access them.” A page slips from his hands onto the floor and he mutters something. As he’s bending over in his chair to pick it up he adds, “If you didn’t need anything…”

Efri shifts on her feet, balancing her books as carefully as she can. She says, “I wanted to look at the garden.”

Silently, the Archmage picks up his paper and smooths it with careful attention over the surface of his desk. He doesn’t sigh exasperatedly, but he certainly has the posture of someone who would like to.

“I’ll be quiet,” Efri says. (Because she’s polite. And because she really wants to look at the garden.)

The Archmage, who doesn’t seem to be much concerned with politeness, flaps a hand. Efri takes it as approval, and goes to set herself on the low stone steps by the bed of soil.

(To be fair, he doesn’t have to be polite. He’s the boss. If Efri was in charge she probably wouldn’t be as polite. She still would be when she liked the people, or when she wanted to – but she’d be much less polite to him, because he’s ridiculous.)

The garden is as bright and wonderful as it always is, a strange little pocket of life bowered by cold stone. It looks a bit like a moon set into the slate-grey sky of the flagstones. (A rainbow moon. Incandescent moon. Are there plants on the moons? Almost certainly not, but it would be very cool if so.) Efri sits carefully at the edge, her books and things arrayed around her, pen set over the paper of her word-book and inkbottle uncorked and ready. (She’ll have to make sure not to spill it.)

She takes a good minute, first, just to stare; the Archmage lapses into quiet scribbling, with only the faint scrape of the nib or rustle of the page to remind her that he’s there, while she eyes the odd pointy-tipped flowers, the sprawl of spiky roots, the tasselled mushrooms. She wants to touch it all really badly but the Archmage told her that some of it is poisonous and she doesn’t yet know well enough to know which ones.

But that’s what she’s here to learn, isn’t it? She picks up the heavy book she’d wheedled out of the Arcaeneum. It’s nice, bound in smooth leather, the pages thick and old-smelling. And it’s illustrated. She flips through, the dense words interspersed with printed pictures of plants she doesn’t recognise any better than the ones in the garden. Lumpy fungus, prickly fruits, tangled vines. Finally, there it is – one of the garden plants, the straggly little bush with its toothy yellow flowers, printed in plain ink on the page. Efri checks the picture against the real thing several times, just to make sure they match.

Satisfied on that front, she sets the book down, holding it open to the right page with the heel of one hand, and begins the lengthy process of sounding out the name. “D – R – A –”

It’s not one of the quicker words she’s worked out.

It’s also a bit frustrating. Normally Sissel helps her with these things – she didn’t anticipate it being so much more difficult on her own. Much harder to focus. But she sticks with it, manages the first word (it’s dragons – what dragons have to do with anything, she has no idea) and begins to tackle the second with a determination that disregards the increased sighing and rustling of paper from the desk a ways behind her.

Somewhere in the middle of her heroic effort to parse vowel forms and plosive consonants, the Archmage says, “I can tell you what it is.”

“Shh.” Efri flings up a hand, twisting around in her stone-step seat to glare at him. “I’m learning.”

He is not appropriately impressed by her academic commitment, but at least he shuts up. She turns back around and squints at the word.

After a moment, she adds, “Besides, I already know what it says.” She stabs at it with her finger for emphasis, reaching for a slip of the spare paper she brought to mark the page. “It’s ton-g-you.”

(It might not be, actually. She hasn’t accounted for the E at the end. But those aren’t always there to make sound, Sissel told her – although now that she thinks it might make more sense. It could be said like gooey, which she knows is a word.)

“It’s dragon’s tongue,” the Archmage says, and she hears the legs of his chair scrape against the stone floor.

Efri peers at the printed letters. “Oh.” It’s a stupid way to spell the word, but a lot of words are spelled stupid. She tucks her slip of paper in anyway; as she reaches for her word-book, a hand taps her on the shoulder.

She looks up. The Archmage looks down, eyes red as the snowberries in the garden (she knows those ones), a hand held out, palm up, waiting. When she doesn’t move he gestures, impatient, to the book in her hand. She passes it up.

It’s a good book. Nice paper. She likes the sound it makes as he flicks through. “Urag gro-Shub let you borrow this?” he asks doubtfully.

Efri leans over the paper of her word-book, dipping her splodgy pen in the inkpot. “I wheedled it out of him,” she says, voice bright, and marks down a careful D. “I have to bring it right back, though. And I can’t take it outside.”

“Hm,” the Archmage says. He turns another page.

Ink drips from the pen nib to spot the page. Efri swears under her breath and blots it with her thumb. (It doesn’t help. Now her finger is just black.) Not looking up from her work, she asks, “What’s it say about the dragon flower?” She hopes it’s interesting – its name was far too difficult to decipher for a boring plant.

“Hm,” the Archmage says again, and flips back. Efri manages an impressively neat G. “It’s native to Black Marsh –”

“Ooh. I’ve never been there.” She’s barely even heard of it – knows it’s down south, and warm, and wet, and that’s about it.

The Archmage pauses, continues, “– but it also grows in, among other places, the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch’s Aalto.” Another pause. “It looks like that’s the only place it grows in Skyrim at all. Interesting.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re both wet,” Efri suggests. Swamps and springs are close enough, probably. Her pen goes a bit awry on the T, and she frowns at it. “I mean, so I hear. I’ve never been to Eastmarch either.”

The Archmage hums. “Neither have I,” he says passively. When Efri looks up, she sees him fixed on the page, engrossed, his eyes leaping over the text like jumping fish.

Brow wrinkled, she asks, “Really?” Eastmarch is only a hold over, and he’s a wizard. He’s nominally in charge of the whole College. “I would have thought you would’ve been all over.”

The Archmage glances down at her, head tilting. “Why?” he asks.

Good point. Efri shrugs. “I don’t know. I just feel like wizards go places. Make expeditions. They’ve at least been to the next hold.” All her wizard friends have gone far and wide. It’s what she’d do. It’s what she has done, and plans to continue to do.

Though she supposes it makes sense that the Archmage wouldn’t have gone many places. He barely leaves his tower, let alone Winterhold.

He’s still looking at her. (He does that sometimes – normally he doesn’t even meet her eye, staring at his desk or his book or the walls or his hands, and then every now and again he just looks for ages at a time. It’s weird. She can never tell what he’s thinking.) “I’m not overfond of travel,” he tells her. The skin under his eyes, in the weird look of the lighting from underneath, looks like it’s smudged hollow with ink.

Efri shrugs. She looks back at her page, marks down the best O she can. (The circle turns all wobbly by accident – but oh well, she did her best.) “How do you think they had to change the flowers so they could grow here?” she asks.

(He told her all about it, last time – in so many too-long words she’s mostly forgotten it. But she remembers the gist; the plants that grow in the Archmage’s garden are the descendants of plants collected by Archmages long before, precious few of which naturally grow in weather like Winterhold’s. So the wizards of yore, with some esoteric botanical magic, had altered each plant’s characteristics so it could survive in the relatively controlled – but still chilly – environment of the Archmage’s tower.)

(He’d talked about it more, something about microclimates and innovation and it’s fascinating, really, but by that point she’d just been looking at the shrubs. He stopped talking in the middle of a sentence and didn’t speak for another ten minutes.)

The shadow the Archmage casts over the garden is long and spindly as a wintertime tree. He replies, “I don’t know.”

Efri draws an N, a G, a U.

“I know what had to be done to that one,” he says. Efri looks up and follows his pointing finger.

She squints, asks, “The spiky one?”

“No, underneath. The little mushrooms.”

Efri outlines an E and sets her word-book aside. The mushrooms he points to are flat and pale, tucked under the leaves of a bigger shrub. “What had to be done to them?”

The Archmage wears silver in his beard, she’s just noticing. It flashes when he moves. “Ordinarily, they grow in caves –”

“I met my friend in a cave,” Efri tells him brightly.

He blinks. “Not this sort, I’m assuming,” he says. “They only grow deep underground, and often out of decaying matter.” There’s a pause; then, “Dead things,” he adds, for clarification.

Efri peers at them. “So they had to make them able to grow in the light, out of dirt.” It’s interesting. She’s interested. But the closer she looks –

It just looks familiar, is all. (Old dust and corroded metal and blue, blue, blue.)

The mushrooms grow very low to the ground, broad and wrinkled and papery. She thinks of touching one, to check the texture, but the idea makes her fingers flex, hands gripping hard at her scrunched-up skirt.

“Precisely,” the Archmage says.

Efri clasps her fingers together and jams her hands between her chin and her chest. With some difficulty – it’s hard to talk when she’s using her jaw to pin something – she says, “I think I’ve seen them.”

The Archmage’s feet shift beside her. “They grow very deep underground. I can’t imagine –”

“On the dead man.” Efri’s face is getting all scrunched up. “In Saarthal.”

She doesn’t think she likes the dead-man-mushrooms. She’ll look at something else, next.

The Archmage says, “Ah.”

She scrunches up her face harder, looking over all the bright colours of all the other things in the garden. There is a moment’s silence.

When the Archmage speaks again, his voice is careful. “I doubt it,” he says. “The fungus derives some of its names from its resemblance to withered flesh.”

“Oh.” That actually is very interesting. Efri wriggles her fingers. Maybe it’s like a sort of camouflage – though why a mushroom would need camouflage she has no idea.

And when she thinks about it, her dead man would have been embalmed, so there wouldn’t have been much decay for mushrooms to grow from anyway. She squints at them, the little cluster of shrivelled-looking things. Still doesn’t really want to touch them, but her stomach isn’t lurching like it did when first she made the connection, so it’s fine.

She hears the Archmage’s coat rustling. He says, “Efri?”

Efri glances up at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Have you ever seen a dead man?”

The Archmage’s face creases; he sighs, a quiet exhale. He tilts his head away again so his face is in shadow and holds out her leather-bound book, his body already angling back towards his desk.

Efri looks at it. She says, “You can tell me the other ones, if you want.” He clearly knows his garden well.

She thinks he frowns, though he’s still at that odd angle so it’s hard to see. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

The magelights flash. Efri knows she frowns, then. “No, you’re not,” she points out, because he isn’t. Mirabelle does everything. The Archmage sits around being important.

He twists his head to look at her again, his face all lordly and severe. He does that sometimes, looks down his nose all haughty. Efri’s not sure if he does it on purpose or not, but just to be safe, she tips her head way back so she can look down her own nose back at him. Beside them, the garden shimmers, a rainbow bouquet of plants and textures and smells, a round motley moon set into the cold flagstones of the floor.

The Archmage sighs again (at some point Efri should start counting, make a game of beating the record) and folds his hands, with their heavy book, behind his back. Efri’s eyes crinkle, victorious. “If you look there,” he says, “at the base of the tree trunk, you can see the grapevines…”

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havethetouch · 1 year

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update~

Still alive n kicking my guys, disassembling ikea furniture like it owes me a shitton of money and packing boxes with a vengance.

I am also incredibly pissed off currently but that works fine for me because spite is a good fuel and I have to get shit done so it works in my favour. Don't worry my absolute darling sibling from other parental units helped me through the thick of emotional bs I stumbled into a few days ago so I am doing well in spite of shit which is good because I don't have time for any of that crap anyway.

The 14th is gonna be M-day sponsored by Mama and BroBro and their sick ass big cars and if we employ our generational Tetris skills we might get this show on the road with just one big trip.

And given that the big day is around the corner I am vibrating again with possibility and my inherited need to make home and nest I am so ready to flip off the flat and run for them hills baby~

So yeah big excite around the corner lotsa stuff to remember still like quitting the utilities and have my mail forwarded to catch stragglers ans all that jazz. First thing to assemble after will be my workroom obviously everything else is secondary. My darling aunt gifted me her slim glass cabinets that I will mount to the wall and sort my inkbottles into which already has me giddy mainly because sorting these babies after type and colour is the most carthatic thing ever and I earned myself some carthasis me thinks.

Imma post some pics once I'm done with it, still need to rig up the electricity in the workroom up properly bc right now it has a 50s chandelier going and that is not enough light for a proper workroom especially since I am a nocturnal beast and good light makes the difference when mixing colours and getting the hues right (used to have a real shitty desklamp and had sometimes to go off memory with my tools to get the colours right which is a point of pride but also wasn't fun). Anywaythe workroom will get the all white treatment mostly, white furniture (imma sand down my table and repaint that in white too), mostly white walls to hang my favourite artworks without visual discrations and some turquoise accents. Other side of the workroom gets a bigass rattan circular disk chair I dream of a massive thing with pillows and blankets that I can curl up in like a nest while I do embroidery and I even saw some neat fireplaces that come in white too which will be needed bc the workroom is hit with cold on two fronts as it is the last room on the corner of the house and it gets icy, which mind, is good for my materials like the copics bc it will keep em usable longer but I need the fireplace to warm myself up in winter if I stay too long in there which I will bc I can draw for hours and should not become an icicle while I am at it hah.

Either way plans start to take actual shapes now and it's hella nice. But also lotsa work ahead like I need to retile my bathroom at some point too. The good things about all my renovation projects and plans for breathing new life in some of the furniture is that I can do most stuff by myself bc my dad was a handy man and he taught me a broad spectrum of things you usually call handimens and specialists for. Hope my old man looks down at me fondly from whichever afterlife and laughs his ass off when I start cursing over retiling the bathroom though bc tiles are lil bitches but man I can't wait. I am so excited.

#Touch speaks #Imma DIY this bisch so hard man #Disclaimer: I actually know what I'm doing #Anything furniture that I don't give a second life bc its too broken and old gets the good ol circular chainsaw #i love this thing so much my guys #And ye I am saying it on easter I prolly should have been a carpenter or something maybe imma switch jobs a third time in a few years #Who knows #I don't #But the world is my oyster my guys

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lobitadluna · 2 months

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Dark Made with Dr Ph. Martin’s Ink.

#Dark #drawing #draw #inkbottle #ink #inkdrawing #sketch #sketchbook #painting #art #artwork #mrphmartins

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interlagosed · 1 year

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Can we see your Loewe pieces as a major fashion girly I would love to see. lol

I only have one! I’ve always loved couture/high fashion but it’s been completely unattainable for me and I’ve had a lot of guilt surrounding desiring high fashion pieces. But especially since I’m trying to shop more sustainably (with the goal of no longer shopping fast fashion, and instead second-hand and designer so items have a longer life expectancy), and I have more money of my own, I feel less guilty if I do it in a principled way. So! Here’s my first Loewe piece 🥺

It’s this stunning piece from the Cordoba collection from the 80s. It’s inkbottle green suede and leather. There’s a lot of incredibly intricate work embossed on the leather—some of it has weathered, but imo that just adds to the look. It’s very structured in the typical Loewe way, so this holds its shape almost like a briefcase, but it’s a perfect handbag size. I saw it online and absolutely fell in love. I was trying to convince my mom to get it, she was trying to convince me to get it, but when I put it on……yeah. It was over for me. It’s completely my style.

#hibi answers

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prettylittlelyres · 3 months

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February Excerpts - 3rd February

Violins and Violets - Book One

Chapter Six

I took my violin out to the courtyard, along with a few pieces of paper that I weighted to the garden table with my inkbottle. Letting the dappled shade guide my mind, I started to play a light, lilting piece that I thought Barbara might like to dance to. The melody blossomed reddish-pink like her voice, and I started thinking about the harmonies. There should be some rich, golden notes in the bass, I thought - a cello could play them - with raindrops on leaves making them sparkle in the sunlight… a flute to play their bright notes. And the violin, the sunbeams themselves, dripping down into an orchard.

I'm sharing excerpts of my first two "Violins and Violets" every day in February, at 8am and 8pm GMT. Stay tuned, dear friends!

#writeblr #blog #violins and violets #excerpts #February excerpts #violins and violets series #violins and Violins book 1 #historical fiction #synaesthesia #characters with synaesthesia #autistic characters #sapphic characters #Katharina schmidt #Barbara kirkmann #violins and violets book 1

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luxorspiralnotebook · 3 months

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Parker Ink

Parker Ink holds a distinguished reputation in the world of fine writing instruments, particularly known for its high-quality ink products. With a heritage dating back to 1888, Parker has consistently demonstrated a commitment to precision and excellence in crafting writing tools.

luxor #parkerink #luxorparkerink #parker #ink #inkbottle #parkerinkbottle

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rishi-wisdom · 6 months

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The tale of Ocra the Keeper p.2

in spring and created again in spring.

The table was cluttered with books and notebooks –one of the Keepers’ duties was to carefully note down all the songs they hear and chronicle all the events they experience or even just hear of. No one Ocra knew needed books, people would come and hear her songs and remember them forever passing them down to their descendants, but she knew from Devas there would come time when people would only be able to learn from books.

It was dark inside, and as the last light of the day was leaving the hut, it made everything look blue and soft as if blurred. Ocra fumbled in the dark to make fire, it wasn’t very cold yet, the autumn was still settling in, but the presence of fire always gave her a sense of approval from the Devas. Then lit a candle, sat at the table, took out an inkbottle, a writing stick and opened her notebook. For a moment she paused taking a breath before diving into inspired writing. She loved the process, it was always so immersive and liberating – she felt like a vessel filled with infinite wisdom and beauty seeking to pour it on paper.

Ocra was writing for an hour or so, pausing to find a better word or metaphor for what she felt and perceived during her meditation. Then she extinguished both the candle and the fire and went to bed. Keepers didn’t actually sleep at night. Their body and mind needed rest just for a couple of hours so they plunged in a deep meditative state. They used the time to breathe in synch with mother Bharat and to tune into the flow of life force of the whole planet. The next morning was the first day of autumn. Ocra knew the song of the dying leaves had to be sung today. After the morning rituals she washed her clothing in the Anduna river and hanged it outside the house, changed into a formal Keepers’ dress which was kept in a chest beside her bed, then reached behind her bed for a harp case, took it out and went outside to play in the sun. Ocra closed her eyes and let her innermost feelings lead her fingers to accompany the poem that she wrote yesterday. At first she lightly touched several strings one by one to set the mood of a meditative atmosphere. Then she swiftly ran her fingers over them pulling chords and sequences with regular intervals as if every chord needed to take its breath: breathing out, fading, pausing, breathing in, building up again… Then the gaps began to shorten gradually and the chords weaved into a continuous fabric of music with a melody emerging on top of it. This is when Ocra’s voice entered:

The life is leaving us and death is closing in,

The juice of life cut off - fragile and dry or skin.

We heard so many living fade and die before,

Being full of fear while passing to the other shore,

But we don’t fret regretting neither life nor death

For just external shells are cast with our last breath.

For shapes and forms will die and are already thus

But only we live on and joy lives on in us.

#philosophy #spirituality #lord of the rings #prose #fantasy fiction #writing process #poetry #nature's embrace #nature's beauty

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blookmallow · 9 months

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i have no idea how i arrived at this train of thought but my brain wont let me sleep so somehow i started thinking about… OCs Described As Writing Utensils? i dont know it makes more sense when you read them ok

venus: a quill made from a peacock feather, dipped in gold and coated in diamond dust

dahlia: a fairy’s quill, from a hummingbird feather. it writes in purple and smells like berry wine

mayzie: a candy pen. no, really, it’s Made of candy. it writes in some kind of horrendous sticky red syrup that smells like cherry and oozes everywhere. the eraser is just a marshmallow and does nothing but spread the candy goo around even more. your hand gets covered in sugar and glitter just touching it. everything is sticky. this is a nightmare

celina/cesare: a beautiful two-sided silver pen. the middle is glass with intricate metal filigree around it, so you can see the ink swirling around inside. it never seems to run out. if activated by magic, one side writes of ethereal dreams, and the other, cryptic secrets. whether they are the dreams and secrets of a particular being, or gathered from many, is unknown.

chris: a tablet pen that writes with light instead of ink, and works telepathically- it can only write and erase at the owner’s will. also functions as a regular tablet pen with any device, and doubles as a flashlight

kadri: a bone with an eyeball (from what, you ask? dont ask so many questions.) set in one side and a sharp point at the other that immediately sets any paper on fire if you try to write with it. “why would you have this,” people ask you, “where did you even get this,” they ask, “it’s watching me,” they complain, “i think it wants to hurt me,” “i can hear it whispering when i try to sleep at night,” blah blah blah, they’re all just jealous of your cool evil bone pen. you can sort of scratch words into things if you work at it enough. the letters always seem to start dripping blood whenever you do that, though. weird.

kalidasa: a smooth black stone slab with a beautiful glossy surface your eyes get lost in if you look at it for too long. your thoughts appear in white, smokey letters if you focus your mind on it. sometimes other things appear, too. you shouldn’t worry about those things.

damian: an elegant but dusty quill made from a raven’s feather, with an inkbottle filled with blood laced with arsenic. there was no reason to add the arsenic, but you just have so much arsenic

dreyden: an old, dented pen you’ve had for ages. it still mostly works. you really should replace it, but it’s your favorite. there was a reason you were holding on to it, you’re sure, but you don’t remember why

crow: a rusty jagged piece of metal. you use it to carve your name into things, mostly. you like the horrific metallic screeching sound it makes when you scrape it against stuff. it isn’t really a pen, but you barely know how to write, anyway

laelia: a glitter gel pen with a mutilated barbie head stuck on the end of it. there’s a crack in one side, so it leaks out on your hands, and the sharp broken edge stabs into your skin if you try to write with it. come to think of it, you’re not entirely sure this is ink. it smells like motor oil and sulfur

roach: a soft, moldy crayon. you’re pretty sure crayons aren’t supposed to go bad, much less grow mold, but this one is definitely rotting. it’s dissolving in your hands before you can even write anything. the stains it leaves won’t wash out for weeks, and it leaves your hands itching and inflamed.

sage: an antique wood and brass pen that doesn’t work anymore, but for some reason you’re still holding onto it. it’s not worth enough to sell. there’s a name on it, but its so worn away you can’t read it. you don’t know who it belonged to- you found it half buried on the beach years ago. but somehow, it feels like it matters.

johnny: a busted up paint pen held together with a hello kitty bandaid that leaks everywhere but you keep insisting on keeping it anyway. you’ve had it for like 10 years and it still works somehow. you call it Kevin. kevin is always there for you

clive: an expensive but somehow terrible artist pencil. its extremely thin and the lead breaks every couple minutes and leaves graphite dust everywhere whenever you use it. it doesn’t have an eraser. why do you still have this. you dont even use it for art, you just write grocery lists and the occasional terrible poem. just get a normal pen

malkin: your ex’s favorite pen. you don’t remember if you stole it, or if they left it behind, or maybe you borrowed it, but you didn’t mean to take it, not really, and it’s too late to give it back, but you don’t want to, you hate them, they don’t deserve it, or maybe you keep it because it reminds you of them, or maybe it’s just a nice pen, that’s all, it doesn’t even matter anyway, you could replace it any time, but you won’t just yet, not right now, not yet,

lex: an obnoxious sparkly pen that gets glitter on your hands and everywhere else every time you use it. you left it in your friend’s bed once (dont ask what you were doing there) and he’s still trying to get the glitter out of the sheets. you’ve been using it to write diaries and doodles for years, and it’s finally starting to run out. you use it less and less, every time hoping it still works, and every time it seems to have just enough left. for some reason, the thought of it dying upsets you more than it should.

zack: a zombie pen you found at some off brand halloween store years ago. it used to make zombie groan sounds, but it’s broken now and just makes a horrible high pitched electronic screech instead. you never use it for writing but it is your most favorite pen in the world and everyone hates you for it which makes it your favorite even more than before

#ok i think my brain has satisfied itself im out of ideas for these now #cellophane rose #our eyes of glass #and zack i guess #i know i missed shuri i couldnt think of a good one for her #something something clockwork pen with gears that are always turning #but as for a Thing it would do or magic ability i don’t know

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