Inkwell's personal projects

A hobbled hobbit named Inkwell writes

[hobbledhobbit]

I had a dream where I was in a world of supernaturalish assassins.

A group of them had just finished a small get together and were talking about how to proceed if there was someone they needed to take care of as a group.

They went their ways, one deciding to do a quick run up and down a pier to sober up while they waited for a ride. The rest left them to it. In the back ground you could see a shadow flick near the retreating figure and disappear. a few seconds later the runner was on the ground.

my POV switched to them and their inner monologue.

'Okay, just to the end and back... why am I going down? I can't move my arms to catch me.'

the eyes shift to look, 'I have no arms...' they shift down, 'or legs.'

'Wow were they fast. I still haven't felt it. wait. I can't breathe. Oh...'

The view of the legs now shows the torso, upside down and headless.

'They were VERY fast. Haha. I was already dead. Thanks for the quick release, pal. 10/10 Didn't feel shit. Hope they pay you well.'

They barely heard the screaming start when everything went black. Their friends would find out later, shaken that some were still nearby and didn't notice.

[starlinedsword-deactivated20240]

i feel like people confuse 'railroading' with 'playing a character that is contributing to the collaborative narrative'

like. if you're playing cos. you make a character that fits the genre or defies the genre in an interesting way and that either has a motivation to kill strahd or a way to gain that motivation.

otherwise you're going to be bored and unhappy because why isn't the narrative working for your funny little guy or you're going to be forcing your dm to work overtime to MAKE it fit which is work they shouldn't have to do.

if your dm gives you good information on the game you're playing and what the genre and overall energy of the game is, it is your own goddamn fault if you're not having fun because you didn't meet them halfway and want to engage in the story they want to tell with you

[hobbledhobbit]

Paint and Patience

Another part of the tales of the Institute Green. This one following the Illustrator, Ms. Steam. .

A puff of smoke dissipated after swirling and distorting the stars it hovered in front of.

"Fear is strange. Was there any reason not to have it that you can be certain of?"

"For myself?"

"No, of course not." The pale man made a vague gesture into the building from their spot on the balcony. "Their fear."

He took another deep drag, awaiting her answer.

"All mortals have fear, Mr. Pale. The end always looms like the back cover."

He contemplated, letting his gaze take in the curvy and soft form of his coworker. She liked her candy striper outfit most of all and it let the inviting roundness of her form offer refuge in the form of a vast change in scenery from the black iron and gold speckled dark wood of their world.

"That's what I had figured too. But the fear is on all aspects. They love, there's fear; they succeed, there's fear; they give up...you get the idea."

Ms. Steam gave an amused hum before turning to him fully. "They are yellow. Maybe it's not the fear that gives you pause when dealing with them?"

Ms. Steam took the spent cigarette out of his hand and flicked it over the railing. He had a nasty habit of burning the filter when he was lost in thought. The smell was never pleasant. 

Mr. Pale was slender and ordinary, his overall countenance being somewhat "beige", though his eyes held a sharp intelligence and his tongue a wicked wit. 

Ms. Steam liked talking to the scrivener, he was always agitated over their charges and the conditions in which they were formed. The illustrator had an idea that it may be his only way to show his caring side for anything.

"I believe you're right," he finally said, "I am more enraged by those who live without that...I guess it would be more a concern for the welfare of others than fear…"

"Compassion?"

"Compassion! Yes, thank you. Those that lack compassion for others and make grand swathes of suffering. They hold my ire."

"Had one recently that's got you in this tizzy?"

"No. It'll be later this evening. I would feel bile rising in my throat if I had the capability. I taste the lies and excuses on my tongue and moving through my fingertips to take the last vestiges of their existence to print." 

His voice grew ever darker, as he mimicked typing on his typewriter, his hands looking suddenly more large and sharp, his plain face gaining sharp edges and wider eyes, his teeth sharpening and slowly multiplying.

"Sickening, wretched filth!" He gurgled out.

Ms. Steam shrugged, unbothered. "We are only the record keepers. No need to grow attached."

He cleared his throat and fixed his appearance, brushing his blond hair back and suddenly looking more to his normal human-like form. 

"We aren't machines, Ms. Steam. Every monster we document can feed our own monstrous nature, teach us our own excuses for screwing over other lives."

"What do you suppose we do for it then? Become judges for life forms that are under our care?"

"Teachers. I think the Evil need to be taught a lesson. We should make an example."

Ms. Steam waited for Mr. Pale to continue, but it was obvious from the way his eyes darted around in his head that the idea was still cooking. 

She pat his head and made him look her in the eye.

"When you figure it out, set it up. I'm in thorough need of distraction. But for now, we must tend to our duties."

He gave a small nod and a tight lipped smile. It was no secret that he disliked his job, but he was the best at it.

She took her leave, walking in from the cold of outside to the warm hallway. Her shoes were almost silent upon the hard wood. The reflection of the candy striper outfit was blurred for a moment in the polished floor before it showed Ms. Steam in a plain, floral, flowy dress. She used the key around her neck to unlock her office door and step in. 

The yellow glow of the human soul took a moment to take shape. Young and small.

"Sorry for being late," she smiled, "Are you ready for your portrait?"

The 'studio' was large. The ceiling was high and vaulted, the floor had many different colors and textures that one couldn't tell if it was made of dirt, marble, wood, or any of the other things floors are usually made of. There looked to be all sorts of settings along the long wall. Beaches to mansions, forests to kitchenettes, mountains to dumpsters.

The girl looked to be a little younger than a teenager. Short dark hair and brown eyes, sun-kissed skin and a strong jaw.  She was in night clothes and looked overwhelmed, looking around from her seat on a fainting chair.

Ms. Steam went to her large desk and picked up some materials. She loaded a small tray with chalk pastels and paint. 

"Take your time," she said to the girl, then paused giving her an understanding and patient look. "Tell me what you think is happening. This fear will go away soon, I promise."

"He killed Mom. I went to go hide my little sisters, but I guess he killed me too." She started to cry in earnest. "They're probably so scared. I don't know what to do! There's nothing I can do! I'm dead!" 

She sobbed and screamed her dismay while Ms. Steam set up the easel near a beach setting.

"Angels are supposed to help the innocent!" The girl accused from her seat. She smacked her bare feet against the ground and stomped over to Ms. Steam. "You're supposed to protect us and God's supposed to deliver us from evil!"

"Deliver you where?" Ms. Steam turned to the girl, eyebrow slightly raised. She felt it wouldn't be the best option to tell the girl she wasn't an angel.

The girl's righteous fury was snuffed out by the calm of the question. She looked lost and on the verge of more tears. 

"I-I don't know. If you're good, evil isn't supposed to happen to you." She sniffled, "And you're supposed to get rewarded for being good."

Ms. Steam sat on a stool to look the girl in the eye and wipe her tears with her skirt. 

"I'm sorry, little one. The universe doesn't do good or evil. That's a human thing. Kind or cruel are choices people make."

Ms. Steam offered a hug to the child, who was falling apart again in tears. She accepted the hug, was wrapped in strong arms, and felt light as a cloud.

"The nightmare is over. I know it's scary to not know what comes next. But even your choices mattered so much at the end."

The girl was hiccupping through her sobs, clinging tightly to Ms. Steam. "They're so-s-so little and he's gonna hurt them!"

Ms. Steam rocked her lightly and pet her hair. "I know...what if I brought them here? Would you feel better knowing where they are? They would probably like to know where you are too."

Fear stabbed through the girl and she looked at Ms. Steam. "He killed them too?!"

"Long ago already. They're in my queue."

"What's going to happen?"

"I'm going to paint your picture of what you want to be remembered forever as. You're a good older sister. Brave, just, and with so much love in your heart that your last moments were thinking of nothing but protecting others. Rewards aren't in my job description, but I think that I could work one up for you."

"Holly!" Called two little voices from the fainting couch.

The girl turned and let go of Ms. Steam, running to the two blonde children running towards her in their pajamas. 

"Katie! Kathy!" She called to the twins, hugging them tight to her and hurrying her face in their disheveled blonde curls. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" asked Kathy.

"Why are you sad?" asked Katie.

Before Holly could answer, they both noticed the beach and dragged Holly towards it. 

Holly noticed that they were all in their bathing suits, and the studio had faded away entirely-there was only the beach then. She saw Ms. Steam still standing there, starting to work on the canvas in front of her. She gave Holly a wink before going back to her work.

Holly looked at her sisters who were already splashing in the water and got to playing with them. They built sand castles and played in the water together. The sun didn't bother any of them much, and they felt full and content. 

Ms. Steam stepped back from her work, looking at the picture of Holly pulling her sisters through the water as the little ones kicked up a spray behind them.

The twins looked caught in a moment of trust and fun as Holly tried to teach them to swim.

The studio had phased back to its normal state, the girls now residing as the artwork. Ms.Steam added a single small cloud in the distance as her signature and bowed low at the piece. 

"Thank you for the opportunity," she said.

When she stood back up, the canvas had a frame of glittering gold. She took it and wrapped it in plain brown paper before placing it in an adjacent room for delivery.

Ms. Steam dealt more with children and those that didn't have a command over their language. She found that younger children were more accepting of their fates than older ones. Responsibility and shame hadn't really had a chance to stick in yet and make them second guess everything.

She went about putting away her supplies and let out a sigh. She placed the last brush behind her ear and exited her studio. So long as her things weren’t all in place, the next soul wouldn’t show up. 

The door she approached was labeled “Mr. Slow: Security” on a gold plaque. She knocked and entered, finding the large form of her colleague sitting at his desk, shining his shoes. He looked up boredly, eyes crinkling at the side once he recognized his visitor. 

“Ms. Steam. What an unexpected and fun surprise. What brings you to my office?” His voice was deep and had an edge of threat to it. Unfortunately for Mr. Slow, she had taken the centuries to become immune to his specific charm. 

“Mischief brings me here, Bacchus.  Do you intend on participating or trying to subdue?” She leaned on the doorway, pushing her hair behind an ear. “I do so hate to lose out on the fun because someone had to distract you.”

Mr. Slow sat up and put his hands on his desk. “So long as the mischief isn’t brought to these halls, there’s no reason for us to tussle. I do have a feeling that I will be having to teach Mr. Pale a lesson later today, but that won’t likely interfere.”

This was met with an amused hum. She covered her mouth to feign hiding a smile, “I am starting to think Bartleby likes your teaching method. You boys and your roughhousing.”

Mr. Slow went back to shining his shoes, “I’ve been informed, Ms. Steam. Go back to your room. The day isn’t out yet, no matter how many clients you put in a single frame. Only the frame counts.”

“Pushy,” she teased, straightening herself out. “I’ll see you at the diner afterwards, Mr. Slow.”

The door closed, leaving Mr. Slow alone. He leaned back in his chair and thought about the conversation he had overheard on the balcony during his rounds. Redirecting fear could be a fun way to spend an afternoon.

[hobbledhobbit]

Did a thing, come show some support <3

[hobbledhobbit]

Practice for whatever

[hobbledhobbit]

Making stuff

[sanctuarycolumn]

Alright guys, spread the word. The new proposed Magnus/Shaun ship name unless anyone else has a better idea is #Shagnus

yo @snackuma you and my editor apparently are fans of it so yeah. yeah i’ll roll with it.

[master-of-cosmos]

“shaunus sounds too much like an*s” so we’re going with the british way to say ‘screw’? i accept it

[hobbledhobbit]

Yes. That is exactly why I endorse it. XD

[hobbledhobbit]

An introduction

Hello! I'm Ink. I like to create people, places, and ideas for others to consume. It's been a long time since I've had the confidence to publish anything for the public, usually keeping my drabbles and other such funny business to friends. I want to thank whoever reads my words. Whether you like them, hate them, fact is you gave them some time and I am grateful. I hope to provide more in the near future. All the best, B. Inkwell

[hobbledhobbit]

Scrutiny of the Scrivener

The first thing I ever wrote about the Institute Green. I hope to one day have enough of these for an anthology

When the house is in order, there is order in the house. At least that’s what the idea is.  Was kind of recursive, redundant even. But what was life without the consistent churning of themes and intent.

Choices abound, inaction being one of them. There were no wholly innocent parties when it came to the wrongs of one’s life. That is, if one ascribed to the blame game. But truly, strife can make for interesting stories.

They’re all alone, you see. Each of those specs of consciousness floating on that blue sphere. They can see each other, certainly. Destroy, connect, create with one another, most assuredly. But in the end, when their light flickers and changes to something new, each is completely alone.

The place in which all of those specs end up is very posh. Hardwood, marble, and iron clad. Each is sent through the correct channels in an orderly fashion to record how they viewed their lives.

Seated in slightly uncomfortable leather chairs, they dictate their stories to those that record them. Some would call these recorders angels, but they are yet different types of consciousnesses, they glow a green instead of a yellow.

Dressed sharply was one of these consciousnesses called Mr. Pale. He had, as his name implied, a paleness to him. His suit was a Gainsboro gray, lending nothing to the ashen blonde hair nor the pallor of his skin. Even his eyes looked more beige than hazel.

Across from him, in the slightly squeaking leather chair sat a young and yellow young man. He looked well dressed. Stylish collared blue shirt, paired with bark brown slacks that cut a lovely figure. He had dark hair and eyes, and like all who sat there, looked apprehensive.

Confusedly, he asked, “Where am I?  I was just getting ready for bed,” asked the young man.

Mr. Pale almost sneered, but settled with a quick smile, smoothing out the wrinkle in his rather long nose. “Ah, a surprise then,” he said in a bland manner, “No matter. Shall we get started?”

Shuffling some papers on his desk, Mr. Pale pulled a page out and nodded, setting it into his typewriter.

“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand where I am. Who are you?”

Mr. Pale rummaged in his desk and pulled out a box of cigarettes, Offering one to the man and being rebuffed when he shook his head. He pulled one out for himself and slid it behind his ear, placing the box on the desk next to a clean ashtray.

“You may call me Mr. Pale. Sir, I’m here to take down your life story. Let’s start with the basics. Name and age.”

The man sat up straighter, clearing his throat, “My stage name is Roland Pierce, but the name on my license is Pedro Montoya.”

The clicking of the typewriter was light, Mr. Pale not taking long. “Which would you like to be called by?”

The young man smiled, “I’d like it if you called me Monty. My friends and family do back home.”

Mr. Pale nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t overly fond of getting too friendly with those that sat before him, but he only showed a thoughtfulness as he typed more.

“This is your story. You may state anything you like for the record but I much prefer honesty and candor. I will state that you would prefer that too...Monty.” The name was said with a bit of a low pitch, as if he were trying it out for the first time.

Monty smiled and nodded, “I understand. Where do I begin?”

Mr. Pale stretched his shoulders, “Wherever you think the beginning is.”

Monty nodded and crossed his legs, trying to get a bit more comfortable. “Okay.”

“My childhood was fairly average, school was a little hard for me because of the dyslexia, but I managed to get through to highschool and graduate. Family time was good when it happened, both of my parents-”

Mr. Pale held up a hand to stop him, “I should mention that this is your story. If you are going to mention anyone else, it must be in passing or direct effect on you. No pressuming motives or actions of others without your direct witness… For posterity...Monty.”

His name still sounded foreign in Mr. Pale’s mouth, but Monty nodded in understanding. “Right, okay.”

“My parents were not around much, their absence is why I started to look for attention elsewhere.” Monty raised his eyebrows at Mr. Pale, checking to see if that was alright.

The typist nodded and made a gesture with his hand to say continue.

“Though reading was hard, I started to go to the library to research acting after getting the stage bug from highschool. My town didn’t have a lot of resources for that kind of thing, but they did have some play scripts.

“The papers said there was a community theater offering auditions. I prepared for all those weeks, pestering all my friends and family to read with me and make sure I got everything right. I was tenacious and felt more confident with each read through.”

Monty laughed, wiping his tears from the memory.

“I bombed the audition so bad. I was so nervous that I tripped over my own feet and fell right off the stage onto the director’s daughter, who was the leading lady.” He was interrupted again by a fit of giggles, “I got up and tried to apologize, but threw up right on her face.”

Mr. Pale sat back, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it. Try as he might, he enjoyed when someone found humor in their social gaffs, the giggle fit allowed him to take a few clean hits.

The smell of the smoke was sweet, almost too sweet, but just enough to set a calming atmosphere in the room.

Monty rubbed his cheeks from smiling too much and adjusted in his seat again. “Sorry, I haven’t thought about that in ages.”

“Quite alright,” Mr. Pale said, sliding his blazer off to hang on the back of his chair, placing the cigarette on the ashtray. “Please continue.”

“Oh, I thought that was the end of acting for me. Everywhere I went I heard giggles and heard people fake retching. Couldn’t get a date or a job because I was too embarrassed to even show my face.

“The director’s daughter came to my house and told me that it was okay, but acting was probably not for me. Made me sad and I decided to look into something else as a career.”  Monty smiled knowingly.

“It was hard to get into the programs I wanted in college. Didn’t really have money, but ambition managed to get me out of there with a few broken hearted times and a masters in criminal justice. It was around graduation that I had met the girl who I would eventually marry. We had gone on a few dates, but opportunities drove us different places.

“My opportunities drove me to law enforcement. First a sheriff’s office, then a police officer in a big city, finally landing as an FBI agent. It was a pretty good gig until I got an injury in the field. Guess “female fbi agent made into swiss cheese in standoff” wasn’t a good look.”

Mr. Pale paused and gave a warning look, plucking and taking a drag of the cigarette.

Monty held up his hands, “Alright, alright, you’re right. I’ll keep to just me and not speculate on others’ motives.”

Mr. Pale found himself smirking, “I’d appreciate it. While I love a good narrative, we must keep to protocol.”

“Maybe we’ll gossip and speculate over drinks after we’re done, huh?” Monty offered.

Mr. Pale smiled genuinely, “Maybe.”

Monty wagged a finger, “Careful, Mr. Pale. It looks like we may be friends after this.”

Mr. Pale gave a shrug, “Nothing is certain, Monty.”  The name now sounding more natural.

Monty wiggled in the seat again to find a good position. A lost battle, unfortunately.

“Okay, so I was in pretty bad shape. Physically not okay. But my lady showed up while I was recovering and literally claimed her undying love for me!”

Monty grunted at Mr. Pale’s raised eyebrow, “Her words! Not mine!  ‘My love for you never faltered and should you have died, Beatriz, I would have died with you!’” Monty had stood with the recitation, giving a flourish.

“It was so romantic that I was rendered speechless. Took a full five minutes before I managed to squeak out, ‘Cool. Let’s get married.’” Monty was laughing again, leaning back in the chair.

“That woman, my Reina, could take all my composure and suavity in just a look. I was a bumbling fool and worked my hardest to get back on my feet, missing a few organs or not! I wanted to do everything in my power to get back to work so I could provide for my magical bride. So I could always be worthy to look upon her face and earn all her smiles.”

Mr. Pale stamped out his cigarette and got another behind his ear.  He looked to be in a much better mood than when he had first laid eyes on Mr. Pedro Montoya.

Monty closed his eyes and took a breath, “I eventually was put back on duty, though in another department. Because of my voice, I was set in a unit devised to take down child predators. It was hard to read and report on the sickening habits of fellow humans. It took a lot out of me to pretend over a microphone to really be a child or teenager that wanted that putrid attention.

“It was only two years that I could last before problems really started to show at home. My lady encouraged me to resign and go to therapy.  She went with sometimes. The doc was a bastard at first, making me admit to the feelings I tried to hide to protect Reina from, to protect myself from...It was hard.”

Monty rubbed his face and slicked back his hair, “But because of it I could admit to myself that I was scared for a long time. It let me go through with becoming Pedro fully, not just in the bedroom or at clubs. I could breathe easier with the monsters no longer hidden in my dreams or under my bed.

“I named myself for my father. My family supported me and accepted Reina when we visited. It was there that the funny story of my failed acting career reached my darling wife. With chanting and pressure I acted out the whole audition scene for my family.

“Of course I still remembered it, you don’t religiously do something hundreds of times and forget.”

Monty put a hand over his eyes and smiled, “Reina claimed to be star-stuck and started on a mission to get me into acting. Unfortunately for us, I still had horrific stagefright. But despite my continually diminishing confidence, an opportunity arose.

“Someone in somewhere had heard my rehearsing in the next room, specifically my making fun of a script.  They insisted that I try voice acting. And lo and behold!  Roland Pierce was born.

“I went for several years with pretty consistent gigs, usually playing a lady or a child, but I didn’t mind. Acting was acting and I had made it!

Monty was sitting upright again, thinking of where to go with his story. Mr. Pale took the opportunity to light up again. “Favorite part?” He offered.

“That would be a villainess role. Claw Rissa, from the teen cartoon Sweet Purrfection. Rissa had a large fan following, I was surprised that most villains do.”

“Reina and I liked to answer fanmail and respond. Only very seldom did we get anything awful. Only had to hand a letter to my old colleagues at the FBI once…” Monty thought, “Maybe twice.”

“I never truly felt threatened, all the mail was taken in by several proxies and we weren’t millionaires, so everything was pretty nice. A little lonely when Rei was away on a set, but otherwise very peaceful.”

Monty’s brow furrowed, “She’s away now. I have a surprise waiting for her on the kitchen table. Found a place that does adoptions. Wanted to run it by her before setting an appointment. Would be a good reason to redecorate the reading room.”

Mr. Pale let out a long drag, eyes scanning Monty. He wondered if the human before him realized what had happened yet. He motioned for him to continue.

“I had just done the dishes and was getting set to retire for the night, maybe watch one of her movies while I waited for her goodnight call. The house felt spooky somehow. I’ve never felt like that unless something was amiss.”

Monty closed his eyes and thought, “I remember feeling watched, then there was a crash. Near jumped out of my skin. I grabbed the baseball bat from the bedside and went to the front door. That’s where I had heard it.

“There was a frame on the floor, I accidentally got some glass in my foot and was cursing. The picture was her and me in college. A picture we kept in the office down the ha- the hall… Then there was pain and…”

Monty’s nose was pink and his eyes were starting to puff. He took a breath and covered his face, letting out a sob. Mr. Pale gave him time, offering a tissue. Monty instead used the collar of his shirt to wipe his eyes.

“It’s all gone, huh?” He asked, his voice a little choked.

Mr. Pale shook his head, letting out a drag with a sigh, “No. It’s still all there, Monty. Only you left.”

“Why?”

Mr. Pale shook his head slightly and shrugged, “I don’t have the answers to those questions.” He pinched out his cigarette with his fingers and placed it back behind his ear. “All I can do is ask if you’re satisfied with everything you told me.”

Monty fixed his collar and thought. They sat in silence for a while, Mr. Pale folding his hands on the desk in front of him, tilting his head slightly as he watched the human.

Finally, there was movement. Monty stood and nodded, “I had a pretty happy life, all things considered. I’m satisfied with it. Thank you, Mr. Pale.” He held out a hand to the typist for a shake.

Mr. Pale stood, looking into the light that shone behind Monty’s eyes. He smiled and nodded, shaking his hand.

In the next second, Mr. Pale is alone in his office again. He looked down and grinned, nodding to himself. Stacking all the papers with fresh, golden and glowing ink, he placed the pages neatly in a box.

“It was a pleasure, Monty, my friend.”

The scribe packed the box on a stack of other boxes next to a door labeled “Out” and took a box from a door labeled “In”.

He thought for a few moments, chewing on his bottom lip and shook his head. He opened the box and watched  the next yellow energy flow from it and into the slightly uncomfortable leather chair.