"I'm the eldest! I'm a failure!"

“This is my fault!” she muttered. “I have a genius for doing things wrong!" indep. rp blog of sophie hatter of howl's moving castle - movie && book interp. cursed by soar.

[madamhatter]

An semi-selective RP blog for Sophie Hatter of Howl’s Moving Castle. Cursed by Soar.

NAVIGATION* || SHIPPING CALL || VERSES || NSFW SIDEBLOG (18+ only!)

*Navigation leads to googledoc that includes rules, about, a tag list, and more!

CREDITS: 

Icon commission made by Uhay: TWITTER / PIXIV Banner commission made by Anna: TWITTER / TUMBLR / KO-FI

[bugjest]

"no trespassing" "restricted area" "private property" bro im literally curious by nature

[madamhatter]

“Hey, Sophie? What do you think about baking?”

There is no subtle way to go about doing this. White Day chocolates, as he had explained, were a display of love. Platonic or otherwise. And though he oft’ tried to rationalize it, that all she had felt probably lingered somewhere between those things, he knew his ears were far too hot to think his feelings were merely friendly.

But he couldn’t just up and give her the chocolates. It was no different from taunting her with ideas of other worlds, that he... unproudly did a little too often. He knew her, grounded as she may be, to be a restless sort. Always needing something to do. Not so dissimilar to him. But what confined her to this ran much deeper than he could ever know.

Most he could do was lead her into the kitchen, show her a recipe, and cast his gaze to the floor when blurting out, “Can... you help me with these?” And the fine print would indicate it. White Day Chocolate. 

Well it’s like Valentine’s day. But... where I come from, it’s on two days, a month apart. White Day is when the guys usually give something. Or whatever.

Or whatever. And now he’s standing in her kitchen asking her to help him make some, or whatever.  “I want to make some with you.” 

Because they’re for you! Say it, you fool!!!

[ White Day ask :) ]

The call of spring rings. From their slumber, the once-dormant tulips, daffodils, and a myriad of wildflowers sprout from the soil, dappling the Folding Valley. As the sun's warmth reaches down and drapes across the peaks, it revives their once-chilled petals and stems, casting a golden wash over the greening canvas of Ingary's most northern landscape.  

On the outskirts of Market Chipping, lingering snow receding reveals damp and fertile soil, signaling the start of the tilling seasons. Eager farmers, readied with their tools and accompanied by sturdy oxen, begin preparations, envisioning the bountiful harvest ahead. With barn doors flung open, livestock revels in their verdant pastures, basking underneath the sun without worrying about the frost threatening their hooves, webbed feet, or paws.

Market Chipping, too, blossomed in the new season. The once-empty farmer's market was slowly repopulating, with regular faces reopening their stalls. Opened windows invite the fresh spring breeze to waft in, carrying the blooming flowers from the valley. Children, no longer burdened by heavy garments, dash through the streets, their laughter and energy contrasting the measured and scheduled paces of the adults around them. The road was loud with life: some townsfolk leisurely enjoying their day, others bustled to their places of work, and still more jogging to their next endeavor. The diligent carries tools -- paintbrushes, buckets, and the like. For this season, spring cleaning also includes spring refreshing! Storefronts receive fresh coats of paint, and window boxes check and replace the old soil and plants with new colorful blossoms. 

In a home tucked away in Market Chipping, the Hatter's cramped house is also shedding its winter coat. The hearth in the entrance room of the home, burning brightly throughout the earlier months with demands of logs, now only has a milder glow, quieter and less demanding. The heavy drapes were pulled back, streaks of once-rare sunlight pooling into the abode's bedrooms, kitchen, and living space. Even on the small round table that makes up the dining space, freshly picked daffodils are in vases, pale yellow petals swaying ever-so-slightly from a cracked window in the kitchen, the one small window above the sink that overlooks the Hatter's small patio. 

Sophie Hatter, the eldest daughter, is folding a large, heavy quilt that warmed the foyer's couch throughout long and quiet winter nights. When Martha and Lettie were much younger, Sophie, as the eldest sister, took to her sewing needles and worked throughout the rest of the seasons to prepare for the girls shivering and crawling into her bed to get through the frigid nights. As the two got older, the quilt was in the supply closet or folded over the couch's back-support cushions.

Every square of the quilt holds a different story, from a first-failed snowflake, pine trees, frosty leaves, and several simple solid colors, all of which have faded with time. Methodically, Sophie's hands smooth out each section, her index finger tracing the pattern, drawing her lips into her mouth. 

How much time has passed...

"Thank you for your services," Sophie sighs with a soft smile. She folds the last corner of the quilt and holds it over her forearm. 

A gentle voice, filled with hesitation, meets Sophie's ears. Typically, personal inquiries would be met with a slight frown and some reticence on her part. However, today, the pervasive nostalgia averts that reaction.

Riku, the man who hailed and traveled from the stars and from a place she could only dream of visiting, glances towards her. His eyes dart away when he realizes her undivided attention is on him. 

"Ah.." Sophie muses. Inspecting the quilt, she pinches one corner and, with delicate motion, rids of any wrinkles with a quick wrist flick. "Baking is a pastime I've enjoyed since childhood. However," she chuckles softly, "you might be asking the wrong Hatter."

"You might have seen her in Cersari's anytime you've been in town, Mister Riku.--" Speaking obliquely, the eldest sister is reminded of her younger sister's compromising situation. The baking genius is now at the bakery, but she was not assigned to take an apprenticeship there! 

Ah, the convoluted tale of Martha and Lettie switching places remains a secret. Only Sophie is aware of this circumstance and was sworn to secrecy. 

Even Mother has yet to take notice. In complete oblivious bliss. However, when has she seen what her daughters wanted? When has she actually noticed them..? 

"Although," she continues, a warmer genuine smile emerging, her eyes squinting. "Take that not as an indication that I've ceased baking. Any moment I can, I will esteem my siblings." 

As Riku shifts, moving further into the house, Sophie's attention ricochets to him. Setting the quilt aside, she whispers, "Mister Riku," before pursuing after him. 

A man of few words and many actions, his movement was nothing to be ignored! They both quietly weave through and enter the kitchen. 

"If you are parched, you could simply ask for a drink," Sophie remarks with a raised eyebrow. With her hands resting on her hips, she observes Riku rummaging through his pockets.

He carefully flattens the crumpled paper with his black-gloved hands before extending it towards her. Avoiding her gaze, he silently offers it for her perusal. Sophie gently takes a corner, steadying the paper as she scans the written words. 

"White Day," the name lingers on her lips, query implied, as her eyes heavy on the paper. A recent memory surfaces: the woman born far from the ocean yet seemingly carries sea salt in her spirit; the rare individual capable of brightening the often solemn countenance of the key bearer; the one back in Riku's home. 

"Is that what it is?" She murmurs. "On Valentine's Day, one presents something to their beloved. If these days are interconnected, is White Day a kind of 'reciprocating or response day for men who received something on Valentine's Day?" She blinks. "Assuming that you specify 'guys,' as you put it, giving something on this day means that women initiate the gesture on Valentine's Day." 

An uncharacteristically loud inhale from the nostrils comes from Sophie upon hearing Riku's simple request. It felt as 'simple' as turning felt back into its original wool form. It is as straightforward as crafting a tapestry without the aid of a loom. Or as effortless as hand-spinning raw cotton straight from the plant.

How would she prevail in hiding the sharp prickling in her chest? It burns like vile, burning the insides of her throat. She gazes around the vacant kitchen, seeking a semblance of grounding. The burgeoning dread, she swallows it back; it is one incomprehensible from the point of origin, but all at the same time, it feels too intimate.

"Of course, Mister Riku," each word is drawn out. When Sophie's eyes find his cerulean eyes, they are the deepest sea she has ever seen. Sophie's gaze returns to the cerulean eyes, the deepest sea she has ever seen. Perhaps that was the cruel irony: a girl from the Folding Valley, so removed from the sea, could never make it there. Too far, never meant to be.

"I would do anything for you," her voice wavers, barely above a whisper. Her breath hitches, and she quickly adds to recover: "To help you bake the chocolates!" 

Spinning on her heels, she hurriedly rifles through drawers for an apron. "After all, it would be unwise to leave things unanswered, especially with how much you must've received as someone of your...popularity." Yet, beneath her words, there remains that stinging in her throat. A shade of unmistakable green.

[madamhatter]

thief, thief!

"Am I a thief to you?" Although she often shies away from attention, the seamstress has a peculiar knack for being self-involved in affairs that matter not to her. "Never in my life have I stolen—be it physical materials or intellectual property."

What she might be guilty of, albeit reluctantly admitting it, is trespassing! In the eyes of the law and her eyes, there is far bigger difference! Indeed, thievery is a graver crime than merely breaking and entering (according to her)! 

The English woman retorts sharply, "A real red-handed criminal is amidst us!" Narrowed eyes stare down at the accused, the man clothed in saintly robes. A sanctimonious claim! "The man who's stolen hearts is Father Kotomine." 

Father Kotomine might take this as a backhanded compliment in Sophie's long-winded way. After all, wouldn't a thief of hearts need a certain degree of charm and physical irresistibility to them?

[madamhatter]

Character Select! ==> S.H.

picrew credit. stolen from: @fakepriest / tagging: anyone! tag me if you take it.

[madamhatter]

"if I lose it all, slip and fall, will you live for me?" (shirou or archer you chose uwu)

From a prompt reblogged last year! @loyaltyloved

In the darkness there little reluctance for secrets, temptations, sorrows, and all unspoken and unenacted things. The shadows embrace all. No person over the other can be distinguished from her nyx hold. All meld and disappear in the night blackness.

Yet Shirou Emiya forgot that some listen, and the sun comes again after each night.

One such person was the gray observer, Sophie Hatter. Her physique was washed in faint yellow light, barely audible throughout her nightly assessment and cleaning rituals. At the kitchen sink, the running water shushes against all other sounds while her sponge scrubs against dirtied dishes after a satisfying dinner. Brown remains of sweet soy glaze wash off the plates and into the drain. White suds and bubbles join her calloused hands' rigorous and strict motions. Seamless and meticulous, the sponge glides across the rims and works through the center before being rinsed altogether.

Meanwhile, the one who breathed such words was accompanied by low squeaking and gentle tapping. With a white rag in hand and a bowl in another, spray droplets were swiped away. The dishware is angled around, wrist turning and twisting, making a final assessment before it is cast aside on the counter, finished with a muted tap-tap. Six ceramic mugs, six pairs of chopsticks, and three stacked serving bowls are already arranged on the counter. Squaring off the rag after a confirming glance towards the sink, the rag is retired on the table. Collecting the utensils in one hand, he opens the drawer on his left-hand side and stores them away. Again, he takes the towel in his left hand. A hovering dish was in the corner of his eye, and he accepted the latest washed plate with his right hand.  

Domestic armistice: the founding housekeeper and landlord of the Emiya manor and recent inductee in the hall of tenants managed a peaceful night. Instead of the latter giving into her urges to take on chores and duties, incidentally robbing the former of his leisure time, the two joined together. She washes, and he dries and stores.

Conversation between the two tonight is sparse; her eyes flee his gaze, and his cheek turns when she glances, but their bodies are ever-presently aware of one another's.

Against the plate, the rag squeaks slightly, disrupting the otherwise quiet evening. Briefly, earthly irises meet with golden irises.

A standstill. The woman's eyes widen, while the man's eyes remain neutral.

As blatant as the moonlight that spills across the manor, her anticipation is visible before Shirou. Alas, the reasoning behind it eludes him; one of the more significant challenges is understanding what people say about themselves, and Sophie Hatter is among those more incredible enigmas. He himself was no better than her. Perhaps even worse.

Sheepishly, Sophie turns her cheek and squeezes the sponge on her hands, the bubbles filling the gaps between her wet fingers.  

Shirou broke the palpable silence, his voice low and hesitant. "Hatter?" As expected, her face turns toward him again. The softness in his voice made her pause, her hands stilling in the sudsy water. Her eyes are troubled as before, but she is dutifully listening.

She tilted her head slightly, the soft yellow light casting gentle highlights on her face. "Yes?"

Gathering his words, he asks, "If I lose it all, slip, and fall, will you live for me?"

Underneath the stream of water, Sophie's hands grew cold despite the wafts of steam meeting her face. Her breath turns shallow, and her vision blurs. At that moment, she is transported back to the earlier evening.

Convening in the dining space of the Emiya manor, the short-legged table is covered with beautiful cooking from one end to the other. The aroma fills the entire room, and the sight is something to behold. 

The entirety of the household—Saber, Rin, Sakura, Shirou, Sophie, and special guest Taiga—dine and discuss between the bites.

At one point, taking a large sip of her green tea, Taiga leans forward on the table, curiosity evident in her eyes. Shirou's sharp gaze anticipates what will come, especially as the teacher's glance goes to every other young woman at the table.

"Ah, everyone's so close to graduating! What do you see yourselves doing ten years from now?" She asks, drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

Rin raised an eyebrow, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. "That's a rather random question, Fujimura-sensei," she remarked.

Taiga tilts her head. "Just curious."

Saber shared her hopes for a future of peace and camaraderie. Sakura dreamt out loud of her quaint little flower shop. Rin confidently mentioned further honing her magecraft and expanding the Tohsaka legacy. Sophie plainly said she'd still be doing what she was now: hatmaking and seamstressing.

All the attention shifted to Shirou; the sudden draw of attention caused him to be quite taken aback. As he scratches the back of his neck, fiddling with the chopsticks in his other hand, he catches himself in thought.

He responded vaguely: "I just want to be useful." All the women, minus the copper-haired one at the corner of the table, head bowed and still eating, lean forward with interest. "I just hope to do what's right," he elaborates, looking down at his bowl with only a murmur leaving him.

Taiga chuckled. "Always so mysterious, Shirou! Well, it's always interesting to think about the future." The brunette continues the flow of conversation, but her eyes linger a moment longer on Shirou before another domestic debacle starts at the table.

That somber undercurrent draws the foreigner's eyes across the table. What does that mean? She had almost forgotten her manners and was almost urged to press him for clarity. Her nose wrinkles as she looks away, weighing out the obvious.

It would be inappropriate to interrupt dinner. It was far too rude to sour the light-hearted atmosphere of the room.

Instead, she remains silent throughout the rest of the meal.

Returning to the present, Sophie exhales deeply. She draws her lips to her mouth, eyes darting, before a soft "Hm?" leaves her. "What was that, Emiya-san?"

The man, of her exact height, takes a little inhale. Almost frowning at that point. She heard him; he knows she heard him.

Shirou didn't need to read between the lines to know that Sophie was doing her best to evade his question. He tightened his grip on the dish he was drying. His eyes locked onto Sophie's face, seeing her side profile. The typically calm and collected woman was disconcerted. The kitchen light's warm glow only accentuated the atmosphere's tautness.

"Well," he said, his voice firmer but laced with an almost unperceivable tremor. "It's a simple question. But if you need me to repeat it..." He trailed off, letting the words hang between them.

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a long and slow breath and collecting herself. Always attentive and careful with her responses, the hatter always provides the most of what she may in her answers. Unfortunately, the query ahead twists her stomach.

In that lingering wait, Shirou braces himself; the conflict in her is evident by the grounding technique he has seen her use sparingly. Most of the time, it was for nonsense arguments that led nowhere—like two kettles blowing steam at each other—but this was more forced, like she needed to do it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was firm, but something was brewing. "Living for someone isn't the same as supporting them, Emiya-san. We can care, help, and love, but living one's life for another?" She paused, facing him head-on.

"Living for someone," her voice steadily grows with that 'something,' "isn't as simple as it sounds. Are you asking me to take on your life's weight and burdens?"

Shirou's grip on the dish tightened, the ceramic cold beneath his touch. He had yet to realize the depth of what he'd asked. "I just wanted to know if you'd be there," he replied cautiously.

"Being 'there' and 'living for someone' are worlds apart," she shot back, her voice rising slightly. "Every time you speak of the future, it's veiled in uncertainty. It sounds like you're not planning on staying around for long. Is that it, Emiya-san?"

"No, that's not—" Shirou began, but Sophie interrupted him.

"Every time you speak about your future, it's always vague! And now this?" Her voice was becoming more animated, almost filled with a hint of desperation. "What are you not telling me, Emiya?"

Shirou felt cornered. "It's not about not telling you. I just... I don't know," he confessed. "I don't know what's going to happen."

Sophie's breath hitches, and her eyes are now glistening. "That's not an excuse to ask someone to live for you. It's selfish!"

Before he could retort, the sudden creak of the door halted the escalating exchange. Their swelled breaths held into their throats.

The familiar voice of Rin cuts through the tension. Oblivious to the tension, she initially inquires, "Shirou, have you seen—" Yet her eyes dart to Sophie, blinking. "Oh, am I interrupting something?" A slight smirk plays on her lips, although she quickly masks it with a look of innocence.  

An opportune distraction presents itself. Regaining her composure, Sophie immediately responds, "No, Tohasaka-san. I am finishing the dishes." But her voice conveyed otherwise, laden with residual frustration.

Retiring the dishrag, Shirou steps away from the counter and indulges Rin's conversation. A moment of reprieve from the charged situation.

Sophie never looked over her shoulder. The only sounds from her are the occasional dish clanking into another as she continues washing. Every movement is meticulous and deliberate. She wrung out the sponge and placed it by the sink.

Even without a helper, Sophie took matters into her own hands. The woman took the retired rag and dried the dishes herself, placing them on the rack.

While normal conversation brews, Rin makes small talk with Shirou, like discussing tomorrow's chores or the grocery list. The hints of the strained atmosphere reach her, but the culmination of what made this happen was fairly unknown to her.

After placing the last dish on the rack, Sophie turned to face them. "Thank you for the dinner, Emiya-san," she said with a polite nod, her voice neutral. Her eyes darted to Rin. "Tohsaka-san," she added, a soft tone indicating her appreciation.

Then, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Sophie delivered her final words for the night. "It is quite late, so I'll retire for the evening. Goodnight," she said. Without awaiting a reply, she moved gracefully from the kitchen, the door whispering shut behind her.

Rin raised an eyebrow at Shirou, her gaze inquiring, but he merely shook his head. The two stood there momentarily, the weight of the evening's events settling in.

All that was left unsaid spoke more than the words exchanged. It would be a night that neither Shirou nor Sophie would easily forget. 

[deesi-academia]

"i love you on purpose" "its rotten work? not to me, not if its you" "if i loved you less i might be able to talk about it more" "you can say anything and i will not abandon you" "i love you like breathing" "i'll be patient for you" "it's always been you" "i'll take your hand hoping you stain mine" "i dont think we were ever strangers" "you're half of my soul, as the poets say" "i don't love you despite, i love you because"

[madamhatter]

your writing is just the greatest delight <3

Thank you kindly, Anonymous! I've been flighty with my presence on the blog, but I am happy my writing muscle can produce something someone would like!

Thank you again! I hope your day is going well and please have a marvelous weekend.

[madamhatter]

tapping the side of her face with a cream soda, ❝ ah, looks like you needed one.❞

Chilled and dewy glass nestles against Sophie's ached mind, but her body remains unstirring. Not even the hazy look in her eyes snaps away from the bottle's cold touch.

Fingers pinching her sewing needle, her emotions are as sharp as what she possesses. She continues unabated with her fingers deftly guiding its pointed tip.

Threading efficiently and expediently through what would eventually become a shirt sleeve, her body works pristinely, almost like an engine piston. Serving the larger machinery was how Sophie Hatter saw her life day in and day out in the family's hat shop.

Unfortunately, that also meant that her mind submitted to physical labor and ended up in a cage of white noise. Reserving herself to work meant she would rather spare her mind from the utter boredom and mundaneness of the listless routine. It was relaxation and restraint; allowing the yarn ball of thoughts to roll and entangle while working would spell disastrous.

Once more, cool glass nudges against her head. "Oh?" The seamstress murmurs. Slowly, her gaze moves from the shirt sleeve to the source of interruption.

A pontil-shaped bottle, glistening from precipitation, greets her. A hand, clad in a black glove, offers it. Above the hand, a familiar face obscured by perpetual sunglasses waits for a response.

Sophie politely smiles, eyes flitting to the bottle's contents. Her stomach knots, her lips pressed tighter before.

"Thank you kindly, but I can't." The woman nods appreciatively. "I apologize for the inconvenience. Please, enjoy it." Her gaze lingers as she watches his form and rolls the cold needle between her fingers.

"Ah, right…" She blinks once more, returning to the familiar hum of her craft. "I need to get through this order today."

[madamhatter]

Having the chance to confront your father and his mistakes or never knowing about any of them to begin with, living in blissful ignorance?

send  me  this  or  that  questions  for  my  muse  / accepting. make  them  funny,  make  them  personal,  make  them  embarrassing.  anything  that  you  want,  just  make  them  choose!

Inscribed in the catacombs of her chest, unresting and howling, is a heart that should be collected and slow, guarded by the dark hidden alongside secrets. Her marred hand, now fist, presses down against her chest, feeling the erratic drumming almost bursting from its cage. Inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale—she reminds herself the longer her eyes are in horror at the words before her. 

The unraveling of Sophie Hatter comes quickly and discretely in the form of crumbled paper lying flat in her other hand's palm. Exhumed from the hearth of the beyond is the reality of a miserable daughter, a hopeless devotee to the scripture of a deceitful father. 

Loving someone wholly who nearly devastated everything for which you've labored yourself to bone, blood, and muscle—how does one navigate that? Resentment, anger, and being unable to forgive—trust sullied by the reckless actions of a prideful man, too proud to admit his wrongdoings, adored and admired. That is how someone is meant to feel. 

In the farthest depths comes a sliver of a meek voice, lost and young, pleading to one who would not answer: What is wrong with me? A morsel of disdain and anger does not come, as do weeps and misery. Behind the illusion of nostalgia and childhood memories, I see the man who pulled the wool over my eyes, Martha's eyes, Lettie's eyes, and my own mother's. Every smile he wore was a lie, every word was ungenuine, and his love was—what even was his love? Was it love at all?

No matter the knowledge of his misdeeds, Sophie's mind rattles in dissonance and indecision. 

Naive trust and innocent laughter in her childhood mix together a concoction of haze and deflection. The man called "Father" now was once "Papa" to that copper-haired, double-braided trouble-prone girl. She was a child that the seamstress sees occasionally in her stupors into daydreams, where the sun traces through bright blonde highlights while running on the patio and downdandelion-dotted hills. 

In every recollection of that girl with him, the apparent and visible features on his face blur and darken, obscuring his face. Only his eyes and mouth are all that she sees. Every pearly-white grin had eyes that wrinkled too much; every laugh never completely reached his face; and every nonchalant sigh accompanied his remorseful eyes. Every combination contradicts the other. 

For every 'I love you,' did he say it more often because he knew what he had done or to dissuade any person realizing wrongdoings? For every embrace, did he squeeze tighter because of the guilt that festered or to be twice as convincing? 

You almost destroyed our family, which I tried so hard to keep together. The very thing you started was almost ruined by your own selfishness. Everything I held together was breaking at the seams, and I always mended them. Now, I know you're the reason why everything is falling apart now. And you're not even here to see it. 

A sharp, audible exhale breaks Sophie's trance; her eye sockets are sunken and her eyes glaze as she spends this entire time staring at the paper. 

The shop's familiar old groans reach her, almost as sharp as knives, as she winces. Her hand, flat, closes with the folded paper barely crumbling. There was not an ounce of strength of emotion to be found in her grip; she was just meek and helpless. Her eyes flutter as she looks upright, her gaze distant. 

"What a strange query."

"Sebastian Hatter, my father, has never done anything wrong." 

[madamhatter]

"You shouldn't be pushing yourself so much, dearest hatter. Sophie, please, go to bed."

In the cramped confines of her workspace, Sophie Hatter never considers that the existence of darkness counters her loneliness. 

Just as she fills unclaimed spaces with quiet lament, so too do the shadows. They occupy and co-exist between or behind material objects, moving and changing as much as the light did. One key difference is that her subjection to the living world meant her participation with her shadow sewn to her heels. 

Not too human, not too inhuman either. 

Perched on her aged stool, pencil rolling between her thumb and index finger, Sophie retreats into the farthest corner of her bedroom-turned-office. Curtains drawn, merely a sliver of sicky yellow street lights breach in the dark, flitting with the occasional passing car. 

Her bleary eyes affix to the pencil in her hand, the grip intensifying momentarily. Neglected paperwork from the business owner—no, mother, Sophie amends—returns to hours upon hours of poured labor at her desk, concluding to a drained mind. 

Mother has been preoccupied in recent weeks, but as always, I couldn't leave the work undone—whether she expressly requested it or not. Omitting the details of her rationale, the copper-haired woman presses her lips together, forcing lead to the paper. 

The pencil's scratch, pointed and persistent, breaches the silence of the room as though progress and work have come. Yet, the lead burrows deeper, darkening the curvature of a "t" meant to continue an unfinished statement. Overwhelm, override. Amidst the ghastly awareness and the hollowing horror of recognition, she clings to a familiar cure-all: work. Immersing herself in it would numb the creeping, insidious frustration neath her flesh.  Hopefully, that is. No, assures. She corrects herself once more, amid the interplay of paperwork, shadows, and isolation.

The seamstress adjusts her position, her eyes darting between her work and the curtains. A heavy, uncomfortable presence seems to burrow into her, akin to uninvited eyes observing her like a bird in a white-gilded cage. Her shoulders slump, and the pencil lifts from the page. Taking a deep breath, she presses the lead back down. Yet again, an uneasy weight forms at the base of her throat.

Who is there? What is there?  Squeezing the pencil till her knuckles turn ghostly white, she indignantly turns her face, entertaining her irrational imagination. 

Pure yellow retinas, devoid of irises or pupils, fixate on her. The figment of her worries, brought to life in hues blacker and bluer than ink. The creature, seemingly timid, gazes at her, its head canting slightly, unmistakenly worried.

Her red-rimmed eyes blink once, then again, she softly utters, "Mister Shadow?" 

"You shouldn't be pushing yourself so much, dearest hatter. Sophie, please, go to bed."

Sophie's shoulders were tense, barely noticeable, at the eldritch mystery's gentleness. Again, the pencil rolls between her fingers. Raising her eyes, a soft yet unyielding firmness is in her voice: "Mister Shadow, though I appreciate your concern..." Steadily, her tone hints at the weariness of a sharp tongue: "But the work must be done. None of this paperwork can magically finish itself, and every stitch delayed is something closer to breaking." Her gaze flits to the papers. "As you are aware, waiting is not an option for me." 

With a sigh, she leans forward in her chair, her eyes momentarily closing as if seeking a moment of respite. "I have to keep going..." 

Who else will if I don't?

[rosesfox]

I saw someone saying that “I’m tired of meek female characters, who don’t rebel and who are submissive” and I can’t remember examples of protagonists in recent literature, mainly in fantasy, that are not the exact opposite.

in fact there is a very interesting phenomenon where many authors believe that to be strong is to be absolutely rude, impulsive or stupid. most of today’s protagonists, although they have their qualities, are the type of characters who stab anyone, respond to a “good morning” with a “fuck you” and act on impulse because they are “so brave and fierce”. I wonder when exactly people came to accept that as the only kind of strength a female character can have. (don’t get me wrong, I love many of these protagonists myself but I can’t deny that they are readings that irritate me a lot, and make me deeply question the intelligence of these women.)

the few exceptions to this stereotype are treated as weak or submissive or invalid, and these are terms I’ve seen not one, but several people use. I particularly would like the authors to realize that being strong does not necessarily mean that the character has to be a warrior, has to be someone acid, has to fight with everyone for nothing and conquer her space. characters can be strong through kindness, through intelligence and through strategic skill. I would also like the public to stop seeing any character that doesn’t threaten the other with death every 5 seconds as weak.

[madamhatter]

Can you tell us about Sophie's Ai:TSF verse, or perhaps if you're planning something for Paranormasight? :3c

She does have a verse that was talked about a year ago. Information pertaining to that can be found in THIS ASK!

As for Paranormasight, I am not planning anything for that with Sophie. However, I highly encourage anyone who wants to read a mystery/horror VN to please consider reading it! It is very fun and some solutions are quite meta. :)

[madamhatter]

Just hands this printed piece of paper to her without a word

Sophie stares deeply into the white blob on the canvas, its beady black eyes mocking her with mysteries of the universe she doesn't want answered.

"Is a snom without its shell, just a nom...?"

[lastencoregraphics]

Myth and legend merge into a tale of your own. Heroes of ages past silently await your arrival.

[madamhatter]

Smelly mutt gives Sophie her daily dose of affection. He's taller than her, so without any trouble, Sasaki nuzzles into her like a cat, gently head bumping her. ❤️

What a dog! What a dog!

From Sasaki's heavy coat, Sophie Hatter almost coughs up a hairball at the direct proximity of its faux fur collar. His behemoth size dwarfs her small form; his arms envelop her and could conceivably hold four more of her. 

The seamstress huffs indiginously, wordless but visually peeved, as the man is a literal blockade between her and the stovetop. The morrow's traditions of serving breakfast to Sasaki and his plus one and even enjoying a quiet start to the day always meet an interruption. Said interruption is from someone. That someone is invariably the person with whom she tries to help adjust their nocturnal schedule. 

"Have you not at all changed from last night?"  Sophie furrows her brows at the familiar, damp aroma that clings to his garments. Sasaki's whereabouts are as plain as stains on white china plates—far too evident to imagine any other alternative, given his history of vagrancy and preference for outdoor getaways.

As she clicks her tongue, she lets out a harsh 'tck'.  "Where have you even been? When I went to bed, you were on the couch watching television, and you said you would be sleeping shortly." Her mind aches as she pieces together the scenario, and her trust is admittedly the one hurting."Sasaki, are you sneaking out of the flat like you're a teenager, leaving past your curfew?!" Her discomfort prompts her to press her index and middle fingers into the pressure region on the side of her brow.

Sophie takes a long, deep breath in an attempt to find tranquility and avoid starting the day with a commotion. "You," she pats Sasaki's chest incessantly, "change." She tries to peek over his shoulder, standing on her toes. "The eggs are going to burn if you keep holding me hostage in my own kitchen!"  "What's worse, if your clothes stay wet, they'll mold!" The seamstress groans and leans on his shoulderblade. The damp material is visible, as is the humid odor that has clung to his garments. Her hands feebly gripped his shirt, sighing deeply and pressing her full weight against his.

What a tired thing. 

"Please?" Her resolve fades as her genuine nature appears—the the mousy murmured voice that spreads herself too thin for one woman. 

[madamhatter]

The redhead huffs as she offers her arm to the other, multiple lacerations upon the limb no doubt from her fighting to the point of her body was breaking down her for it. "I told you it wasn't pretty but hey I walked out of that better than the other guy." she shrugs. //Sophie meeting Bazett/Manannan for the first time?

As she unwraps the gauze with the current patient on top of the hospital bed at the clinic, Sophie Hatter contemplates how accustomed she has become to the severed flesh and the heavy, salty aroma of blood. Her copper-colored hair is put into a high ponytail with a plain-white smock over her typical outfit of a gray vest, a white button-down shirt, and a maxi-length gray skirt. She adjusts the ends of her nylon gloves, inspecting the first of numerous injuries that will occur throughout the day.

Resilience is one of humanity's most powerful, if not worst, characteristics. Bazett Fraga is only one of thousands of instances. An enforcer from the Mage's Association, she voluntarily hosts the ruler of Emain Ablach, a deity of the sea, and the surviving Tuatha De king after humans, Manannán mac Lir. With each passing development and increase in power for both catalyst and spirit, the lines between human and god become increasingly unclear. 

As Bazett's connection with the deity strengthens, her physical and mental limits are constantly pushed to the brink. The line between her own identity and that of the deity she hosts becomes increasingly blurred, leading to a predictable conclusion: a third, new existence. 

At this moment, as the magneta-haired Irish woman speaks still with deep pink eyes, Sophie assumes she is still in the presence of another human. 

If Manannán mac Lir's vessel expects grimaces and squirms at the sight of her gorged arm and blood, Sophie's stray glance has a profound calm that speaks for itself. Already, the magus has finished sanitizing the wounds by wiping around the cuts with a washcloth and soap and rinsing them off with a new washcloth. 

A prompt "hm" leaves the British woman as she disposes of the cloths. How long will it be before the other beaten-to-a-pulp opponent in question walks through those very doors, needing critical attention? She sighs. Father Kotomine's favorite type of patient.

"If someone did say it was pretty, they wouldn't only be in clinic, that much, I'll say," Sophie rests the arm as flatly as she can. While sitting on a stool, she leans in and squints, accounting for every laceration. "As needed, I must ask: Ms. Fraga, what happened? As a pseudo-servant, and I must stress, the human body still possesses limitations that a deitific spirit cannot pass."