#havenfree

[aurochsent]

kalrin 13

Kalrin 13. Waving Through a Window - From Dear Evan Hansen - Owl City

We start with stars in our eyes We start believing that we belong But every sun doesn't rise And no one tells you where you went wrong

(kalrin pyrhis is a fantroll of @eclecticopposition's)

[eclecticopposition]

fic writer questions 1, 5, 7, 15, 17, 29 wire guy, 37, 47 asbestine infelidel, and 49 of course

oh shit okay let's fucking GO

fic writer asks

1 we have been asked a few times, and answered here. everyone should read merry go merry gone.

5: What do you wish someone would ask you about [insert fic]? Answer it now!

(also answered here)

no questions. look at my ocs boy.

7. Any worldbuilding you’re particularly proud of?

(also answered here)

for wire guy specifically? all of the branched stuff. we gave a canon character five parents. we think that takes guts. and we think that a lot of the worldbuilding comes through subtly (or not so subtly) in phrygian's perspective, and the way they engage with the world, which makes us happy.

but some of our best worldbuilding was definitely in variance. some of the planetary landmarks are extremely cool. and honestly, the whole thing with biosynthetic technology is awesome. did you know that they literally grow houses out of seeds and the thing architects do is correct micrometer to millimeter scale flaws while they're in early developmental stages, so the building doesn't come out with fucked up windows or slanted floors? there are different types of specialized architects for different house ages and building types. the designers synthesizing the seeds to have particular floor plans have a completely different job.

most houses calcify when they're finished growing and become rigid structures, and further construction work involves making parts of the building malleable again. numerals don't have the same black and white distinctions between "alive" and "not alive" that we do, but it is general scientific consensus that fully grown houses are designed to be dormant and require external energy to be partially, temporarily woken up. there's a common belief among certain populations of laypeople that on some level, buildings are living beings, and houses can be still alive.

15. What’s your favorite AU that you’ve written?

oh god that's a hard one. maybe the variance mech au? or some of the post-havenfree stuff. the stuff we've been writing with ohnyxx and azyrix is pretty fucking good.

we swear there's something we're just forgetting.

17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

we did answer this here, and you're one of the two guys mentioned. but rule number one is yes we will absolutely answer it again.

AU where ohnyxx lives a fucking happy life or something. or AU where they and kalrin do some rose bride shit. hey actually do you remember that one story we made where you can pull your soul out in the form of a sword? we think they should do that to each other. just run around with each other's swouls. and be weird about it.

29. What songs would be (or are) on a playlist for [wire guy]? Explain your choices if you want!

now there's a great question! @humanmorph also asked it. apparently everyone wants our musical takes.

we're throwing together a wire guy playlist right now. you can find it here! it's still a work in progress, but we think it's pretty good.

37. Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

friends at the table people should at least read chapter one of six sunday. that's where we keep the figure and phrygian.

47. If [Asbestine Infelidel] was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

you've singled out the one fic we knew right off the bat we can actually answer this question for. and we KNOW you haven't read it. you're great.

asbestine infelidel is a pair of ragged cloth foot wraps, covered in a strange grey dust. there's a piece of an autumn leaf caught in the gap between its toes.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

well................................. you know

[eclecticopposition]

OCtober Day One: Favorite OC

We had a very tough time picking this one. We have so many OCs. Like, so many. And we love them all! So many of them are fantastic! Who do we pick? Casey? Veto? Harvestman Jack? Alizarin? The door with all the guns?? The Pigeon King??? The Barge????

And then we picked up our bag of fantrolls, and we remembered that we do have a girl who we love more than any others.

So: Let us introduce you to our love, your friend, the disabled time jumping mutual aid revolutionary cyborg on a motorcycle, Azyrix Solcha.

(Sprite made in farragofiction. We've actually never drawn her! Something to change.)

Azyrix is living on borrowed time. Borrowed freely, of course, from the dozens or hundreds of allies she's connected in a growing anti-Imperialist mutual aid network, both within and across timelines. She and her bike are a constant moving target, staying one step ahead of those who would see her dead. Shoot her your exact coordinates in time and space when you're in a pinch; with the rev of a motorcycle from nowhere, she'll be there right in the nick of time.

Also, her quirk rules.

After having her throat ripped out, Azyrix became something more extreme than a survivor – she had no choice. She became a living vessel of rebellion, patched together with metal, slowly decompiling security code, promises, and blood.

This project would be impossible alone. Azyrix's body requires constant upkeep by expert programmers, penitent roboticists, and surreptitious medical staff, not to mention a wizard or two. She lives and dies by the aid she receives, literally. And she's surrounded by a fiercely loyal group of mysterious friends who are very, very dedicated to ensuring that she stays alive. Both out of love, and out of their shared ambitions – a reckless, impossible, dangerous dream. Necessary like a forest fire.

So what's she up to now?

[eclecticopposition]

😂😍 <- fic asks :]

let's fucking gooooooooooo

fic ask prompts

😂 a funny or crack WIP snippet

(oh we have been WAITING to post cook scene)

under the cut for length! a bonus scene from wire guy awaits

The oven thing works itself out. When Avier hears about it, he and the other cooks descend upon the Majority Rule eagerly. Phrygian finds him ordering two sous-chefs around, directing them to prepare sufficient pizzas for the lot of them. 

“Why are you the cook if you can't eat?” Phrygian asks, and then belatedly realizes that this might be rude. “I mean, no offense. Sorry.”

“Oh, the same reason I'm a doctor,” Avier says sagely. “I like to watch.”

“...Excuse me?”

“It's all so wet,” he says. “Biology, I mean. Digestion especially. Don't you think?”

Phrygian no longer likes this conversation very much.

“The Captain really is a genius,” Avier says, with a distant look in his eyes and a tone of clear admiration. Or something. “He understands the beauty of digestion. And him, him? He just does it. Leap, he doesn't mess around like most people. He's a man of action.”

“Does he know you think that?”

“He told me not to talk to him about it anymore,” Avier says, and sighs. “Just make the pancakes, he said. Just cook the eggs.”

“Okay.”

“People will just eat things that you give them if you learn how to cook,” Avier says, sounding very gratified by this. “And let you be a doctor.” 

“Because you learned to cook?” Phrygian asks, to clarify. They really hope that this is not what they mean.

“No, no, because I went into organic medicine,” Avier says. “I did two years of school.”

“Oh.”

“And I'm good as gold at stitches!”

“That's... great?”

Avier rattles, which they decide to take as agreement.

“Should I... be concerned?” Phrygian asks, to clarify. “Are you going to like... poison somebody just to see what happens?”

“No, no, of course not!” Avier waves his hand. “No no no no, no. Shortsighted. I live here. There's a trust factor. If I wanted to poison someone, I'd poison someone else.”

“...Okay.”

“Besides, poisoning isn't...” He sighs, shaking his head. “It's passé, don't you think? I'm a little bored of all that by now. Big moves like that are a young man's game. Me? I already shoot people for a living. I’m just here to cook.”

“That answer really is not very comforting,” Phrygian admits.

Avier clicks in displeasure. “People always say that! I never understand why!”

“Do they?”

“Yes! Is it supposed to be more comfortable to hear someone just say No, no, I would never? Anyone can tell lies! I, at least, would want to hear a reasonable case for why our interests align. You’d want to hear that even if I did want to poison somebody, I wouldn't.”

“I... could see that,” Phrygian concedes. “I can see the logic there.”

This ship is completely full of freaks.

😍 published lines or a section of a fic that you loved writing?

Six Sunday number three. It's funny as fuck. Shoutouts to Kalrin being a five star weirdo and having a normal relationship to the things they keep in their cupboards.

Highlights include:

There!  There he is, a few doors down. His candy red fur, his glossy dead eyes. His gaping, mocking smile. The light does not touch him directly. Even just the sight of his face in the dark sends a chill up your spine.  For a moment you waver. Some things not even you should trifle with. But – no, Ohnyxx needs you. Your house and life are on the line. You grab that fucker by the throat and you drag him out from behind the oversize plates. They came with the house. You never use them. You squeeze his throat and you put a finger to his open mouth to preempt his evil whispers. “DO NOT FUCK THIS UP FOR US,” you tell him. “I WILL PUT YOU BACK IN THERE. I AM NOT JOKING. YES, IT’S ME, I’M SURE YOU CAN TELL.” He stares past you and does not make a sound. “DO NOT FUCK THIS UP,” you repeat. “SERIOUSLY. I MAY KID ABOUT A GREAT MANY THINGS BUT I KID YOU NOT RIGHT NOW. I HAVE NO INTEREST IN YOUR TRICKS AND THE AMOUNT OF BULLFUCKERY I WILL TOLERATE COMES TO A GRAND TOTAL OF ZERO. THIS IS NOT A TRANSACTION AND YOU SHALL KEEP YOUR WRETCHED LITTLE MAW AS QUIET AS THE SHALLOW GRAVE I WOULD OTHERWISE PUT YOU IN, BECAUSE FAILING ALL ELSE, I WILL SEND YOU BACK INTO THE DEPTHS OF KITCHEN SOLITARY AND LEAVE YOU THERE, FOREVER UNABLE TO ROT. KAPICE?” He does not say anything. You choose to take this as compliance rather than him biding his time, on account of how yours is running out. 

and our favorite line in the fic

“I WILL FORGIVE YOU IF YOU PULL THIS OFF,” you lie. 

[eclecticopposition]

FIRST

uhhhhhh [shuffling through projects for one that won't fucking spoil your ass] ok got it

prompt

FIRST - the first two sentences of my current project

You're getting several. because that's the mood we're in. it's not mayfly in winter but it Is pretty good

From The House in the Woods:

When Azyrix skips through time and hangs in the endless yawning emptiness, there is a faint, non-Newtonian sense of momentum. There is no clear reason for it.

from "rename later":

.OK FLEABAG GIVE ME (1) GOOD REASON NOT TO POWERWASH .U GOT (5) SECONDZ

and from Thalia:

They have forgotten the difference between living and having died. They have forgotten the length of a year.

[eclecticopposition]

tagged in six sunday by @grand-magnificent! we are tragically unable to post any Phrygian things today, as all of our Phrygian things are going In The Fic and we have no ideas. except for chapter six, and a little phrygian/corrasion bonus action thing on the side. but those have to wait.

instead you get to read one of our backdated snapshots of Kalrin Pyrhis, the fifth(??) worst motherfucker in clown school. Welcome to Havenfree!

(tagging if you want to join in: @aurochsent, @andromedasea, @circuitousmoths)

-----------

You take two and a half weeks to execute your revenge.

Royvin likes to stand in the same spot. She claims her place in every class, her massive bulk and leering face just daring someone to try and take it. No one ever does. 

It would be easy to trap her desk. Glue on the seat, bees under the table, acid on the pencil case, spikes on the roof. People do it to people who aren’t Royvin all the time. 

But that would be pedestrian, forgettable. No style at all. This requires artistry.

You are looking for a class that both of you go to, where everyone stands, and where Royvin has carved out a spot with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. Of those there are six. Gym class, theater, art and sculpture, food preservation, the debate side of debate and history, and sometimes (but not always) home economics. Also sometimes band, but you’re not doing this in band class. Out of the question.

Out of all of them, food preservation is the only one where the floor is made of the right material, and she happens to be standing exactly on the end of two long, wooden boards.

If this were a game of clue, then this murder is taking place in the wine cellar. The culprit: yours truly. Now you just need a weapon.

You creep out during the day to make your preparations. First, you examine the boards themselves. They are wide and thick, but they are also old; they won’t hold up to what you need them for. Improvements are needed.

You pay a little weirdo to get you a piece of metal that is exactly two boards long and two boards wide. 

Then you consider the matter of mass. Royvin is heavier than you; it will not do to balance this straight down the middle. The hinge will need to be much closer to her than to you. There is a space under the floor (this whole building is raised slightly off the ground, much to the pleasure of all the clowns who like to scurry beneath it) and the old floor rests on a perpendicular set of support beams. When you check, you find that the beams in question rest unfortunately right down the middle. 

You also pay the little weirdo to make a metal hinge attached to the piece of metal, about three quarters of the way to the top. You have them drill some holes in the corners while you're at it. Sawing through the support beam will have to come as a later step.

After some frank discussion about what exactly you want this thing to do (and no small amount of exasperation at your lack of understanding of basic mechanics), the weirdo gives you a hinge with two parts. The first is the part that is already affixed to the plate. A long, flat metal bar is now extending out to either side, with instructions to attach this to several planks that you don’t want moving – that will keep the whole thing braced with the floor. At the heart of it, there is the familiar shape of something like a door hinge. 

The second part is a metal rod. The weirdo shows you how to fit it into the hinge, so that relative to the metal bar, the original piece of metal turns. You ask if they can make it so it only moves if you step on it from one of the two sides. They give you a look like you are the biggest moron on Alternix, tell you that you should have asked for that in the first place, and say it will cost you extra.

You agree. They say they’ll have it by tonight.

You can barely wait.

It is with incredible, quiet care that you remove the boards and punch holes in the wood. You fit them with screws and affix the metal plate to the bottom of them, and then put them back.

This is the key to a good prank: doing all the steps that can be hidden first. The floorboards do not move at all; they sit there like nothing happened. Royvin stands right on top of them, none the wiser.

You are nearly caught, once, by Hanque and Ishaza. For a panicked moment you think that they are using the cellar as a place to conspire, but then you hear giggling, and – after another moment of confusion, you realize they snuck out together because they are looking for a place to make out, and cannot seem to keep their hands to themselves. This is a stupid and incomprehensible reason to sneak out, but whatever.

You scare them off by making a little noise before they can do anything gross. 

Your preparations continue. You make a little hole in the wall of the adjacent closet, carefully placed to give you a view of the scene of the crime. You enlist an accomplice (one of the students in the age group below you; for subjects like this, you often share a class.) on the promise that you’ll protect them, both generally and from consequences. You put a box of salt and pickling supplies (a wide one, one that can rest four boards across) on the other side of your contraption-to-be, one week before its fruition is due. This is to ensure that people are well-accustomed to not stepping there long before there is any risk of wobbling. It works; nobody moves them. They part around your plan like a river around a boulder. The food preservation room is always full of bullshit, and everyone just picks their way around it.

And then, with trepidation, you sneak in and finally put in the hinge. 

You are not the handiest of trolls, but it is a simple enough job that you manage. The hinge itself only goes one way, and was made by someone far more clever than you. You carefully push down on your side of the boards, making sure that it goes down while the other side rises. It works like a charm. 

You drag a bag of funky flour over to Royvin’s side of it. You leave it on where you like to imagine a big red X. 

You mostly manage to catch the bag out of the air before it breaks and gets bright orange flour everywhere. It wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion – this is a clown church, weird shit happens sometimes – but Royvin might get pissy if there is a cheeto crime scene directly on top of her spot. 

Great news: it works.

The only thing left is to wait. And oh, you wait with such delicious anticipation. You have some very stupid wheels that will be turning for a decade; this will happen so soon that you can hardly sit still. It takes all of your willpower not to burst out laughing in every class you have, thinking of exactly how funny this is going to be. Curse your incredible gift for visualization! 

You are ready three days before you do it. You wait in the empty closet and watch her like a hawk. The first day, she isn’t standing right; the second day, someone else is in the way. But the third day is perfect. 

You give a tiny nod to your accomplice – Candio, you think. He nods back, and once everyone else has filed in, quietly drags the box out of the way.

The teacher calls attendance. You wait. 

“Ishaza Ailmar,” says the teacher. Pretty girls always get their full names read, you think; pretty girls and teacher’s pets. That, or having the first name on the list. Or maybe this teacher is just weird. Being a pickler might do it to you.

“Present,” she says, sweetly. You roll your eyes.

“Jaipes.”

“Here.”

(Ohnyxx isn’t in this class, unfortunately; the list skips over the letter B entirely. Neither is Valope. You know Ohnyxx would fucking love to make terrible pickles in a cellar, but no dice. You hear it conflicts on the schedule with some sort of advanced math.)

“Garlad.”

A grunt.

“Gar-lad,” enunciates the teacher, icily.

“Here,” Garlad mocks back. He’s in the age group below you, too. You like this kid.

The teacher clicks their tongue and then clicks their pen, but moves on. “Jrapes,” they say.

“Present,” says Jaipes, or someone who sounds exactly like them.

The listing continues. You quietly open the closet door and slip out into the hallway. Slowly you creep up to the doorway, letting yourself feel the excitement pounding through you as you wait for the alphabet to tick down. So close to showtime. You know the order these names will go in. It won’t be long now.

“Hanque.” Ah, right on cue.

“Here,” drawls the jock.

“Candio.”

“Here,” says your accomplice. He sounds nervous.

“Olives.”

“Present,” whispers a girl you don’t know.

“Royvin.”

“Here,” Royvin says, sounding bored. She often sounds bored. 

Boy, that sure won’t last long.

“Rajole.” 

“Here,” he mumbles. It’s a funny coincidence, that you are right next to each other, you think, not for the first time. The alphabet itself contrives to keep you together.

Ugh. He’s rubbing off on you.

“Kalrin,” says the teacher. Curtain call.

You wait.

A silence.

“Kal-rin Pyr-his,” enunciates the teacher, clicking their pen. The disapproval is audible. Skipping class is even worse than grunting during attendance. 

You wait.

“Hm,” says the teacher, and makes a mark.

You sprint into the room at full speed. Everyone startles. A few people scuttle out of your way; Rajole is one of them, looking like a deer in headlights, and then looking like a deer looking at another deer in headlights once he realizes it’s you. Royvin’s head snaps around and her fists come out of her pockets, but she does not move.

“FORSOOTH!” you holler at the top of your lungs as you leap, and you stomp with both feet on the other end of the boards, launching Royvin into the fucking roof. You hear her shout.

She punches clean through the shitty wooden ceiling, hornsfirst, and gets stuck in the rafters.

You laugh so hard that you fall on your ass. Everyone loses their minds. Even the teacher.

Prying your legs out from the hole beneath the floor, you catch a glimpse of Rajole giving you a pained look. You are not fooled for a second; you can also see him trying to hide his mouth twitching. 

“I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!” Royvin roars. Her horns are stuck, you realize – even with her whole weight dragging down on them, they’re too huge to come back down through the holes. That has to hurt. You see her flailing her legs, trying to knock herself loose to beat you to hell. Her fists pound on the wood until it cracks.

You lose your shit laughing again. 

She falls back down as the old wood gives way and breaks the floor with a massive crunch. She is covered in splinters and dust and seething, embarrassed rage. Everyone has cleared well away from the impact. You leap to your feet, still wheezing, and nearly slip again in another fit of cackles as you start to run.

Royvin snarls, punches the ground, and gets up with the violent, unstoppably building momentum of a steam train that hates you. Her eyes have already gone from yellow to wrathful orange-red. 

You get the fuck out of there, trying not to let your cackling slow you down. She chases you down with another roar.

It takes half an hour to lose her, when Regius finally stops her in the hall. You can hear her voice, strained from cursing you out non-stop, protesting as you make your getaway.

You love it here.

-:-

Royvin is merciless in picking on you for the next two months. You break five teeth and three thumbs in the first two gym classes. You could not care less. Victory is irrevocably yours.

The story is still being repeated and laughed about. Royvin punches anyone she catches telling it. Everyone has started yelling FORSOOTH! before throwing things. It caught on like wildfire. Your fingerprints are on their souls.

You have never been so satisfied. This is your legacy, you think. You never assumed you’d have a long life; this is why you’ll never die.

[havenfree]

In any case, there's no time for that. Someone's trying to talk to you.

Oh, but you hear the dulcet tone of your lusus calling for you, too.

> Which should you answer first? [ENTER COMMAND]