--mralexpkeaton has entered the Scarlet Devil Library
With an albeit condensed huff of her chest, the narcoleptic bookworm heaved her miscellaneous novels with a boost in her stubby, lanky arms. "Ooh, whoa. Patchouli, you've really let your strength go to waste ever since you've been letting magic do everything for you. Buuuut, now that you're ridden with a cold, you can't use it. Where is your God now?! Ha!" The young woman snickered at her own misfortune, but subtly reversed roles, the mischievous smirk on her face immediately turning into a detesting grimace. "Alright, Patchouli. I have no time for your nonsense today. I have to peruse these books with a wide eye; I have yet to make my seventh copy of notes on all of them." As she was boundlessly outwitting herself front and back, she found herself approaching her table. So close, so close, she was to her archaic, slowly degenerating desk. Oh, how she loved the familiarity of the aroma of the smoky, beautifully and perfectly sculpted wooden desk, so close...
Knock, knock.
Goddamn it. The young woman cursed to herself, which she seldom approached upon even the word of damn. Now, the purplette has always been one with a compulsiveness to always, always, always and forever be on time to gift service to her clients. Not a thought on the novels in her hand, she abruptly began to scamper across the freshly waxed, timber floor, towards the bulky library door. Suddenly, she felt herself being betrayed by the worn, rough sole of her lavender slipper, only letting gravity do the rest. In the midst of her commotion, she heard a faint, but noticeable lament, possibly her reacting. "Aaaaaah!" Only everyone else could hear the actual volume but the girl herself. A blur of shades appeared before her, of cerulean, maroon, dull golden, and amaranthine invaded her eyesight as her cerise eyeglasses fleeted blithely off of her complexion. So, I'm falling. Only a millisecond to compromise that thought, a harsh, violent bang against the back of her cranium rang throughout her ears. Still in utter bewilderment of her woeful mishap, she called out to the person behind the entrance, in a faltering, wincing tone, "It's open..." While she gave the individual an impromptu permission to enter, she rose shakily, cushy fingers grazing the back of her neck. Books sprawled out before her, a plum bruise gradually approaching her soon-to-be imperfect, creamy knee, she had little to no time to come up with an excuse before the other walked in through the door.