#munchkin writes

[munchkin1156]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Post Predicaments

Rating: Gen

Characters: Feldspar and the Hatchling

Word count: 1209

Summary: Feldspar and the Hatchling have a small chat about the loops and Dark Bramble.

@outerwilds-events

[fiive-second-cookies]

Ok please take a moment and imagine

All four boys are out kinda late, and as they walk home, Patton’s eyelids start to droop and his feet drag heavily across the sidewalk. So, Logan starts carrying a sleepy Patton on his back. 

And then Virgil starts complaining that his feet hurt. So, Roman ends up with a lazy Virgil on his back.

And Roman and Logan just share an fond exasperated eye roll and smile because their boyfriends are ridiculous and absolutely adorable.

Ok, thank you for listening. Please carry on.

[munchkin1156]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/87379411

Talk in the Woods My remix for the @outerwilds-events resonant echoes remix!! Original piece is “Solanum’s Vocabulary Lessons” by @theabyssfsh, which you can find here

This was a lot of fun to do!!

[munchkin1156]

Let me show you things from a different angle! Hang on, that’s not what I meant-

. . .

A new fic!! Hooray!! This one is also for the @mcyt-soulmate-sweepstakes event!! Under the extra prompt “Trust”!!

ao3 link

Summary:

Scar was someone you could trust. Definitely, totally, absolutely. The Permit Office had no reason to be suspicious of him!

...Well, ignoring how he didn't have a permit for his magic and potions. But besides that, nothing!

Grian just wanted to get the inspection of this guy's house and permits over with. It was getting annoying how he kept lying, and even worse how smug he seemed about it, thinking he’d gotten away with it. Ugh.

At least nothing had gone horribly wrong yet.

word count: 5,557

. . .

Scar was your totally average, day to day salesman.

He lived in a small apartment, on the west side of the city, overlooking the central park. He did chores, met up with his friends, and made sales that definitely had reasonable prices. In every way you could possibly imagine, he was a perfectly compliant citizen. Perfectly trustworthy. No reason whatsoever for the government to have any sort of suspicion about him. 

Nothing at all.

…Apart from the illegal magic use, that is. 

According to his files, Scar sold boring, useful, everyday things like, for example, vacuum cleaners. Very uninteresting stuff. That was a lie. He didn’t even own a vacuum cleaner! Originally, when he was younger, he’d wanted to be a known wizard, a famous one, but those were the foolish hopes of a child. Child him hadn’t known how ridiculously impossible it was to get a permit for magic use. He was still waiting to hear back from the Permit Office about getting an appointment to discuss the possibility of him using magic, and that was nearing three years now. He had a sneaking suspicion they’d forgotten he’d sent in an application.

Since Scar wasn’t the type of person to give up on his dreams, he’d just… Not told the Permit Office he was using it. He had found a market online, for people just like him, with the same idea. Not evil people, who wanted to practice black magic, but people who simply couldn’t, because the system sucked. And with his natural talent for arcane arts, Scar had gotten quite popular, especially with his potions. Who wouldn’t love something that was slightly cheaper, and yet worked far better than anything store bought?

Because his apartment had been basically turned into a magic lab it was hard to hide an entire room set aside for the business, with magical ingredients and chalk marks left over from spells everywhere, his friends had caught on fairly quickly to what he was doing. They had then made it their mission to help Scar with this side gig, as well as cover things up from the authorities. Absolute legends, they were. Total life savers. Scar couldn’t count how many times they’d saved him after he’d said one too many suspicious things to an officer of the Poe Poe.

It was with their help the Permit Office hadn’t needed to investigate where he lived, because he had no idea where he would hide all his highly illegal stuff. Anyway, he knew he’d get some warning before it happened, if it did ever happen, because the Permit Office loved to send warning notices ahead of time, which was very helpful if you needed to get rid of something they wouldn’t approve of.

But what Scar had forgotten, was that the Permit Office didn’t always do that. They were forgetful over there, workers slacking off all the time, and he’d even heard rumours that they burnt complaints so that they wouldn’t have to do the paperwork for it. Before he’d started up his magic industry, Scar had been in a similar type job, though not for the government, and he understood why they’d do it, even if he didn’t approve. Hey, maybe that’s what happened to his initial request…

Anyway, that was why, when his doorbell rang that morning, and Scar had opened it to find someone in complete Permit Office uniform, standing outside his door expectantly, he had been incredibly surprised, since he hadn’t received any information about this. He was also incredibly relieved when he realised he hadn’t been making any potions at that moment, because it would have been very clear to the Permit Worker in front of him. He was wearing a teal shirt, with a black tie and beige pants. His hair was short, and the colour reminded Scar of sand on a beach, or desert. The nametag pinned to his shirt read “Hello, my name is ___”, with the word Grain scrawled in the empty space.

“Good morning, officer Grain! How can I be of assistance?” Scar asked cheerfully, leaning in the doorframe, effectively blocking the Permit Workers view of his home. The man scowled in response, black eyes narrowing as he glared bitterly at Scar. “My name,” he began, looking offended at the mere prospect of someone getting it wrong, “Is Grian. And I’m a Permit Manager, not an officer.”

Oops. That was his dyslexia's fault. Still, not exactly super polite, in Scar’s opinion. He could’ve been a bit nicer about it. Scar felt a hint of sarcasm make its way into his words as he answered the manager known as Grian. “My sincerest apologies, manager Grian. How can I be of assistance?” Grian raised an eyebrow, as if it was obvious what he was here for, and Scar was the rude one. “You are Scar Goodtimes, yes?”

Scar nodded, tilting his head a little to one side. “That’s me.” He agreed. “What about it?” Grian made a notation on his checklist, before responding. “Then you should be informed of the observation I have to make of your house and permits today.” He hummed, smiling a little. “Shall we begin?”

His heart dropped. Scar’s own smile faltered for a fraction of a second, though he regained his bearings almost immediately. “W-why yes of course, Grian! Just give me a moment, it’s really quite a mess in here… I didn’t actually get any sort of warning about this you see…” And hurriedly shut the door in the manager's face. He shakily sat down on the other side, taking a deep breath in, and out. He could do this. He hadn’t been expecting this, sure, hadn’t known about it, but that was fine.

After all, if he knew anything from the times his friends had been surveyed about their homes and jobs, the person being sent didn’t actually know what their job was. Also, they had very strict work hours, so if Scar managed to use up all of Grian’s time without needing to show him the non-existent permit, he could get away scott free.

Yep. This was possible. Grinning from ear to ear, Scar spoke in his most convincing, salesman type voice as he opened the door again, staring right back at the suspicious manager. “Why don’t you come in?” He offered, eyes sparkling. Grian grumbled a ‘let’s get this over with’ and stepped inside.

Scar was ready for anything the permit office could throw at him. As the door clicked shut, he felt confident he had the upper hand here. It was his own home. His own ground. He was totally ready. The manager would be none the wiser, because he was one hundred percent trustworthy.

. . .

Grian wasn’t sure what Scar’s deal was, but whatever it was, he didn’t trust it in the slightest.

First of all, he seemed to have no idea about the inspection that was schedueled today despite the weeks notice. That was already very strange. The Permit Office (almost) always made sure people were well notified ahead of time. He must have just not been paying attention. Secondly, he kept switching between being charismatic and nervous. He was probably hiding his terror, deep down. And thirdly, he’d gotten Grian’s name and job title wrong! He had to have done it in order to annoy Grian. He must dislike the Permit Office. Therefore, there had to be something off about one of his permits. Maybe he didn’t even have one.

That was an appalling prospect. Imagine not having a permit. Grian had no idea what the world would look like where people didn’t use permits for everything and didn’t follow the rules. It would definitely lead to total destruction and anarchy. No doubt about it.

If only he had access to his documents. Then he’d at least know if this so-called “wizard” was telling the truth. Now, Grian was just in for an hour of awkward chatter as Scar led him around his apartment, showing him all his magic supplies. At least he got to make notes about how things looked. The safety measures, and what rules he crossed.

The apartment in itself wasn’t too shabby. Rather spacious for one person, enough to have both a general living space as well as a separate room for his work. After a general tour, Scar sat him down in an armchair while he went to make some drinks. It was rather strange how hospitable he was being. Most people would just show their home and their permits and be done with it, not needing the full hour unless they had some sort of mansion. You’d think the man was stretching time out. Almost like Scar enjoyed talking to him.

Grian nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of the thought. Wanting to talk to him? That certainly couldn’t be it. So then, why couldn’t he just show him his permits? Unless he had a reason to hide them, something he’d get in trouble for…

Hmmm…

Oh. Ohhh. That made much more sense. Scar must have a permit in his possession that he wasn’t using! Well, that just wouldn’t do. Once he returned, he’d immediately get down to business. And it wouldn’t be too bad if Scar immediately confessed. He’d only have to pay a small fine. No, it was if he lied about not having a permit. Then he’d be in serious trouble. For his sake, Grian hoped he wouldn’t try and be clever about things, though he knew he probably would.

Adjusting his position, Grian added his suspicions to the checklist. Everything of importance had to be written down. It was the only way things would get done. Not that he particularly cared if things got done or not, as long as they weren’t his problem.

With annoyance, Grian’s eyes landed on the shelves and shelves of potions that were literally everywhere. Hardly any of them were labelled, and none of the shelves looked properly nailed to the wall. Honestly, it felt like something would tip over any second. Ugh. Potion stains were horrible to get out, and potion effects were even harder. Grian almost pitied Scar in advance for when those fell, but he reminded himself that he was probably lying to the Permit Office, which was unacceptable behaviour.

Scar, from Grian’s observations, seemed to be a reasonably pleasant chap, at least to look at, besides his problems with the government. Green eyes, brown hair, a sane sense for fashion. Really, the only off-putting thing about him (personality not included) were the scars that covered his arms and face. A fitting name for the man, he supposed, if a bit of a cruel joke.

In a few minutes, Scar returned, bringing two cups of tea with him. He set them both down on the small coffee table in front of Grian, before sitting down in the armchair opposite him. Clasping his hands together, he smiled warmly at Grian. Grian scoffed internally. Who did this man think he was, to try and get away from using a Permit he requested without consequences? He cleared his throat. “So, Mister Goodtimes-“ he started, trying to hurry this up, but was rudely interrupted.

“Oh, you can just call me Scar!” Scar told him pleasantly, much to Grian’s annoyance. He rolled his eyes and continued. “Alright, Scar, could you please bring me your permits for inspection?” 

Grian watched with an odd sense of satisfaction when Scar’s face paled, and his chatter faltered. He noticed how quickly he regained his confidence, even though it was probably false confidence, same as earlier, when Grian had initially arrived. What an interesting individual, who had just opened his mouth, presumably to speak lies.

“Right, of course! Just- erm, give me a moment while I search for them?” Scar spoke with a nervous tick, a tug at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t usually keep them out on display, so they could be anywhere…”

What an original excuse, the ‘I can’t find them’. Grian had had that trick pulled on him many a time. He figured he’d play along with him a little, give him some false hope. If this took up enough of his time, he wouldn’t have to do the paperwork he knew was waiting for him once he returned to the office. The best way to procrastinate was having a reason for it, after all.

Smoothly, he responded. “But of course, Scar. We have all the time in the world.” He smiled, but it wasn’t his genuine smile. It was the one he used specifically to make people uncomfortable. Look, being a Permit Worker was boring, okay? He had to find some way to entertain himself while doing his job. Scar nodded, turning his back on him quickly as he stood up yet again, going into a different room. Grian could hear the sound of a chest being opened, and someone rummaging through it. All for show, of course, but he noted that it was a better show than most.

Grian sipped his tea as he waited. Scar’s voice was heard from the other room every now and again, apologising for the inconvenience and offering to get Grian something from his kitchen, which he politely declined. Eventually, after checking his watch, he decided he’d had enough. 

Time to get this over with.

“You know, I don’t actually have all day,” he called, and heard a loud thud followed by a muttered curse, as Scar presumably hit his head on something, probably having tried to turn in Grian’s direction. “If you could perchance come back to the living room?” A few grumbles, and Scar emerged again, looking sheepish. “Why of course, of course! What would you like to discuss?” He asked, sinking gratefully back into his seat.

He cleared his throat. “Well, you see, Scar, and I might be wrong here,” Grian carefully got up, walking over to stand on the far side of the room, where the higher up potions stood, on higher up shelves. “I think that you may be lying to the Permit Office about owning a permit.” Seeing Scar stiffen only confirmed his suspicions. He was certain about what this man had done wrong.

Taking a glance at the time on his watch, he determined he probably had more than enough time to get his point across. “Now, the Permit Office isn’t generally fond of these types of things. And, rule breakers generally ought to be punished, ey?” Grian watched as Scar fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt, the anxiety pooling in his light green eyes. Unlike Grian’s, with eyes the colour of black ink, where emotion could hide.

“So, I feel the best way to go about this is if you, without fuss, hand over your unused permit, pay a small fine, and we can all be on our way. Sounds good?” His emotions could be a bit on the impatient side, and he found that he had in fact lost most of the patience he had.

Scar started nodding, to Grian’s relief, before a frown appeared on his face. “Wait, but I don’t have an unused permi-“

“Quiet!” Grian hissed, slamming his hand against the wall as a way to get Scar to stop talking, stop lying. He didn’t have time to deal with it. He also didn’t have time to notice how a potion shelf, the one above him and just a little to the left to be exact (and he liked to be) tilted in his direction when he did this. If he had, this might not have happened. Scar wasn’t paying attention to it either, feeling generally hurt that Grian had gotten it wrong, too annoyed to see how he could’ve gotten out of the situation with ease. “Look, don’t bother lying. It’s rather obvious that you’re purposefully stretching out time to avoid showing me your permits.”

“Well… Yes, but-“

“And the evidence is clear that, besides your rather successful magic industry, you have an extra permit that you’d been planning on setting up, but never had time to use.” The sound of glass sliding against wood was a sound too quiet for either person to pick up, as a potion slowly slipped towards the edge. Grian was staring Scar down, unblinking, as he glared defiantly back. If he was going to fail for honour, he was going to fail for the right honour, gosh darn it!

“Well, kind of, but you see- “

“And therefore, it would be better for all of us if you just hand over your permit, so it can go back in the system, and you’ll get only a slap on the wrist. Sounds fair?” Grian tilted his head, not understanding why Scar was so against this. It wasn’t like he was even going to get in a lot of trouble for this. What on earth could possibly be the matter, he couldn’t tell, which was annoying, since he’d spent a lot of time learning to read people and their intentions, which had saved him from a lot of problems in the long run.

“Would you just listen!?” Scar exclaimed, standing up in such a rush that his feet hit the floor with a very loud thud. And then three things happened in very fast succession, and it’s  very important we know all of them slowly, otherwise things would be incredibly confusing.

First, Grian backed against the wall, hitting it, and held his arms up, looking like he was about to say something about not being allowed to threaten or interrupt workers of the Permit Office whilst doing their job. There was probably a form about it somewhere, which Grian probably knew by heart.

Second, the potion closest to the edge, the one that had started to slide, fell. Scar noticed it then, but not Grian. He made a move towards him, in panic, like he wanted to push Grian out of the way. He didn’t know what exactly the potion was off the top of his head, but it might’ve been something dangerous. And anyway, glass smashing against your head still hurts like hell. But he was too late.

Third, the potion hit Grian, and there was a loud crash followed by a bang and a flash. Scar threw his hands over his ears at the noise, and squeezed his eyes shut. Usually, if a potion fell while he was working on one, he had earplugs in, so the sound was never so bad. He also always had potion proof clothing, which the Permit Office did not, except on special occasions.

After a few moments, Scar looked up, praying that he hadn’t injured, or worse, killed, someone. A Permit Office Manager no less. They’d have his head if they caught wind of that. But he didn’t look dead. In fact, he didn’t look like anything at all, since Scar couldn’t actually see Grian, and for a split second hoped that maybe it had been an invisibility potion, and that was it. Yet no curses came from what seemed to be empty air, no complaints or angry remarks. He looked down at the mess below, the shattered glass and the colourful liquid that was staining the carpet, and his eyes landed on something small.

Oh.

So it was that kind of potion.

Shoot.

. . .

Grian woke up with a horrible throbbing pain in the side of his head. It was not a great way to wake up, and he was missing a pillow and his bed felt strange. Muttering something incomprehensible, he tried turning over to get into a more comfortable position. Why it felt so much like everyday cloth instead of bedsheets, he couldn’t say.

As he lay there, calmly waiting for his alarm to go off as it always did, and relishing in the feeling of extra sleep, his brain slowly recapped what had happened yesterday. A boring day at the office to begin with, then he’d been assigned to go to some guy, Scar Goodtimes, and review his house and permits.

Then what?

His memory was blurry, of the end of the visit, and he could not for the life of him remember what he did next. Frowning in his sleep, or in his half-asleep state, it didn’t matter which it was,  Grian slowly turned over each and every encounter he’d had for breakfast that morning, to how he’d walked to the apartment, not knowing it was a good hours walk, despite what his phone had said, to shouting at Scar about his permits (which was allowed under special circumstances, check form MOTL6511 in the Permit Office rule book), to… to… something hitting his head. And he remembered a strange feeling, and a loud noise, and a bright light. Like a potion effect.

With a sudden sense of foreboding, Grian opened his eyes, sitting bolt upright on whatever he was lying on. His surroundings hit him like a train. He knew immediately that he’d been right about a potion, and he knew exactly what potion had fell on him.

He was lying, on a piece of cloth, on a desk, in a room that was a million times too large for him. From what he could see, the room was Scar’s office, which meant the man hadn’t had the intelligence to bring him to a hospital to get him treated for this. He probably didn’t want to get in trouble. Grian could understand that, but he didn’t have to like it. Hopefully he could bargain with Scar once he turned up.

It was honestly overwhelming, being this small. Everything looked so much more dangerous, and he felt so out of place. He’d managed to mistake a piece of cloth for his bed, albeit with some suspicions. Standing up shakily, he put a hand to his head, feeling bandages. He vaguely noted how textures also felt different to him, yet he could still tell what it was. On a scientific level, that was interesting, since his senses had adjusted to his size somehow, and at the moment, he could only think on scientific levels, because if he thought on personal levels relevant to him, Grian was afraid he’d start screaming.

Footsteps could be heard in the distance, loud for Grian, and far away for him too. He could also hear them coming closer by the second, accompanied by Scar’s voice, who seemed to be singing, but what exactly it was he was singing, Grian couldn’t say. Luckily, that gave him plenty of warning. Enough warning to, in a moment of panic, bolt to the nearest hiding place. In this case, that was behind a plant pot. Grian ducked out of sight just in time, as he heard the creak of the door opening ever so clearly.

“-She seems to have an invisible tou-ch! She takes- Wait, um…” The footsteps paused, and Scar’s voice faltered. “Where on earth…” He heard Scar mutter to himself. “Grian? Are you here?” He called, and Grian, though he didn’t look, could feel Scar’s presence at the desk. Even if he couldn’t, he’d have known he was there.

Grian winced. The volume was way too loud for his now incredibly sensitive ears. He curled up on himself, praying Scar wouldn’t find him, or that he’d at least shut up. Scar did not find him, not immediately anyway, and Grian was getting the feeling that he wasn’t very observant. But he didn’t shut up, instead choosing to pace about the room, talking half to Grian and half to himself, since he didn’t seem entirely certain if Grian was actually there or not.

“You aren’t actually gone, right? There’s no way you could’ve disappeared from there in such little time… unless… but that’s probably not the case…” He spoke in a slightly mumbled tone, but the worry Grian could hear in it was surprising. Maybe since he was injured. He almost felt bad, but the terror and his initial reaction of annoyance to the man back when he was his normal height stopped him from feeling guilty enough to let himself be seen.

Scar sighed. “I guess you must be freaking out right now. I mean, I would too, if I was in your situation. But I really do need to talk to you.” Grian raised an eyebrow, though he knew it was pointless and that it didn’t matter, since literally no one could see him. It was for the principle, or something. He kept listening.

“Look, uh, see, the problem at hand, is that I’m not sure about turning you back to normal.”

That certainly got Grian’s attention. An “excuse me!?” Escaped his mouth before he could stop it, the sheer horror and offence that that sentence had dealt him resulted in himself accidentally giving away his hiding place. Grian curled up on himself, stiff and suddenly as quiet as a mouse. He heard Scar turn his direction, slowly making his way closer and closer to him, like he was afraid Grian would bolt at any sign of sudden movement. To be fair, Grian wasn’t sure he wouldn’t.

Scar’s voice rang out from above again. He sputtered indignantly. “W-well, not exactly! More like a- a- well, um, why don’t you come out so we can discuss it?” When he received no response from Grian, he added hopefully: “I’ll stay on the other side of the room?”

With reluctance, Grian nodded. Then he remembered Scar couldn’t see him, and grumbled (for he wasn’t sure if he spoke in his normal voice it wouldn’t falter) yes. Once he was positive that Grian was in fact on the other side of the room from Scar, not within reachable distance of Scar’s hands, and definitely not within killable distance of Scar’s anything, Grian got up shakily. He hesitantly stepped out into the open, his heart racing, hands clammy, feeling ever so slightly sick to his stomach.

It was even more terrifying now that he could actually view just how big Scar was compared to him. He’d made some rough calculation when he’d first woken up, which was why he’d avoided Scar to begin with, but now, looking up at him, Grian could see that no calculation would ever have prepared him for this. A dizziness overtook him for a moment, and Grian swayed, just a little bit, where he stood. Scar, standing too far away to see him properly, didn’t notice. If Scar standing so far away already gave him this sort of feeling, Grian couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would feel when he came across his coworkers in this state, or his friends. He also didn’t trust that Scar wouldn’t just walk over here, not caring if Grian had or hadn’t given his consent.

He had every right not to trust the man.

To the untrained eye, one would say he looked at ease with the situation, like he’d experienced similar ones on the job before. A trained eye would point out how he wasn’t looking directly at Scar, how his nails were digging into the palms of his hands, and he stood like he was made of stone. The only eyes upon him though, were the ones of Scar, and they, again, couldn’t tell. Taking a deep breath in, Grian started talking with relative calmness, a sharp difference compared to how he actually felt. Years of practicing his voice, since a lot of the time he spent talking over speaker when speaking to people who wanted an argument with the Permit Office. Those people were always Dealt With.

“Mister Scar Goodtimes, are you aware of the problems you have brought upon yourself?” He asked. Grian always tried to bring himself to a sense of authority, it was a habit he had a hard time breaking. Even in a situation like this, he still searched for any bit of leverage he could use to hold over the person he was speaking to. Scar responded with hesitance. “I think so, yes. That would be accidentally harming a Permit Manager and accidentally using a potion effect against them?”

Grian was about to agree, but remembered to add the rest. “And also lying about your permits to the Permit Office.” Scar nodded, looking a little guilty as he did so. “Erm, yes. About what my job is.” Frowning, Grian looked right up at the towering figure, immediately regretting it as he was washed over with another wave of nausea. He found he was also unable to look away. “No, it- it was about an unused permit, wasn’t-“

A thought struck him. You could see the realisation sneakily creep its way onto Grian’s face as he stared up in complete shock and, if he was being with himself, also with some form of respect for what had to be an absolute madman. “You… you’re not telling me…” He began, trying to doubt what he had just deduced. The madman in question averted his eyes, looking horribly embarrassed.

“I converted my whole apartment, I run a successful business, and I don’t even have the permit for it.” Scar confirmed.

Wow.

Grian nearly facepalmed at the sheer stupidity of that. But he didn’t, because his fear overtook his want to scoff at idiocy in its finest form, which was apparently this man. “Right, so that adds gaslighting to the table”, he muttered, and much to his surprise, because he’d been completely genuine about that, Scar laughed. “Right, right, obviously.” And then his face turned serious, and Grian felt a horrible sense of nervousness and dread. “See, I don’t actually want these charges to be put on me…”

Scar kept talking, saying things like “just until I know it’s safe”, “I’m truly really sorry about this but”, and “I promise this situation won’t be bad for you”. He sounded rather horrified at the words coming out of his mouth, and on some level, Grian understood. Scar had just been doing, and was doing, what he needed to to survive. During his time at the Permit Office, there had been plenty of moments as he sent people off to goodness knows where, questioning his own morals and sanity as he did so. But the answer had sadly always been obvious. His life or theirs, in some shape or form.

It was also the moment that, deep down, Grian realised he was going to be like this for some time. That he wasn’t going to see his friends or family for a while. It didn’t actually register, because his brain didn’t want it to register, until much, much, later.

. . .

Scar thought that conversation had gone rather well. Sure, the contents of the conversation weren’t pleasant, but at least Grian hadn’t started screaming, or tried to jump off the table, or threaten him or something.

Look, he’d had a lot of worries about what could’ve gone wrong, okay? But instead, the Permit Manager Grian had been very complacent. Almost too complacent. It was kind of unnerving. It might’ve been a Permit Office thing, but he had a suspicion it was how the poor guy dealt with it.

It was technically keeping someone else imprisoned. He’d basically kidnapped someone. That was not a fun thought to think, but Scar was doing it for himself. He’d heard horror stories about people getting into trouble with the Permit Office, never to return. Or worse, return with a personality that wasn’t theirs. Scar didn’t want that happening to him, obviously.

Even if that meant hiding a tiny Permit Worker for long enough to convince him not to report him to the authorities. It sounded like it could work in theory? Probably? But Scar didn’t have time to test it, he’d been thrown straight into field work.

Grian had been left alone on the desk. Scar had promised to come back with food, but he wasn’t sure Grian would let him anywhere near him. Understandable, yes, because he had every right not to trust him, but they were going to have to make an agreement about it sometime soon. After all, they were living together now

Speaking of which, what did Grian eat? Did he have allergies? Medical issues? Scar was ashamed he hadn’t thought about it sooner, he had this problem all the time when he went to visit people. They never asked, and then never had the potions he used to be able to stand without pain. Then he’d either need a cane or a chair, or he’d have to dig into his emergency supply. Scar made a mental note to ask Grian the next time he saw him. Hopefully that would also prove that he cared. Hopefully.

Cutting up carrots, because you could never go wrong there, Scar pondered how tiny portions would look. He’d seen some videos with them online, but those were more for look and style than taste and texture. And he wasn’t even a professional chef. Sure, he could bake real well, and sometimes sold pastries at the market (which didn’t need a permit, all of the stalls fell under the market permit which belonged to the person hosting the market, just to be completely clear) but he wasn’t sure he could bake that delicately. He’d have to follow some tutorials, probably.

Either way, Scar was determined to make this situation the best it could be, despite the circumstances. He’d get Grian to trust him. And he’d start small. 

With carrots.

. . .

taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @da3dm, @faeiyn-cant-write, @boiled-ginger-ale, @local-squshmallow, @akatthatwants2sleep, @vocal-nyx-cords (if you want to be tagged, lmk for what!)

[munchkin1156]

Mycelium Menace

Well, first time writing hermitcraft g/t, and I’m still pretty nervous! I hope you enjoy it anyway :D

(You are Here!!) Pt 1, Pt 2

@arc852 hi I’m that sparkly anon who offered you cookies here it is

Word count: 1,266

(editors note: A SMALL PART OF THE BEGINNING IS MISSING. WILL BE FIXED WHEN PART TWO COMES OUT)

(another edit: FIXED)

. . .

Near the centre of the city there’s a street. It’s perfect driving distance to anywhere that’s useful, and yet, hardly anybody lives there. Not because the houses were too expensive, or didn’t look good, but because of the small apartment building right in the middle of it.

There were sixteen official inhabitants, five who basically lived there, and two who…

Well, the humans, who had taken to the name ‘hermits’ instead, so that is what we’ll call them, think these two are ghosts. Ghosts who left sticky notes for reminders or shopping requests, ghosts who took random small items with no explanation, ghosts who found lost keys and earrings when needed. Which they accepted, and moved on with, without thinking about it too much, so that already gives you some idea to what these hermits are like.

The hermits just… Hadn’t been surprised in the slightest from what they thought was paranormal activity, since any person, living or dead, who had the guts to stay anywhere near the place, must be pretty brave. After all, the amount of fires, pranks, wars, redstone, and summoning rituals that went around, meant that most people wouldn’t touch the place with a ten meter pole. Honestly, it was likely that one of the hermits had accidentally summoned the ghosts and they just couldn’t leave.

Since the two ghosts hadn’t destroyed or taken anything of too much value, they counted as friends. Sorry, the ‘so called’ ghosts. The hermits had never seen these ghosts, and the conclusion they had drawn was inaccurate.

Grian and Scar weren’t ghosts. They were borrowers, but it was obvious no one had guessed that. No one was supposed to know what borrowers were!

What were borrowers then? Borrowers were… Well, think of fairies. Remove the wings, the magic, the fake, naive, fantasy aspect to them, and make them live in the walls. They ‘borrowed’ things from humans, taking stuff they wouldn’t miss. Scraps of food, bits of cloth… The bare minumum to live, to survive.

They weren’t supposed to get found, seen or caught, but those rules, the Code, hadn’t said anything about leaving sticky notes out. Even if that technically showed the humans they existed. Even if Grian kept getting tangled in the sticky notes. In case you were wondering, he was a bit shorter than one, unlike Scar, who was significantly taller.

And true, it was a lot more terrifying than most human houses to live in, but there was stuff that would go unnoticed if taken everywhere. And it was so much more fun, more exciting. Oh! And the fact they could actually ask for their own food from the heavenly place the hermits got their food from, called a ‘super market’, which was the best thing in existence, also significantly benefitted them.

Everything had been going great for them so far. Nothing had had any reason whatsoever to be changed. Everyone was perfectly content with the situation at hand.

…Until Grian started planting mushrooms, that is.

Scar didn’t understand from where Grian had gotten mushroom spores, and at this moment, he didn’t want to know. But now there were purple mushrooms growing all over the little room in the walls that he called home, and something needed to be done about it. Especially since they’d started growing in the hermits’ apartments as well.

First he’d complained to Grian about it. Grian had listened carefully as Scar explained about the inconvenience of it all, the danger of maybe getting caught, and the sheer reason that he didn’t like mushrooms. His friend had told him to hold out his hands. Then he’d dropped a mushroom in them.

That was where Scar had drawn the line.

He had paced the floor of his mushroomified abode, muttering and thinking. It hadn’t been the first time they had pulled pranks on each other, having stuck together for over ten years now, and they’d been inspired by the residents of the apartment complex they lived in, but Scar had a feeling this was going to be a little more extreme than your typical scheme or trick. This would be a prank war.

A war. He liked the sound of that. And from what little Scar knew about wars, he knew that he needed recruitment to help him win.

So the next day, several hermits woke up to a blue sticky note on their desks. The groupchat, which, while supposed to be used for important things, ended up being literally anything anyone thought was interesting, discussed this.

. . .

XisumaVoid: [insert image] anyone know what this is?

FalseSymmetry: I got one of those too!

ImpulseSV: I haven’t… Can’t read the writing in the image. What’s SG saying?

Mumbojumbo: Who’s SG??

ImpulseSV: Scar Ghosts!

MumboJumbo: Is Grian GG then…?

ImpulseSV: …

XisumaVoid: It reads: Mayor gtwScar needs YOU to stop the mycelium that’s spreading throughout the apartment complex! The ~bor~ ghost known as Grian is the one causing this spore infestation, and that needs to be FIXED immediately! Sign below if you agree and want to join:

XisumaVoid: I think I know why some of the hermits haven’t gotten one… he’s picked smartly

BdoubleO100: Yeah, I see it clear as day!

RenDog: Hey! Rude

ZedaphP: Hi! Why have only some people got a letter then? (Won’t sign mine because my house is still recovering from the last prank war we had)

BdoubleO100: Because MOST of you WANT another war instead of peace and prosperity from our amazing ghostly mayor!

ZedaphP: Thanks!

StressMonster101: Wait who’s mayor? Xisuma??

CubFan135: Scar is apparently

TangoTek: eyyyyyyyy war!!! Are we only fighting G-ghost?

ImpulseSV: Why are you on Scar’s side!?

XisumaVoid: Judging from past experiences Tango, no.

GeminiTay: I know I haven’t officially moved in yet but why can I see a window burning? Standing outside btw, can someone let me in?

XisumaVoid: That’s a good question Gem

XisumaVoid: I don’t know

RenDog: Be right there Gem!

XisumaVoid: @DocM77

DocM77: Don’t put it out! It’s all part of the process!

GeminiTay: …

XisumaVoid: …

MumboJumbo: …

FalseSymmetry: Meeting dismissed?

XisumaVoid: Right. Meeting dismissed.

. . .

While Grian didn’t have access to the Hermitcraft groupchat (as it had been dubbed), being a bit on the small side to use phones, he did know Scar was up to something. And he definitely noticed the removal of his beautiful mushroom gifts in some of the hermits’ apartments. What did Scar take him for, some kind of fool?

It had taken a couple of eavesdropped conversations to figure out the gist of it, but only once he’d found one of Scar’s extra sticky note copies did he properly understand what was going on. His eyes shined, reflecting the chaotic fire that had begun to burn inside of him.

Scar wanted a war with the mycelium? Then Grian would happily oblige. Jimmy would be glad to know the spores of his had not gone to waste. And if the next day, several handpicked hermits received their own special sticky notes? That was none of Scar’s concern for now. Grian was ready for a resistance. As he grabbed some supplies to go borrowing, as he was beginning to run low on some items like string, and oh, some paper clips would be nice, he heard voices on the other side of the wall. Voices who were discussing the right kind of thing, not whatever Scar was calling his thing, the HEP or whatever. Voices that were discussing the mycelium, and in a good way too.

Grian was ready for a resistance. And as he shouldered his satchel, he knew the hermits were too.

. . .

I should tag my taglist………

@i-am-beckyu , @da3dm , @brick-a-doodle-do , @faeiyn-cant-write , and please tell me if I’m missing you or you want to be added!

[munchkin1156]

Hermit-A-Day-May

Day one- Impulse!!! (Let’s see if I can keep this up)

Thank you to @hermitadaymay for running this!! This is my first time joining :D

Will be posted on ao3 later

Tws: Mentions of death, ghosts, graveyard (he’s sitting on the edge of a graveyard.)

Word count: 891

Enjoy!

. . .

The graveyard was silent during the dark hours.

Mist hung in the air, hanging small dewdrops on blades of grass and the threads in a spider web that had been made inside a large split in the wooden gate. It was an abandoned place, and the stone walls had crumbled more every year that went by without care.

The gravestones were crumbling too, though slower, and they had spells on them to protect them from the passage of time. Vines climbed them, their leaves and flowers covering the names of the forgotten. No vengeful ghosts were here, haunting the graveyard, and making it treacherous for anyone who dared come past. This was what graveyards were meant to be. A place of peace. A place of rest.

Impulse came here often, to think. The lights that hung off his ears, tails and horns always chimed when he got near. He could never work out why, but he didn't spend a lot of time worrying about that. There were more important things to think of. He sat on the edge of the wall, facing away from the resting place, if only to look out at the trees.

They were tall, looming far above him. Their wood was old, creased with the details of hundreds of years. Some people were afraid of them, or what might be between them. Impulse was fairly certain that's why they'd been planted. To keep the wakefulness of the living from disturbing the sleeping dead. He was quiet, and he didn't try to ruin anything, so whatever spirit was guarding these parts let him stay.

He breathed in deep, taking in the cool air. Though the summer days were hot, the nights remained crystal cold here. It was one of the things he loved about it. Demons, or whatever sort of demon descendant Impulse was, preferred the frigid temperatures the dark brought. Something to do with the sun. The sun never hid anything. Everything could be seen under the sun's light.

By moonlight, things could stay hidden. At dusk, with only the moon and his spirit lanterns, Impulse could lie and cheat and swindle, with the most beautiful enchantments, whole worlds built up out of whatever he spoke, knowing he could slip back under the safety of the stillness and the mist.

Perhaps that was an odd way to think about it. But Impulse was a demon descendant. He didn't have another option of thinking available. But sometimes he tried, and that's when he found himself taking the rundown path to the graveyard. The dead knew so much now that they were resting, and when he sat there, on the threshold, he found thoughts in his head that weren't his, yet guided him more than he himself ever could. And in return, he kept the graveyard from falling apart completely.

He didn't remove the vines, but he made sure the names weren't scratched out if one were to look. He kept the spell on the stones strong. He lit the lanterns during storms. And he put flowers on the graves who's names were not there. Impulse knew about being forgotten. And he made it his job, his obligation, his pleasure to care for the ones that had been for centuries.

You might call that kindness. Or you might call it common sense. Impulse didn't mind, whatever people called it. It was the doing it that mattered. As long as he kept doing it, it kept mattering. Maybe one day, someone else would do it too. Who knows? People might learn. But you couldn't rely on it. And you certainly couldn't hope someone else might do it instead. You had to make it your own wish, when you couldn't put that trust in others.

Impulse sighed. The graveyard didn't need anything from him tonight. Besides, all that thinking had been his own. He had no need to give back now. It was a perfect night, and through the mist, the moon bathed everything in silver. He slipped down from the wall, and began making his way back, to the village, the tinkling lights guiding his way. His boots crunched in the wet grass, the only sound for miles to come. A soft humming filled the air as he walked. Every few minutes, he'd stop, and light one of the lanterns that hung, near brokenly, along the way. It wasn't necessarily for the dead. Impulse knew it helped for them to find a proper resting place, one with real magic that would guide them, which wasn't always the one they were buried in. The lights did help with that.

But some part of him had lit the lights, just in case there was a traveler who followed them. The fact remained that you couldn't trust other people to do the same thing you do, and care in the same way you have. You still had to keep doing it yourself, and Impulse knew that, from years of his life gone by, better than anyone.

He knew all of it. And he wasn't hoping for someone else to give back what he took. That was his bargain, and his alone. Still, it would be wonderful, for him and those resting, if the place they rested could be found again.

People didn't like to be forgotten. And Impulse made sure they wouldn't be.

. . .

Taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @da3dm, @faeiyn-cant-write, @boiled-ginger-ale, @local-squshmallow, @akatthatwants2sleep, @vocal-nyx-cords

Taglist just for fics: @mushr00mgurl

I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll probably see you tomorrow for the next day of may!

oh god we’re back with the horrors now…

[munchkin1156]

HADM Day 4- Alternate Ego

Does detective Joel count as an alternate ego? ...Probably not. Did I consider that when I wrote this? Nope. Hahaha, oh well...

As always, thank you to @hermitadaymay for organizing this event!!

Word count: 1,000 (aaaaaaaahh feels so smooth don't it)

Tws: Alcohol, being drunk, blood, dead horses (none of it graphic at all)

Enjoy!

. . .

Joel had been watching over this city for as long as he could remember. Since the day he signed that contract to become a detective, he'd worked day and night to ensure the safety of the people that lived here. He'd stopped countless villains in their tracks to world domination, with his quick wit and clever thinking. His skill in working out cases was incomparable. Anyone who had had the lucky chance to work with him would agree, but of course, those were few people, because he liked to work alone. So, yep, basically the best at doing his job and solving cases, if he did say so himself.

So why oh why, could he not solve this one?

It had looked to be a pretty average case, when he first got it. At least, compared to the ones he usually got. Just some maniac who went around killing people's horses and leaving their heads everywhere. Kinda creepy, but nothing he couldn't deal with. At least, that's what he'd thought.

Now it was three months later, and he was no closer to cracking this case than when he'd started. Joel wasn't sure what he was doing wrong, but whoever this person was, they were one step ahead of him at all times. It drove him mad, and the other people in his department could tell. So, they'd told him to take a break. A break. Could you believe it? They wanted him, the best person on their team, to take a break. Ridiculous. Still, there wasn't much he could do to convince them otherwise, so, with reluctance, he left his red yarn pin board to rest.

Well, they didn't want him protecting the city? Then he wouldn't protect the city. So there.

Several hours later, he found himself drinking away his sorrows down at the pub. The bartender knew him well, and, upon seeing his face, hadn't asked any questions except if he'd like his usual or something a little stronger. At this point, his thoughts were quite hazy, and his words were slurred as he spilled his troubles to the bartender. First, just about this and that- the seats were uncomfortable, the weather seemed to change to rain whenever he was sad, all the types of complaints that any drunk person would make. But then he did something sober Joel wouldn't approve of.

"This case is going to be the death of me, I tell ya." He stated loudly, peering into his half empty drink, possibly expecting to find more in there, and looking disappointed when he found out how little there was left. The bartender raised an eyebrow, a silent sign telling him to go on. Or maybe to shut up, he wasn't sure. And since Joel hadn't been too right in the head then, he did. "The guy I'm trying to catch is a m- maaadman, y'know? Horse heads everywhere. D- D- Disgusting." He almost spat in his drink, but thought better of it, and finished it instead, slamming it back onto the table. "An', an', he's always one step ahead, he is. Like he knows what I'm thinkin'."

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair as the bartender laughed a little, refilling his empty glass. He probably assumed Joel was just too drunk to be telling the truth. Well. That was rude. Not much he could say to convince him in this state. But he continued despite the rudeness. "Imagine that! He'd 'ave to be like my- uh, clone or something! What a- a blummin' stupid thought." Joel sipped his drink, wincing at how strong this one was.

"You ran out of the other stuff or what?" He asked, surprised. The bartender shrugged. "I just thought you might like something with a little kick. This case of yours seems to be really getting you down." Joel hummed in agreement. "That is true." Setting his glass back down, surprisingly gently this time, he tipped his hat, a proper detectives hat, to the bartender. "Gotta hand it to ya, this is preeeetty fine stuff." He watched as the man smiled at him. "Thanks, man. I only give out the best to my favourite customers, anyhow." Huh. Neat.

Joel's haziness had grown a good deal, and after this, he was ninety percent certain he'd call it a night. The room was very blurry, and everything was swaying slightly. Also, he felt kind of sick in his stomach. And his head. Maybe drowning his sorrows in alcohol hadn't been his best idea to date. Could you blame him though!? He'd been (and still was) very upset! Both about working on the case and getting nowhere, and not working on the case, and (sadly) getting the exact same results! This was possibly the only good thing that had happened today.

That's what he had thought, anyway, until something red dripped into his drink from high up. Since he was a little drunk, thank you very much, he didn't notice for a few seconds until it registered inside his brain. Frowning in confusion, he looked up.

It was a taunt. It had to be. Whoever it was, they were mocking him. This must have been hilarious to them. It hadn't been there a few minutes ago, Joel was certain of that. He felt like a bucket of ice cold water had been poured over his body, and he knew he would've preferred that over what he saw. Despite having been incredibly… tipsy, a few moments before, Joel had never felt more sober in his life.

Oh god. Oh god.

Because, right there, staring down at him, looking lifeless in the most haunted manner possible, dripping blood into his drink, was the one thing he wasn't supposed to see. He'd been put on break because of this. Oh god. It- It… It couldn't be. But it was, and the rest of the room faded away as Joel stared up in horror at what was hanging from the ceiling.

It was another horse head.

. . .

Dun dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnnn how terrible! I wonder what might happen next!

Guys you'll never know...

It’s also just a sketch for today, but that’s also because tomorrow is going to be all illustration, no fic!

Taglist: @i-am-beckyu @da3dm , @faeiyn-cant-write , @boiled-ginger-ale , @local-squishmallow , @akatthatwants2sleep , @vocal-nyx-cords

Taglist just for fics: @mushr00mgurl

[munchkin1156]

HADM 6- Mumbo Jumbo

Well well well! Look at this! Another side thing for a three-shot I might post ever... Uh. Maybe. If I re-write it and finish it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

As always, thank you to @hermitadaymay for organizing this event! Everyone should go to their page and if they can donate to their fundraiser for the charity Gamers Outreach! (I forgot to do this the last couple times but oh well)

Tws: Mentions of drowning, mentions of (presumed) death, mentions of grief/mourning (oh and a tw for bad poetry because I did not have enough time to write a good prophecy)

. . .

Mumbo hadn't been sure what it meant when he'd been told he was the child of the prophecy. Partially because his best friend had just fallen in the river, and Mumbo couldn't see him and oh god what if he was drowning what if he drowned and he couldn't save hi- and partially because they hadn't been clear about what exactly that meant until he and Scar had long been dragged away from the river and Grian who was probably, who had probably drow-

Apparently, there had been a prophecy about the old king, or well, once he died. The prophecy they had received a few years after the old king had become the ruler. It had gone as followed:

"Through all the Realm secrets flow,

By the Kingdoms River you shall know,

The next in line upon the throne,

Once the King returns to bone,

But do not fret about your fate,

You shall live long, and have no hate,

So once time is near, journey the end,

Where the water and blood mix and blend."

Not the best rhyme Mumbo had ever heard, and it was a little gruesome if you thought about the meaning, but he couldn't really argue with what the prophet had said. Yet it didn't explain how they'd known it was him, and not, say, Scar, who was confident and charming, or one of the thugs who'd been attacking them, or- or Grian. They hadn't explained then, and they had never ended up explaining.

Mumbo had a sneaking suspicion they'd just picked him because he was convenient. But they hadn't backed down on it if so, even though he was nervous and awkward and lanky. In the beginning, he had been downright awful at all this ruling stuff. That was to be expected. He also kept asking where Grian was. He'd sort of been in denial about what had happened. Eventually, he gave up asking, and so did Scar.

Years went by, sadly enough. And he got better. And the kingdom loved him. Mumbo had never put kings down as the type to get fanmail, but either he was wrong or one in a million. Well, he technically was the chosen one, right? That did make him special in some way. Probably.

Usually there was someone hired to sift through all the letters and separate the ones claiming to be long lost relatives from the ones that were just drawings of him to the actual important ones he needed to read urgently. It was a whole process, and Mumbo was glad it wasn't him who had to do it, though he did feel bad for the person who did.

Maybe that's what made him different from the old king. That caring. But it didn't make him feel special. It was just basic decency to worry and make sure everything was alright. Right? It didn't make any sense why someone wouldn't do that. Scar did it, and his personality differed from Mumbo's in almost every way. He was confident where Mumbo was hesitant, and that was in most things. Mumbo didn't know where he'd be without Scar as his right hand man. His left side always remained empty, just in case. Anyway, no one but Grian could ever fill it, even if he never would come back.

He wrote a lot. To other kingdoms, about trade routes and keeping peace, to fans in response to the pictures, though no matter how much he tried to get through them, there always seemed to be more arriving. Mumbo had no idea why he was so popular, but at least it meant he hardly got death threats. Probably. If there had been some, it had never gotten to him, and been dealt with by the castle guard. It was such a strange life, this, compared to the one he used to live in. A street kid, stealing apples and tinkering with whatever odd devices he happened to get his hands on. Life had been so simple back then, and though it had been harder to get by, Mumbo also vaguely considered that he might have been happier. After all, he'd had both his friends.

Yet that was the way of the world. A world, not uncaring, but unable to stop turning. The mourning had to come to an end, and eventually Mumbo, as well as Scar, but he showed it in other ways, through paintings and smiles, continued without it. It took quite some time, obviously, and they still grieved when the memory was strong. But they had to accept it, because what other choice was there to take? So take it they did, and bore the burden that came with it.

Scar had always been more accepting than Mumbo, and "moved on", quicker. It wasn't by choice, he knew, but it was just how Scar was. Mumbo understood that. But he couldn't ever truly believe it himself. And that might've been a good thing. Especially on one day, when he was sorting through letters, because he didn't have anything else on and would feel bad to bother someone. Of course, he found a letter that stood out. There were plenty of those. This one stood out because of how much it didn't. It was written in scratchy handwriting, rushed and near illegible. The envelope was in a similar condition, not at all neat. Still, he tried to read it, if only out of politeness for whoever this stranger was. It was his duty as king to attempt to read the letters of his subjects, however boring or random or suspicious. Kind of. It was more of a self inflicted duty.

The contents of the letter were nothing like that. Shocking, maybe, horrifying, yes, but not boring, and certainly not a lie. It was too specific and rambling and chaotic and recognisable to be a lie.

Oh gods. He'd have to get Scar.

. . .

Oooooooooh exciting!!! :D Wonder what that letter was about, guess we'll never know unless I make that fic...

That throne is far too big for you Mumbo

Taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @da3dm, @faeiyn-cant-write, @boiled-ginger-ale, @local-squishmallow, @akatthatwants2sleep, @vocal-nyx-cords

Taglist for fics: @mushr00mgurl