#writchel

[booksophie]

I told myself I'd write a thing in 45min and this is what I got

it needs editing and finishing and probably got too long

We used to walk home together every day. My mother insisted there was safety in numbers, though I doubted anyone would think twice about attacking two scrawny third graders instead of one. We didn't have anything to say to each other, and the greater part of a year was spent walking in silence. 

It was a misty February morning when my step was accompanied by a loud crunch. I  looked down to find the shattered remains of a snail shell, my nose wrinkling in disgust at the mucus now smeared on the bottom of my shoe. Rose, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees, staring intently at the mess on the sidewalk. 

"We're going to give it a burial," she said, the first words she'd directed my way beyond perfunctory daily greetings. I began to protest (we'd be late, it's just a snail, it's kind of gross) but even before I opened my mouth I knew it was hopeless. 

We dug a small hole and said a few words, borrowed mostly from television programs, and from then on we were inseperable. We didn't talk much more than before, and when we did it was never small talk. She always seemed to know so much, and if you could get her going out would rush colorful stories, peopled with characters so real I could almost feel them walking next to us. She spoke quietly, but with a spark in her eyes that was absent any other time. I could almost believe the stories were real.

Then she stopped meeting me. I waited for near an hour after school, reassuring myself that she'd just had some mundane task to finish and we'd be chattering away in no time.

I walked alone, and when I asked the next morning she shrugged and gave me empty excuses. It was no big deal, I told myself, and we continued to walk together in the morning. Her stories got... darker. Murder and lies and secrets started to pervade them, so that I would get a chill on even a balmy day. I told her she should consider publishing, but her rejection was point blank and she refused to explain why.

It's been a month, and today I made up my mind. I follow her. I know what her last class is; she is my best friend. She takes the side gate, and furtive glance she casts nearly catches me; I disappear around the corner of a building just in time. 

I only manage to follow her because she's not truly expecting anyone to. The lanes get thinner and more crooked, more removed from the heart of our little town until we come to--

I rub my eyes. Surely I didn't see her turn here? The cemetery gates stare back at me, solidly verifying their presence. I step closer, peering without entering, trying to catch a glimpse of Rose. 

She sits cross-legged in front of a gravestone, 

[booksophie]

fanpro is pretty neat, so I decided to contribute by writing a was-going-to-be-short thing about 48 and 59

it's gotten long so I'm just gonna post it now and wirte more parts later because 59 has barely even made an appearance and this is mostly all me attempting to worldbuild

--

Leaving your kids alone to entertain themselves isn't an uncommon practice on Vert. The cries of plants that need tending to is louder than any sound your infant could manage. Just sit them in a nice patch of dirt, give them a bottle of water and they'll entertain themselves. What is uncommon is returning to find your two-year-old perched in a sapling that wasn't there a few hours earlier, sucking his thumb calmly.

I was marked then as one of the Gifted. It didn't make me a freak like it would on some planets. Not here, where you grow up surrounded by the color green, where you learn to use a shovel as soon as you can lift one. It opened up a world of possibilities for me, but at the same time, it shut down any hope I ever had of leaving. 

Some people do. Leave, I mean. If you can prove your talents, your worth to the Empire, they'll send down an interplanetary shuttle and the universe is yours. That was all I ever dreamed of before reality punched me in the face. 

I stand at the end of the lane that leads to the hillock that is my family's home, posture perfect. I try not to let my impatience and nervousness show on my face, but my knuckles are white as I tighten my grip on my long green staff. It doesn't help that the bushes down here haven't been watered in a while, and I can feel the thirst of those nearest to me traveling up my staff like a low continuous electric shock. Irritably, I pull the end of it away from the ground, because more stimulus is the last thing I want. 

I rub idly at the bulbous purple tip of my staff, trying to make it just a bit shinier.

My parents have already retreated to the fields, dutiful goodbyes and parental roles fulfilled, muttering about cabbages and fertilizer. I likely won't see them again. 

I hear the crunching sound of someone coming down the lane, and I feel myself straighten. My mind goes back to a week ago, to breaking open the letter with the wax imperial seal. If you close your eyes you can picture the words as if you're still looking at them. 

To Master Peter Crescen: 

We have been informed that next Tuesday, May the 16th, is the day of completion of your twentieth year cycle. We offer our congratulations on your coming of age. 

Our records indicate that you have been registered as a Gifted entity for more than a dozen cycles, and that you received your Channeling Instrument at the typical age. 

At 9:00 AM on Wednesday, May the 17th, transport will be sent to the location of your residence so that you may begin more intensive training.

Regards, 

The Office of Princess Ivy Helix

 A carriage rolls up and the driver beckons me into an empty carriage, raising an eyebrow at my hesitance.

"You didn't think she'd come for you in person, did you?" he sneers. "You'll have plenty of time to be frightened of her at the castle," he adds with a snort, before spurring the horses forward.

 A heavy sense of disappointment spreads through me, as I lean my head on the window, watching the endless greenery streak by. The box-like carriage is making me feel like some sort of caged bird, and before long I drop off to sleep.

[booksophie]

I'm writing more eriara because I miss rping it

I'm not even sure where this fic is going

sgrubless au blah blah warning for torture maybe?

1/2/3 

part 4/?

You stay absolutely still until you can't see him anymore, and even then you wait until the sound of his footsteps fades into the distance.

You could leave. You could, right now, probably open a window somewhere and take off into the night, and while the promise of freedom is incredibly tempting, common sense says stay. This is your last chance, it reasons with you. If you leave, if you get caught, you'll be culled. They won't care to deal with you anymore. Running away is a sure death sentence.

He didn't hit you. You don't know why, but you are sure that if you had attacked him he wouldn't have had even a second thought. Maybe the shortest path to freedom is through calculated obedience.

It's not really giving in, you reassure yourself as you finally get to rinse a week's worth of crustiness off your face. Resisting will only result in them trying to crush you harder. If you can find

You go back to the room they've been keeping you in, not knowing where else to go, and you don't even have time for daymares before it's evening again and there's an insistent rapping at your door.

The yellow-blooded troll doesn't knock again. Your legs are already  over the edge of the bed when the door slams into the adjacent wall, shocking you to your feet. 

He has curly cue horns and towers over you, all bulging muscles and a tight set jaw. When he speaks, though, his voice is clear and intelligent. "You will be doing basic cleaning, mostly in the culinary block, and possibly some sopor slime replacement. We will figure

"You must be Varrek," you deduce as he ushers you down the hall. 

"That's correct," he responds in a tone that tells you that you've asked a question that should be stupidly obvious. Not that that stops him continuing on. "I run things around here. The Orphaner is a busy man and rarely has the time to oversee the finer details of his hivehold. Normally any punishment for wrongdoings would be dealt by me," and he here he turns to you, looking you sharply in the eye. "You're a special case. Insurrection will get you sent straight to him. You'd do well to remember we have more than one pair of psionicuffs here."

And before you can respond to his dual threat and word of advice, he's passed you off to another slave. 

You're left alone with a bucket (eugh) of soapy water and a washcloth and the command to "be done in time for evening meal." With a sigh, you get to work, letting your mind drift to places without chains. 

[booksophie]

more eriara for your money 

to summarize: a sgrubless au where aradia is given to eridan as a slave 

1/2  (it makes a lot more sense if you read these first)

part 3/?

You don't go after her right away. Instead, your eye follows the sway of her hips as she storms away from you, and your mind wanders to the first and only other time you'd met her. 

--

Vriska insisted he come, and while he'd grumbled and protested endlessly, he quietly thought some time spent showing off his spade would be good for their relationship. He lets the spider troll lead him into the depths of the (tasteless, low class, landdweller) restaurant, where Aradia and Tavros are already sitting at a table. They're scribbling on a kids menu, giggling about something and generally being disgustingly sappy palemates. Vriska grins a predatory grin and draws Tavros into a web of conversation immediately, leaving Eridan staring down over his glasses at Aradia. If this is some sort of weird triple date (pale for the lowbloods, black for him and Vriska, red for Vriska and Tavros) where does that leave him and her?

She gives him one quick glance over and dismisses him, goes back to her drawing. He puffs up, demands her attention, and she reluctantly gives it to him in the form of tic tac toe games played on napkins. She wins every one.

He knows he ought to pay Vriska attention, and she will likely get on his ass for it later (as if she's paying him any, the filthy hypocrite), but he can't seem to take his eyes off the girl in red, the way her eyes narrow when she's deciding her next move, the way she pushes that same strand of hair out her eyes and looks smugly up at him once it's made.  How she puts her elbows on the table with no regard for what anyone thinks, and most of all how she doesn't seem to pay you any inherent respect for being a seadweller.

--

You snap back to the present. If anyone saw her blatant defiance you're in a deep crock of shit, but appearances are everything, so you straighten your collar smartly and walk briskly down the hall after her. 

Your hand clamps onto her shoulder, and she goes limp, face carefully blank. She expects you to hit her, and you are fully prepared to, teeth gritted and fist curled. It's happened so many times before that she knows how to keep silent no matter what you subject her to. You are not a troll at this moment, just something used to bring her pain.

You draw back your hand to deliver a blow when you notice her own hand, curled up, nails digging into her palm. A crack in her callous mask. It shows she is indeed breaking, you tell yourself, that's the reason you stop before you go through with it. There is no jolt of pity in your stomach, no hesitance in your motions. Perhaps if you tell yourself that enough times, it will become a little less false.

"You'll report to Vvarrek tomorroww. You'll do wwhatevver he tells you to and you'll do it wwithout complaint." 

You leave her in the hall without a glance back. If she chooses to make her way to an ablution chamber and gets herself cleaned up, what is it to you?