#t:TBA

[quinntessentiallyglee]

@darkmasterkattsvault

Quinn: Are you going to be home this weekend?

[argelfrasterr]

@dcarhcarts used Like!

⸺DEATH

A SMALL THEORY There are colors inside written words. It is not the ink nor the paper, but it is in the hook of the J and where lines cross on the T. And it is not just one single hue for one word or letter. No, there are swampy scarlets and trembling teals and aggressive ambers. They are there, if only you pay attention to them.

They come upon the human, although this one still stands, not like most mortals they meet. It is just as well--they are not here for them, not yet. The soul they are currently waiting for is still on their deathbed, bleeding wires. This bookstore is theirs, and for now they will manage it in their stead.

Contrary to popular belief, Death does not mind being cheated. Rather, they find gleams of gold in it.

Smiling, they ask, “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

[argelfrasterr]

@personnages (Lise) used Like! and because i love you, too.

⸺DEATH 

There are moments when time is bleak, not unlike the white which peaks from the windows. Like the curtains, the white obscures what is to be seen and muffles what is to be heard. Only touch remains, gloved. A brush against warm skin. Mere stitches and embroidery.

They have come for a soul, but there is not one to take. They should have moved on then, left the curtains be, let the dust settle until time moves again, but still, they stay. They are roped in.

Taking the seat beside the other, they speak. “I’m sorry, dear one, but you should know the path you chose is weaved with pain.”

[argelfrasterr]

@personnages (Georgiana) used Like!

⸺UMETAROU 

“Ah, hello. You must be Alice.” He turned at the waist to reach the bag slung to his side and plucked a notebook out of it, eyes never meeting the other’s. “Thanks for agreeing with this. Can you sit on that bench? The one nearest the tree.”

[argelfrasterr]

@aliwept used Like!

⸺UMETAROU

He stood at the front of the door. His leg was starting to cramp. His eyes has been twitching. 

He really didn’t want to be here.  (But I must...)

And although he eventually reached out to slide open the door, Umetarou only realized he has also taken a step back. (...) With a sigh, he stepped into the Choir Club. “Excuse me...”

(Okay, Umetarou, you can do this. You need this for a new script.) Because apparently anything was better than drawing backgrounds.

[argelfrasterr]

@dreicha used Like!

⸺DEATH

The sky is white from one horizon to the next, a bowl for what is stirring below, its surface immaculate if not for the crack of yellow at the far corner, an inconsistency which calls them to stare. They wait for a change, of whether it will grow and encompass the entirety of the sky or would it shrink, anxious and apologetic for drawing so much attention to itself. It is an occurrence which comes too quick and too slow, and they will find out soon enough. Giving the sky one last look, they return to observing the glass wares. Wisps of souls are draped across their arms. 

They are waiting for them, too.

Mortals are stubborn creatures.

Careful to not jostle the souls still sticking to their mortal bodies, they point at a glass figurine at least a foot tall and meet the eyes of the shopkeeper. “Can I buy this?”