The Depository

He was right. She did want to be closer to Strawn. “My grandmother was born and raised here. I never met her, though,” Lavender admitted. She’d found an old picture of the lake tucked away among her grandmother’s belongings and thought that, somehow, coming here might make her feel closer to her. “My phone actually died. I thought I could read the map, but clearly I overestimated myself,” she added with a soft chuckle. “Would you really help me? That’s… really kind of you.” Lav considered refusing—after all, he was a stranger—but she was freezing and completely helpless. “I’m from Florida.”

"That's a shame. May have known your grandmother if she was a native. And the same for your phone." Charles finished cranking the new barbed wire down to the last post he had had to replace. He then put his tools in the bed and retrieved his Themos to offer her some coffee inside. "Not a problem, ma'am. Happy to help out. Can't have you keep wandering around and getting more lost. Name's Charles, Florida. But everybody calls me Charlie. What's yours?"

send me “#” for cell phone headcanons about our muses including:                              - what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone                              - what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone                              - what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone                              - my muse’s last text to your muse

"Well Picking up that book was a mistake" Ruby said, while she was dressed for the cold, she wasn't exactly dressed for winter wonderland.

“Yes. Some books are not the mundane scriptures they appear to be. So I assume that’s how you got here in such strange clothes that are clearly not meant for this weather? Now the bigger question would be whether the travel through this tome is one-way or reversible. What’s your name traveler?”

Cisne had learned long ago that healing was not done by force, it was done by persuasion. And as she felt her magic pour into the other it felt as though everything around them stilled — almost as if they were watching Cisne work. The light faded and the threads dissipated, leaving Cisne holding their hand firmly but with a hunt of gentleness. Her shoulders sagged and she felt a tad bit light headed, she probably went a bit overboard with her magic this time but it was worth it in her mind. "How do you feel?" She asked, one of her hands coming down to rest on their shoulder. "You probably shouldn't move too much, it might do you more harm than good." She warned softly.

Cisne’s lovely voice was both sweet honey and daggers to his newly conscious head. Being revived always felt like a heavy hangover, plus the crown of antlers that were regrowing after being broken in the fight did not help. But it also was the only reason he’d not grabbed for his sword to continue what his mind thought was a current battle. He relaxed and followed her voice, weakly saying, “By the grace… of Mielikki, I… still breathe,” back to her. “Did we… win the day?”

(*Or no muse for single muse blogs)

Answer that question.

“Y/M, Your Majesty,” the princess curtseyed, yet there was a bitter bite to her words, despite it simply being how to address Y/M. “It is an honour to be in your kingdom and your presence,” Aislin added, her sarcasm well hidden as she was a trained diplomat and negotiator, despite having failed to negotiate her own marriage and was stuck with Y/M, refusing to show attraction or admiration in any form on principle of the old practice of arranged marriages. She’d even heard Y/M has requested to marry her, rather than any of her sisters. “If I may ask, your majesty, why…why me?” she had to ask, observing they were alone in the throne room.

“And we’re in private, so you can drop the formalities. Seeing you act so rigid towards me is odd. I know all too well that you’re putting on a face for propriety. The future queen I fell for doesn’t mind getting messy or kissing frogs.” He chuckled before taking her hand to kiss it, and then directing her to the chaise lounge. “I’d much rather talk over tea and not force you to balance on those tiny, uncomfortable, shoes your mother clearly forced you into. Or the corset you’re clearly struggling to breathe in.”