The Ghost of Cat's Cradle

...and this is my Warrior Nun side-blog. Here's some of my unhinged WN-related offerings. 📝 Like Breath Into Our Lungs - as known as The Scent Fic because it features an Ava who is obsessed with Beatrice's scent. In fact, it's what tips her infatuation over into obsession. OR what if Halo Bearers also have an excellent sense of smell and what if scents can communicate feelings. Read it on AO3. 📝 Avatrice Fanfiction Bingo - Part I & Part II 🖼️ Screenshots of Beatrice and Ava's phones 🖼️ Lilith gets a hangry Camila food by warping

Bert — Mother Superion. Secretly obsessed with the wonderfully mundane while not defeating Adriel’s hordes with her pinky

Ernie — Dr. Salvius. Anything is possible with my rubber ducky, I mean, Science. Even conjuring a little boy from a wish and Divinium shavings.

Grover — Yasmine. Very smart and has a secret bumbling superhero alter ego? It’s gotta be our favourite Coptic nun. Just don’t ask her to drive

Cookie Monster — Camila. Doesn’t believe in holding back because limits don’t exist. Nothing can stop Camila from getting what she wants, baby

Elmo — Ava. You’ve seen the memes and just like our girl Ava, Elmo is fire. Elmo/Ava represents the unstoppable object

Two-Headed Monster. — Lilith. Not a girl, not yet a monster when we last saw her, Lilith is conflicted. She just hopes you’ll be right side when it’s time for war

Big Bird — Beatrice. Smart people are smart cuz they never stop asking questions and being curious. Such as can’t you see I’m straight and wdym you can’t see Snuffleupagus?

Bonus

Beaker — Kristian Schaefer

I wrote a quick (over 3 days T_T) Witcher AU story for Midinváerne (Midwinter in Witcher world)!

Here's a snippet:

“Now, I want you to shut your mouth,” Mary held up a finger as she approached Beatrice, who was seated at her study, poring over a swordsmanship manual from distant Zerrikania. Figures of men holding wavy daggers with curved blades tussling filled its pages. Beatrice wore her hair in her customary topknot. Today, she was dressed in a pale blue brocade doublet and charcoal grey breeches. The Lord-Commander of Dreadmoor laid out pieces of parchment methodically on her desk, spreading them out like a deck of cards. Charcoal portraits of various men were etched on each of them. Beatrice frowned and pointed at one of the men with a nasty scar. “Is that-“ “Shush,” Mary admonished. “Five men. Ten days. All with pockets deeper than hell’s bunghole. Your parents want you to marry, Beatrice. By Midinváerne.”

On Sunday morning, approximately eight hours after enjoying the beautiful chaos and cinematic wonder that was Peking Opera Blues, Beatrice dreamt about her Taiwanese grandmother.

It felt so real.

It was powerfully loud as it was vivid, with the clashing of stage weapons and the banging of Chinese cymbals. She sat before a stage full of Chinese opera performers in colourful costumes and vibrant painted faces, in a sea of contented elderly folk. A man was going from row to row hawking bags of freshly roasted chestnuts, which filled the air with a wonderful aroma. Though she was of an indeterminate, single-digit age, Beatrice felt certain that she was the youngest audience member.

“This is my favourite part,” The older woman beside her said, her eyes glinting. “This man is here to challenge our hero to a duel. Did you know he’s played by a woman?”

“Preposterous!” The voice of Beatrice’s mother rang out from behind. “Come with me, Beatrice, we’re going home.”

They both ignored her.