the ending of your tragic fairytale.

I LITERALLY ADOPTED HER BY MAKING A BLOG BEFOFE SHATTERADOPTED HER SO ((((((((((((((((:

SORRY I ALREADY ADOPTED HER

“You’re like a candy bar: half sweet and half nuts.” The comment comes unprompted, but is spoken with the utmost solemnity as though he truly means this. Of course, the smirk curling lips indicates anything but sincerity. He can’t keep himself from doing it, though. If you can’t use terrible pick-up lines on this day then when can you? 

               ✂ @inlookingglass  ▌ STARTER CALL

Cora realized, a little later than she would choose to admit, that the girl already had whatever it was she needed to cast some sort of spell. This was not a use of ink that Cora had encountered in all her years. Typically spells were written on scrolls, in books, to be utilized outside of oneself. This was clearly something different.

For a moment she realized she may have been hasty in burning the book- there may have been knowledge in there of power she did not have, power she could later use. But she had chosen to make this girl an enemy rather than an ally, and it was far too late to change course now. 

Besides, a challenge had been issued. The girl seemed to think Cora could not stop her, and that ignorance must be corrected. Cora narrowed her eyes, accepting the challenge. There was a tree across the street- its branches would do just fine. Cora didn’t say a word as the bark began to move, stretching outwards towards the girl. She smiled, and waited a moment. 

When the branches had nearly reached their target, she chose to speak.

“Oh, but that isn’t nearly as much fun,” Cora said as the wooden bindings reached their target, wrapping tightly around the girl’s ankles and wrists. With a clench of her own fist, the branches strengthened their grip, splinters piercing skin.

“Don’t make me hurt you, dear,” Cora sneered, tone dripping with honeyed sarcasm. “I would so hate to do you harm.”

A hiss escaped between Hatter’s teeth as branches wound around her limbs. Her fist closed convulsively around the tuning fork, muffling its sound and quieting the vibrations in her head. If her captor came just a few steps closer, if Hatter could throw the tuning fork against the sidewalk with sufficient force… Oh, she’d teach the witch a thing or two about doing harm.

But the distance was wrong and the branches held her fast, no matter how defiantly she struggled against them. Stronger than the creeping vines of a tulgey tree—although their bark has nothing on the tulgey vine’s teeth.

Panting, heart slamming in her chest, Hatter went still for a moment, considering her options. She might be able to move swiftly enough to wrench her legs out of their boots, and with feet planted on solid ground, rip her arms free… But the witch would surely catch her again.

Neutralize the magic first, then. She yanked her left arm. against the restraints, grimacing as the bark scraped against her bare skin. Ink was the Protocol’s preferred conduit, but blood would serve in a pinch, and if she could reach into the magic animating the branches and cut the lines of intent… Well, in theory the branches would simply collapse.

like “this looks like a half-assed high school production” bad

like “has grace smart ever heard of texture? or thematic coherence?” bad

|    & ☽   🐾   ☾ not exactly  a fan of the unfamiliar.  considering century    after century  had been spent learning the ways  of the world & its’ inhabitants,  lore told of more   but barely showed it.         “ well someone spent way      too much time with their      sewing machine today —- “ 

       “ and someone has no       appreciation for craft. ”

a glare.   no such thing as too much time with a machine  —  at least not  until the eyes get blurry.   & anyway, the hat    ( returned now to her head with an irate flourish )  is hand-sewn.

          an agonized hiss—– hands fly to his ears, to protect from the ASSAULT, but the damage is done. it is far too late & he feels much more than the simple two letter word should make him feel. face twists, the resounding THRUMMING in his ears.

( why do people not understand the beauty of a WHISPER ? )

          ❝ pardon me, i didn’t mean to offend ? ❞   it’s phrased as a question, though he doesn’t intend it: he’s just not sure WHAT he did wrong. but if it’ll prevent another shout, he’ll apologize a hundred more times.

         ❝ whether you MEANT or DIDN’T MEAN is irrelevant. you DID ! ❞   morris makes no effort to lower his voice; he, unlike this blithering fool, has no qualms about causing offense. & shouting is a good, comfortable volume, one he won’t easily relinquish.

Cora scoffed, rolling her eyes. There was no alternative to a fact. Someone’s misconception of an event did not make it true. “And if I told you I thought I was a purple elephant with silver wings, would that make it true simply because I believed it? Don’t be ridiculous.”

A lie was a lie, and to believe otherwise was utter nonsense. Though Cora knew damn well it was fruitless to argue with a Wonderlander. The whole lot of them were out of their stupid little minds. 

“You’re entirely mad, though I suppose you know that. You people are very easy for a despot to control. I suppose you’d believe what ever lies some tyrant spouted at you, wouldn’t you? Perhaps a ruler would shout that thousands had come to praise them, when in reality it was a small circle of loyalists. But that wouldn’t matter to you, would it? You’d still believe the lie. That, my dear, is madness.”

“Purple elephants don’t exist,” Hatter said, grinning. “But you can believe anything you like, so––––if you were adamant about thinking yourself to be a purple elephant, winged or otherwise––––I might have to believe that you believed, in spite of evidence to the contrary, that you were one after all.”

It was a matter of logic, not madness. Hatter couldn’t understand what was so difficult about it; people believed plenty of things without any factual basis, and when people claimed to believe in something, it saved a lot of time and effort to simply take them at their word. Each person was a master on the subject of their own mind, after all.