#hatsaplenty

Oop didn’t see this.

Noted!

EDIT: Unfortunately, Mr. Hat doesn’t meet the proper activity requirements to request a hiatus. Sorry about that!

The Bard sits at the desk in his bedroom. When he first arrived here, he figured this would be where he does most of his creative writing. He quickly found that he was wrong, the modern style of his room and the desk interfering with his creative flow. He does his writing outdoors now, but this… he feels needs to happen in his room. Alone, where no one can find him. He knows this is going to hurt him, and he doesn't want anyone else seeing him hurt. In front of him, on his desk, is the notebook he bought from Golden Ward earlier that day. He'd used his busking money on it, and while he's still in desperate need of staff paper, this felt more right to purchase.

His fingers tremble only a little as he reaches up to pluck the feather pen from his hat. He opens the book, and writes down the first name that comes to mind: Cooper.

The Bard has never had the best memory. He loses information faster than he takes in new information. He knows, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, that the memory of his friends will be gone within a year of him being here. He wishes he could say for sure he'd be home by then… but he doesn't know. No one knows. He knows people who have been here for months, for years, and haven't returned home. What if he can never go back? Years of his life, suddenly gone…? Every good memory he'd made with the Glidewing crew, with the villagers in town, with… with Bradley. Everything would be gone. He's resolved himself to write down everything he can remember now. The sooner the better. The sooner, the less he'll forget.

Bard's hand moves, hesitantly at first, but after that first push, it becomes near automatic. He starts writing stories of Cooper. How they met, how he'd bought him his lute, helped him learn to sew, to cook, to pilot the Glidewing should an emergency happen– and of course, Bard not quite being able to grasp it. He writes all of his memories, good and bad, though they're overwhelmingly good. When he's done, he flips the page and continues onto the next person, and the next, and the next, and so on until–

He's suddenly out of pages. The last thing he managed to write, King Knight, staring back at him as he watches the page blankly.

1. His birthday is April 3rd!

Welcome to scenic Isola Radiale, Mr. Hat!

You will be housed in TOWNHOUSE 201.

You’ll have access to your pickelhaube hat and can use its ability to conjure up to five red hot spears per day. Your hat magic will not work otherwise. You’ll also be given a wooden cane.

   The plastic of her feet thump against the carpet softly as she looks around, eagerly looking at the bedrooms as she made her way through the house. Leian, Kazuma, she’d have to introduce herself very soon!! One name stood out however. Much like the other two, the name adorned the top of the door. ‘Mr. Hat.’ Now if that didn’t sound curious, Unikitty didn’t know what else would!! He sounds neat by just name alone! “Oh, Mister Haaaaaaaaaaat~! Are you in there?” She knocks, once, twice, three times before pressing her face to the door. “It’s me your new roomie!! Open Uuuuuuuuuup~!!” She could be interrupting him, she could even be waking him up! And the possibly he’s not in his room to begin with? All instances she doesn’t even stop to think about. She just wants to get to know her new roomies!!

   “Mister Haaaat! Lemme innnnn! Why are you called ‘Mr. Hat’ anyway?”

meme || accepting

029. What sort of sense of humor does your character have?

Very sarcastic and teasing. She doesn’t joke with people often; not because she doesn’t want to, but because her scathing remarks can be misinterpreted easily. Other forms of humour don’t interest her all that much, but she may roll her eyes at bad jokes from time to time.

040. What is their obsession?

[[ this post cause me to explode on impact

NEW YEARS MEMES // ACCEPTING

“ A party hat…? ” Eyes meticulously study the insipid paper hat, shuddering at its bold and tacky colors down to the useless string tied in a loop; presumably used to rest on one’s jaw and keep it staying upright. He has to wonder for what reason the hat-obsessed man of moderate fashion has to gain from sharing his horrendous collection other than for sheer love of tricking others into dressing in a way similar that of a child.

     He easily finds himself letting out a displeased groan, swirling his glass of wine, mildly agitated.