#saintedscribbles

[Starter for @saintedscribbles]

It's dark, nearly too dark- even with the moonlight overhead- to even make out the marks he's making on the paper with a stick of burnt charcoal. He swiped this particular book from Forsyth's stash - the title is long and he can't decipher half the words, but he hasn't seen Forsyth pick it up in months, so he figured it might not be missed. The pages are littered with marks- circles around words and numbers that he recognizes, others clumsily copied over and over, and often devolving into smears and smudges of frustration.

A shadow falls over him, blocking the little sliver of light he has, and he glances up in irritation, quickly shutting the book and hiding it in his heavy woolen cloak.

The silhouette standing over him is familiar- slender and small, its great cloud of fluffy hair glowing softly from the moonlight behind it. It's become a familiar sight since the two combined armies set off for home- he discovered quickly that the healer from Celica's group is one of the few who is frequently awake as late as he is. Shivering, he pulls the cloak tighter around his shoulders and shakes off a small pile of snow that has accumulated in his hair.

It’s hard enough to untangle her hair in civilization, with access to oils and larger mirrors. Now Genny has to wake up early to make it to the single camp mirror before Leon rolled out of bed and took one look at his smudged eyeliner. Not to mention the static from being outdoors in the cold for weeks on end.

Genny had accidentally shocked Valbar one morning and had felt terrible for the rest of the day. At least that time it hadn’t interacted badly with her magic and created some sort of lightning feedback. That had been an interesting morning at the priory…

She shook the memory off, concentrating on gathering together her precious supply of brushes and oils, wrapped protectively in an old scrap of blanket. Genny could do without many things, but she had to have her hair oils. What kind of healer would she be if she couldn’t see her patients, or worse shocked them.

With a sigh, Genny pushed out of her tent and crossed the frozen campground to where a tiny sheet of metal hung from a low tree branch. It swung slightly in a breeze and Genny’s heart sank as she realized someone else was using it. Hesitantly rounding the tree, she was relieved to see Silque. Of the many people occupying the campground, the cleric was most likely not to hog the mirror for hours on end. Still, Genny approached cautiously. It didn’t do to startle anyone needlessly.

She was relieved to find that Silque only took up half the mirror and happily slid next to the older girl. Lit by the dawn light they spent a few quiet reflective moments in front of the mirror, performing their morning ablations.

Silque had to count herself lucky. Her hair was fairly easy to take care of. That wasn’t always the case. In her childhood, she had longer hair, brushed by her mouth and always tied up in some ways, but it never lasted long. Short hair was easier to deal with. It could get tangled less than long hair could. Silque knew this by experience. Trying to make it through a brush and how she had to wait as her mother patiently untangled it from a branch. 

It was easier to take care of, requiring less attention. Silque did not see it as a way to discourage vanity, exactly, but simply needing less time to worry about. Brushing her hair was necessary, but it was also relaxing sometimes. The simple strokes as it passed through her short hair, until any knots or tangles were gone. As a child, the shortness kept it from tangling on branches or getting into her face. As an adult, she had kept it the same out of familiarity and it’s ease.

She was already awake when she saw Genny coming over to her. She always awoke early. Neither of them were rather big people nor were they the kind to occupy a mirror to just themselves. She smiled at the young woman as she came over before turning her attention back to her reflection. She didn’t mind sharing the space with her. 

@saintedscribbles

They’ve only been sailing for an hour and Saber already regretted leaving his tavern.

The old man, despite their reassurances, was clearly still worried about running into those pirates. And despite being charismatic, the young lass that hired him is hardly an intimidating figure. The old man was making their travel as slow as he could manage to delay the inevitable, clearly frustrating the priestess girl and annoying her two companions. The girl started complaining, the boy started squabbling with her,and Saber stepped out before he lost his head listening to either of them.

He stepped onto the deck and breathed in the air. Easy money, he reminded himself. Just gotta bring the brats from point a to point b, and easy money. 

Something caught his attention, a sound, very weak, and he looked over and ah. There was the fourth of the gang. Clinging to the side of the boat and hunched over the edge, looking worse for wear. Saber sighed. Great.

27.) Having locked themselves out of their house in nothing but their underwear/a bathrobe.

“For fuck’s sake, Fors,” Python growls into the phone, “will you pick up? I need your key.” The answering machine beeps again, and he groans.

This is what Python gets for having very little sense of decency- and as a result, being too lazy to put on pants to wander outside to their apartment complex’s shared mailbox. It’s nearly noon anyways, nobody with a normal job is around, and Forsyth had left half an hour ago to go grocery shopping. He’d had the pile of the usual junk- bills they can’t afford, credit card offers, something for that one guy who lived there years ago- clutched in his hand when he’d returned to his door, but when he’d hooked the handle of his mug of coffee on two fingers to open it, it hadn’t budged.

….Fuck, Forsyth must have locked the handle when he left. It still pushes open from the inside, but sure as hell not the outside. Python only ever bothers with the deadbolt- only Forsyth is paranoid enough to use both locks- and while he’d brought his coffee on this little mail run, he hadn’t brought his keys.

At least this particular pair of deep red boxers are nice, since apparently he’ll be showing them off to the neighborhood for at least the next hour.

So here he is, sitting on his building’s front steps, mostly naked with a handful of mail. At least he has coffee and his phone (though not a cigarette, which would improve things considerably). As he’s about to call and berate Forsyth again for not answering his phone, a figure with fluffy hair that he recognizes walks by. She’s a nurse, works night shifts- he runs into her sometimes coming home before sunup when he can’t sleep and ends up sitting outside. They haven’t done much more than said hello a few times, but he’s impressed that she has the balls to walk down their particular block alone at night, and if he’s up, he watches to make sure that she gets to her building across the street safely.

Right now, however, she’s staring at him, eyes owlishly wide, and cheeks rapidly going pink. Suppressing another groan, he decides that the best course of action is to act like there’s nothing weird about this at all, and he lifts his coffee in a wry greeting.

“Nice…uh… morning, huh?”

Python doesn’t even turn when the flap of their hastily-erected medical tent opens and a soft set of footsteps pad in. Nothing dangerous walks like that, and the bastard Dragon God is dead anyways. Nothing more can hurt him now. He vaguely hopes it isn’t Silque- he’s not in the mood to be lectured yet again to sleep and eat when he can’t sleep and everything tastes like sawdust. But if it was her, she would have spoken by now, and the night air is still heavy and silent. He doesn’t care enough to look.

Maybe that was his mistake- he nearly jumps out of his skin when a pair of arms wrap around him from behind. He’s frozen, about to turn and shove when he sees a curtain of peachy curls out of the corner of his eye and realizes it’s the other healer girl- Celica’s. He doesn’t even know her name. Her little arms are surprisingly strong, and her cheek rests tenderly against the top of his head, and it’s like the embrace pulls all the anger from him and suddenly he’s just tired. He doesn’t lean into the warmth, but he lets her hold on; it’s soft and tugs at something painful in his chest- no one hugs him like this, except maybe-

He’s glad she doesn’t speak. He’s heard everything she could say a hundred times in the week since Duma’s defeat.

“He’ll be alright.”

“We’re trying.”

He wasn’t expecting anyone to join him, so he jumps a bit when he hears her voice. He then takes a moment to berate himself, how bad had he gotten if one little girl could sneak up on him?

He turns towards her, but the drink she holds out gives him pause. He hadn’t been expecting warm cider, not this late at night. Certainly not when he thought everyone except him and Leon were still asleep. (And he knew Leon was still awake. The archer kept leaving his post and wandering over to complain every once in a while until Saber huffed at him to go back.)

“You should be sleeping, lass.” Still, he takes the offered drink from her. It’s good, and the warmth spreads quickly enough as it settles in him. “You’re still growing. Need your rest.”

She’s handling it all well. The thought sneaks up on him, but she is. She’s the youngest out of all those brats that wandered off the island, and though this life clearly isn’t for her, she doesn’t complain. Not to him at least, and not where he can here. His sister would have liked her, and he shuts that thought down quickly before it can proceed.

From Talk About Your Muse meme.

🏡 for a home headcanon

Eliwood’s home, Pherae, is a largely rural territory that has significant power due to its agricultural prowess. With expansive, rich farmland and centuries-old orchards, Pherae is a beautiful, wealthy place. Bordering the sea, Pherae also boasts a exceptional fishing industry, gaining revenue from several market streams. Pherae also boasts a mixed rural landscape, with mountains hugging its eastern territory, the sea along the south, and a lake near it’s capital. 

As a place that relies on its farming industry, Pherae is not a largely populated territory, nor is it equipped with a large militia. However, it’s natural borders and location make it a less desirable location for an attack on Lycia, protecting it by circumstance alone.

Noise: Name one sound your muse finds absolutely unbearable.

//Vacuum cleaners

Screaming. Luthier despises screams in general. It’s a loud, unnerving sound that shatters the silence and makes him want to go run and hide.