#teadrinkingtroublemaker

That woman... she looked incredibly familiar. Rory fumbled with a small book full of random pictures and small snippets of information underneath. Right she was...

“Dewey!” Kit cried out. She trued to catch him in her arms, stumbling awkwardly, before lowering him to the floor. “What happened? Who did this?” she demanded, unsure if he could even answer. There was so much blood. Kit had seen blood plenty of times- friends’, enemies’, especially her own. But the knowledge that this was Dewey’s seemed wrong somehow. He was her gentle librarian. He was never supposed to bleed.

“Hang on.” she told him firmly. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.” Without hesitation, she ripped of the sleeve of his coat to use as a tourniquet.

@teadrinkingtroublemaker​ asked for a starter!

            Steve Carlsberg looked to the sky. This was nothing unusual, of course, as he did this so often when he was alone, or in the moments between glances from the people around him. 

            He had said in the past that it showed him what to do, but others called him crazy. He leaned not to say that anymore. That didn’t stop him from looking to the sky. There were rarely clouds up there, but at night there tended to be lights, speeding along for just anyone to see.

            Steve liked the lights; they made him feel as though a hint of what he could see became visible to everyone when they raced across the sky, showing all of Night Vale, all of the desert that there was so much more in the world than they thought there was.

         There were no lights now, though. The sky was clear and blue, no signs remaining in it of the coal storm that had blown through the day before. It looked pristine and infinite, although it was neither of those things, not just in Steve’s eyes ― blue, a mirror of the vista above ― but in general, in every sense. There was a limit to that sky. There were impurities in its atmosphere.

          As for Steve himself, he was waiting. Waiting for someone he had called, although he was unsure if she would come. His stepdaughter was at school and his wife was at work, the housework was all done and he was here in the scrublands, where he knew to wait, hoping that his call would be answered. 

            Even if it weren’t, this moment of peace and contemplation was refreshing. He would be disappointed, but he would have had time alone away from the city and his responsibilities and even his family ― not that he didn’t truly adore them. Everybody needed a little time to themself every now and again.

(continued from here w/ @teadrinkingtroublemaker)

“I question people primarily when money is concerned,” Jacquelyn admitted as she hefted her attache case. “A client, whose name I cannot speak claims that the empty quarter rolls belonged to them, and were previously filled with seven hundred dollars’ worth of quarters. I am to cross-reference their information with my records.”

As she spoke, she walked down the street to a taxi stand, which was at the moment devoid of taxis.

“If you’ll pardon my asking,” she stated, “What does your brother Jacques look like, and what was he investigating last?”

For each “⭐️” I get, I’ll write a headcanon about our muses.

1) The only time Ernest can successfully trick Kit into believing he is one of his brother is when they speak on the phone. She has to relyon speech patterns alone, no visual quirks to give her hints. Unlike how he treats Rania, Ernest does not give Kit trouble. He’ll chat, schedule a date between Dewey and her, and then quietly write it down in Dewey’s calendar. She’s tolerable, barely.

2) When they were little Ernest had a big crush on Kit, and tried to impress her by bringing her the biggest stick he could find. She wasn’t impressed. 

Jacques Snicket took up a lot of Violet’s thoughts lately. Between his horrible situation and the Quagmire’s equally as bad situation, Violet had little time to think about her own horrible situation. She scrubbed the fowl fountain distractedly, plotting alongside her siblings anything that could assist either of these unfortunate events. 

    Wide, c r y s t a l eyes stare off into the distance and weak hands grip onto the tiny tea cup-she is gone and all he is left with is the memory of her perfume and the sight of the jewels that remain in her vanity.