#unequiivocal

             The girth of her weapon caused strain in her small hands. It wasn’t something she was use to, especially considering how she handled a bow quite well. There was much care for her weapons, seeing as she nearly always carried it along with her. The archer thought it was the make of the weapon and that it belong’d to the city itself that made it strange within her hands.              With her fingers trailing along the thin string that held onto either end, a single finger would stop mid way hooking itself around it’s thin figure to tug upon it. She stretched it out several times, getting use to the coil it had when she played with it. Noting that the weapon would not give her much distance to work with but at least it would do for the time being. A thought played at her mind, where upon she lowered her weapon to her side gathering a arrow in the other.             Once again she played with the string that held her bow together, but this time with an arrow at the ready. Seeing as she was in a dormant place for the most part she hadn’t suspected that anyone would sneak up on her within the woodsy district. The arrow release’s from her own hold and to her surprise nearly cuts short of slamming it’s point right through the figures head. Immediately, she jumps and squeaks loudly nearly tripping over herself attempting to blow over several apologizes. 

♪ - How do you decide on your muse’s dialogue?

→ I really… Kinda don’t? I usually just wing it. Also, I’ve made Corazon mute for the time being (but I think Law’s going to fix it? Idk) so it kind of doesn’t apply~

♕ - What are 5 writing tips you’d give to beginners?

          one minute, he's in his room, practicing spells & hexes, trying            to find one that could be used to provide for a QUICK escape           in case the pack ever needed one. the next, his entire room is           getting SWALLOWED  up in a soft green haze that turns in to           smoke. he loses all feeling,  &  yet he feels all too much, feels           as if he's being pulled in a million different directions at once.           & then he's landing, feet curling into familiar plush carpet. he           turns his gaze over the room, silvering depths like quicksilver           as his CONFUSION echoes back to him as he meets his own           gaze,  but this one is warm,   the colour of whiskey left out in           the sunlight,  the colour of his mother's.  he looks to his gaze           & then he looks down,  towards his carpet,  but this one isn't           his, 'cause it's not stained with chalk & blood & bone dust &           various other magic-aiding mediums. 

         finally, he raises his gaze to his, stares at his mirror image in          the face. well, once-was mirror image. excluding the silvered          irises  & piercings & tattoos &  well, fucking WINGS,  they're           the same.   stiles absently bites his lip,  fear running rampant          along his spine,  all the up, trailing back down,  because that          is HIM staring at him, but it isn't him, it's just another version          of him.