[BROWTOBER] WRITING DUMP 02

03 - Browtober – Drabbles

01 - Ink - 282

Interesting specimens, they were. Every little action they took was inane, one step further towards a very obvious death that each of them ignored. All but the little blue thing that had spawned the month before. It was all quite fun to watch. A group of beasts trapped together in what functioned effectively as a prison, what would they do to one another? Veste was quite excited to watch it burn. 

It left it's inky footprints wherever it went, entertained when the one that called himself Douglass would begin to dive further into his own head. If anyone was to snap, it was him. Each day he slowly lost another shred of his sanity, but in such an intriguing way that practically never noticed it. It was life as usual for the crew, two seasoned space explorers, a clueless clutz covered in wings, and the secret fourth thing that the Satyr had brought to life by sheer accident. 

Veste enjoyed that one's presence at least. The kitbull was the only one with any sense of competency, and it scrambled around fixing every mistake it saw. Most recently, just to watch it tear it's hair out for a moment, Veste had walked its paws over the countless piles of paperwork, leaving each one with a signature crude drawing of an eye. Nobody was reading that paperwork, the whole endeavor was pointless, but the kitbull didn't seem to care. It sat now, holding the papers up to the light in hopes it could salvage the scrawlings. It was futile. Veste curled up in the air conditioning ducts to the furious sound of ink pen scratching paper, and knew it had done its job well. 

02 - Pumpkins - 298

Douglass drug his hands through the dirt of the greenhouse, glancing over his shoulder. Ideally, he would not be caught by any of his crewmates, a chipper bunch who had asked him excitedly to grow some pumpkins in preparation for halloween. Jack-o-lanterns, pies, and countless other treats depended on it. Easy enough, he had thought, but now that the day was suddenly upon them he had completely forgotten. A plant was no problem for him, his magic well-practiced and integral to the ship’s life support, but to grow at least ten pumpkins in twelve hours would surely drain him of it. He could not stand to let his crew down, a successful holiday would boost morale, and they had all needed it. 

The week before as the star flared, they'd lost one of their crew. Their astrophysicist, a no-nonsense person who was never one to slack or cut corners. Nobody understood it, how a person could simply vanish here without a single trace. Douglass shuddered and pushed the thought from his mind, burying the pumpkin seeds and closing his eyes to focus. He held his hand above the soil, tensing each muscle in each finger as magic wove past them and into the dirt. The dirt shifted as the sprouts pushed through, and Douglass could already feel himself breaking a sweat. For hours he sat, forcing every ounce of his magic into the plants that felt like they grew at such a snail's pace.

He collapsed at the end of it, having stayed awake far into the morning hours. Not even a moment's rest could be had, and Douglass dragged each pumpkin to the mess hall where they'd all planned to meet that day. Already his crew mates sat, sipping their morning coffee. 

"Jeez, Bailey. You look terrible." 

03 - Fall Carnival - 266

Foil huffed, standing over the makeshift wooden booth he'd spent hours setting up. Against his own preferences, he'd allowed Ellis to convince him that selling his baking at the Fall Festival in town would be an excellent idea. Something to get him out of the house, she said. Foil was good, adequate enough, but he was not good. He had no clue how any professional baker was to run a stand. How much was he supposed to make? Did he have to follow health codes? Did he need a permit?

All questions that Ellis was sure he'd figure out as he went. She nudged him more and more each day, buying countless little bits and bobs he could not help but want to use. Today he'd woken up before the sun had, spending hours rolling and cutting and baking countless apple sugar cookies. Painstakingly he'd decorated each one to resemble apples and apple slices, and had even baked some with caramel. It was the most labor-intensive project he'd done in months, and while it was fulfilling, he was exhausted. Baking for six hours, selling for six more. Surely he'd struggle to get sales too, he was a new vendor, and he hadn't quite poured his heart into the graphics of the operation, his banner a rushed job made with whatever paints he dug from the basement.

He sighed, displaying the cookies on a decorative brass tray. Was that it? He stared out into the rows of shops. Spinning the ‘open’ sign around that hung from the booth, Foil braced himself for how the day would go. 

04 - Warmth - 250

Candle crawled quickly beneath the roots of the towering tree, its arching height providing ample protection from the downpour that had crashed down around him. Thunder boomed overhead and lightning brightened the sky, and he felt thankful to finally find his shelter. The ground was littered with the red leaves of fall, and the storm served to toss more leaves from their branches, as well as precariously throw branches about in the wind.

He wrapped his soaking cloak tightly around himself, knowing the warmth it gave would be fleeting if he didn't start a fire to dry it out. His clothes were soaked to the bone with frigid water, and his boots felt like they'd be filled to the brim. The rain had permeated every inch of the world around him, and not a single dry log was to be found. Instead he hung his cloak from the snag of a root, as good a tarp as any to hide further beneath. He rubbed his hands together, hoping the heat he could draw out would be enough to dry his hands. He shivered all the while until finally his fingers sparked to life a flame. It burned gently in his hand, barely threatened even when a drop of rain snuck through the roots. 

He held the flame close to his chest, feeling the warmth against his cheeks. Leaning back against the roots he curled up, closing his eyes as the world around him fell into the droning static of rain. 

05 - The Hunt - 267

Winchester darted through the streets, pursued by a painfully persistent knight that refused to give up. He had been following the kitbull for days on end, and frankly it had gotten tiring. He was able most times to shake whatever muscle was sent after him, and if he did his job correctly, he wouldn’t get caught in the first place. The guard was incredibly flashy, and it was quite easy to see– and hear– him coming. He didn’t do a single thing to mask his heavy footsteps, clanging armor, bright fur, and boisterous voice. 

“You can’t run forever!” His voice echoed. The man trudged loudly through the dark, damp streets, grumbling quite loudly to himself. Winchester watched from the shadows, keeping his glowing eye squinted enough that it wouldn’t give his position away. I can sure outrun you though, Winchester thought to himself, tapping his claw on his cheek. The duct he’d crawled into was not the most uncomfortable, and he was quite thankful that he didn’t have the nose to smell it. He rested his head on his hands, watching the knight pace back and forth beneath him, lifting up soggy boxes, and digging through the old and surely abandoned dumpsters that lined the alleyway. 

The man was wildly persistent, but at least he was also just as much of an idiot. Watching himself cover the alleyway in even more trash was at least a bit entertaining, and the man’s white fur had absolutely been stained by the nasty rain that fell over the city. Winchester closed his eyes for a moment's rest in the meantime. 

06 - Found Footage - 265

Douglass sat leaning his chair as far back as physically possible, hoping it would satiate at least a shred of his desire to sleep. His eyes were ringed with heavy bags full of exhaustion, and he strained to keep himself paying any attention. He was on night watch that night, flipping through cameras in any attempt to watch for anomalies. What was the point? By now, everything was an anomaly. The star had changed colors at least once a day, his face was forming cracks from the stress of it all, at least he assumed. For all he knew it could be a million different things.

He flipped through the cameras that pointed across the outside of the ship, half of them static, remnants of breakages during past solar flares. With each tap he strained his eyes in search of anything. Click, click, click, click, click. Each one was the same. Until it wasn't. He sat up, squinting at the screen as a new glint of light flickered by. At the same time, a thud on the side of the ship made him jump out of his chair, practically hitting the hull himself. He stared at the screen as something crept across the hull, long legs that ended in only a spike tapping across the metal. It was fine, it was just a space creature, right? Those were a thing, he thought. It skittered closer to the camera, and as its head turned, the countless eyes that lined its neck glinted back into the camera. Douglass gasped, electing to simply switch the camera off instead. 

07 - Secrets - 254

“You’re keeping things from me, Kite,” Winchester buzzed a low growl across the table. Kite sat across, glaring angrily. 

“You don’t trust me?” They snapped back, eyebrows lowering. The hypocrisy angered them far more than anything Winchester could have said next. A thief was barely a thief if they didn’t keep secrets. When one lived a life akin to theirs, if a secret was to escape, it could mean their death. So of course Kite was keeping them. 

“Nobody trusts in this line of work,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. Kite could no longer take it. They stood, chair squeaking against the wood of the ship. Another infuriating comment from the kitbull, clear now that he had little care for them. He demanded to know their secrets, yet had the hardest time ever trusting them with anything. Of course it was their jobs to trust him when he held their lives in his hands. 

“You’re horrible,” Kite snapped, “Don’t bother asking for my help." They stormed out the door and to the front of the ship, staring over its railing into the deep abyss of space. They drifted slowly, a wake of stars twinkling behind them. Winchester was right, more than he usually was. Kite's secret grew more dire by the day. Foil manned the helm on the deck above them, surely tuned into the flurry of upset conversation. Both were equally stressed. It was dire that they hold their tongues for just a bit longer. Then they would never need to bicker again. 

08 - In The Shadows - 268

Phosphor huddled in the shadows, the darkness a blanket over him as he . He tried to quell his shivering, it made his breath shudder loudly. Something crawled through the walls, roiling, dark, the very same black of the shadows he now shrouded himself in. They were on the same field, and Phosphor hoped he was a worthy adversary. As he braced himself further his own magic grew, the shadows around him stretching beyond the dark corner, obscuring the world around him. 

He saw perfectly through it. The castle was still, and the cellar itself was even more. People rarely found their way this far down, only if they desired an ancient cast of wine or an equally ancient aged wheel of cheese. Phosphor could tell by his thoughts how starving he was. Each step to escape the castle was thwarted by the creature, its senses incredibly fine tuned. It was as if it had eyes everywhere. He felt it staring at him through the eyes of the paintings that lined the wall, staring at him from every single crack or crevice where shadow sat. 
He had not moved in hours. He would only move when the coast was clear, the shadows enveloping him, their shroud following him. It felt like how he would take shelter under the covers as a child after a bad nightmare. The blanket was his indestructible shield, and he pulled it over himself as he finally stood. Each step was terrifying, but he knew escape was close. There was a route out of the castle from the cellar’s deep catacombs. He’d finally be safe.