@Hawkstar - great, thanks :D 

@Sempreverde - yay, new one will be posted next :D

@Hex - thank you so much, and great about Izar! 

@Celine - yes about “come out” XDDD Reshinerr is like “reh” like in red, “shin” like the word shin, “err” like er. But it’s more pronounced with the accent on the first syllable and the others “falling off”, if that makes sense, divided like re/shi/nerr. Kind of accentless more than anything really. I made it up a long time ago. And don’t worry about repeating yourself, i kind of hate my writing so it’s really nice to have someone who’s a bit enthusiastic about it :P 

@All - Hopefully the plot doesn’t fall apart soon :’D I think the thing with something you can’t write ahead of time and edit the structure of is often more to ensure you know where you’re going and making sure every installment contributes, even if some of them end up that they’d be better structured differently. Also i'm curious if the way i explain things makes sense? do i spend too many words on it? do i spend too many words on description in general, or is it good? just asking for feedback mostly. also, do you lizards like Reshinerr, or do you find him annoying? What about him? i appreciate any feedback, especially if it's more general than specific, though anything would be helpful. I can't change anything that's already written though (unless it's a huge issue I guess)

I'll just say "new part" from now on so i don't have to keep track of numbers :P

~

I flinch at the crash when the door hits the wall. For a second i’m frozen. Then i shake my head and shut the door as quietly as i can and drift to the common room like a cat or a cloud.

There are only a few truly permanent rooms, rooms that have been here the whole time i have with few or no changes. The common room is one of them. There's also the cafe and kitchen, the room with the printing press, and one that has an ever-changing supply of random knicknacks ranging from detailed quivers of arrows to chip bags a week past their best-by date. Past there, it can be anything. 

I pull the door open and enter the common room and smile. The walls look like windows that peer into a drowsy terrarium of void, but when you touch them they feel like rough, knotted wood. Today, twinkling stars sprout from the abyss. Some grow in clusters like tiny bell-shaped flowers dangling from the stem of a lily of the valley. others are staggered like the few blooms on a gnarled wild rose plant with more thorns and dead wood than leaves. Plenty of them are obscured by straggling clouds of dust, clouds that are only visible when it’s this bright. If there are only a few stars, there’s nothing for them to block, and not enough light to scatter through the edges of the clouds. They fade into the blackness. 

The common room is full of accommodations. A deep red couch on the other wall faces a television with tape and dvd players, as well as some video game consoles i’ve never looked at. A table sits in the corner nearest to the door, ready for any game from ping pong to games for cats where you try to catch the fish or the spider.

But what I’m looking for is in the back, next to the craft table: the book and media vending machine, a beanbag on either side. It’s the perfect amount: one for me, one for my stuffies, as we read through whatever the machine gives us.

So I walk towards it, legs straining. I collapse on a beanbag. I don’t usually walk this much, and now I remember why.

the vending machine rarely gives you the books you expect. Ask for books about how to fish, and it’ll bring up detailed guides of every kind of freshwater animal imaginable: helpful, but not relevant if you just want to learn how to cast. Ask for books about cats, and it’ll bring books on proper etiquette when meeting with royalty. You have to give it more specific questions - for the cat one, maybe something like “why do cats have whiskers?” or “how many cat species are there?” And even then you end up with compilations of cat paw pictures and books about shadows and mice.

Speckle can read my thoughts. “The question,” they say, “is not why cats have whiskers, but why humans don’t.” I can only agree.

I walk up to the vending machine, a metal box that's teal with rounded corners and lavender buttons. But instead of sitting on the floor, it floats on a cloud. Through its glass, the books of the day are suspended by tiny stars like pearls strung into constellations. Today, none of them are interesting - does it really think I want to read about how to make friends or dealing with social anxiety? Usually the books are relevant. 

I click the “kiosk” button. At my request, a thin stand pops up in front of me. The screen is tethered on the stand, iridescent metalwork depicting lilac and periwinkle* clouds twisting around a bright moon that sometimes flickers, becoming a sun or a nightingale. 

I brush off a scattering of stardust from the screen and remove it from the stand. On the screen is a simple question: “What books are you looking for?”

I click on the text box to reply. “Books about forests and blending with colored pencils and reflected light. Books about how to get people out of the Library”. I submit and lean back and everything goes dark.

I sit up. the stars flicker back to light, and I blink. Am I imagining things? 

The vending machine rattles. I hesitantly scoot the beanbag backwards - I’ve never heard that sound before. The noise swells, less of a rattle all of a sudden, more like far-off crying warped with static. Jagged tendrils of dark bloom behind the glass. 

The room plummets into black in an instant, and I know i did something wrong. 

Name: Onyx, Nyx for short 

Pronouns:She/her 

Gender: girl 

Age:unknown, could be from 12-15

Species they are now: Demigirl

Appearance: Very pretty, with long chocolate hair, kept in a braid, tan skin, and amber eyes, with heart-shaped lips. She weres a camo tank top and cargo pants with black tennis shoes and black fingerless gloves. (the gloves are for fighting, not for show.)

Personality: unrustworthy, but to friends, a leader and loyal.

What is the main or most influential problem they struggle with? : loyalty, and making friends. 

Are you okay with your character being portrayed in a negative manor: I don't really care, but it could be cool if they were good, but just caught on the bad side, or were a double agent, or branwashed. Maybe they could even be bad, but then tured to the right side. 

Backstory: She was born on the streets of a desert town, and parentless, struggled to provide food for herself, and the other street kids, who saw her as a mother. She was a always good with blades, and resourceful. One day a fortune teller said she was a child of the gods, Onyx didn't belive her, but the next day, her father appeered to her in the night, telling her that she was a demigirl, and he had a mission for her. 

What is your character’s outlook on life? Cynical? Optimistic? : wary.

Things they like, comfort items, hobbies, etc: hunting, and reading. Scrab beetles, and jewals, and dogs. 

Anything they need to have with them/luggage: she always has a sachel filled with nesscities. 

Comfort/liked foods: fried scorpion

Things they dislike: most people, and  

How much are you okay with me changing them?: not that much, but some, Sorry.

Would they like an animal companion?: yes, preferabley dogs or guina pigs.

What is their opinion on stars and books?: loves reading and uses the stars to travel.

Did they like their old life? not really, but she loved the little children that se would take care of on the streets.

Other: her weakness is that she dosn't trust people and is too loyal, but she is very good with blades and arrows.

Also, Onyx has wolf ears and sometimes a tail.

Opps, so sorry. Maybe my character could be named Amber? Sorry, you don't have to include her if you don't want. well, thanks for the info.

i haven't abandoned this, i just have to write out a longer block of scenes to make sure plot things go right. in the meantime, i can answer questions about the world and characters! Like a Q and A thread about the story. if it matters to the plot i'll deny the question.

you could also ask my stuffies questions, in honor of all of the stuffies in this! The options are: Chrysanthemum Candytuft Jasper (treat/treats mostly), lover of sweets and spooky/Halloweeny stuff, who desperately wishes treat could make potions but ruins every one treat makes; Oolong (ze/zer/zer/zerself mostly), master tea steeper and collector of teapots and naps; and Chamomile (he/him mostly), friend of the bees and the flowers, and baker of fine treats. but if you know of another stuffie feel free to ask questions about them. I'm tempted to add in my donkey so you get detailed answers about runes and magic but they still don't have a name...

sorry this took so long. 

~

I breathe in the dark and it spirals into tendrils of frost, clawing at my lungs. For a second I can’t breathe and then i’m lost. 

The room morphs. It’s like ivy and moss scaling a crumbling castle over hundreds of years only in seconds, and instead of plants the past is growing. Within the nothingness, items appear. with them grow memories i didn’t know existed. 

There’s the pile of tutoring and therapy notebooks, some ripped in half out of frustration. My first sketchbook - just a school notebook i drew in so it was less boring to hole myself up in my room all day. A stack of sticky notes in the neat handwriting of an older girl, who might have just been using me but managed to make me feel special anyway. (I should have known it was just an act.) As I look at them, the words boom in my head - “Love you, meet me after school”. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive, please forgive me <3” I look away. The words refuse to stop.

An earthworm squirms out of the ground. I gasp, grinning. “Hi!” 

Speckle yowls. “Don’t -!” but it’s too late. The earthworm turns into a mist of blue and white. My school’s colors. 

The surroundings swirl. A raindrop falls on my cheek, and it gets colder, and through the sounds of kids running around the playground I hear a voice. “It’s just a worm. Nobody cares.”

I freeze, the same frustration from years ago already trapping my lungs in a vicious snare. Why don’t they care? The worms were so far from the grass, caught on puddled pavement that would soon turn into a blazing death trap. The worms would die, burn in a long blistering death.

So I took them out of the water, put them under the lull shade of a tree. Or I tried to. People would corner me, take the worm, squish it against sharp pavement. It never failed to make me meltdown, and that never failed to get me in trouble. 

Me. Not the person who killed the worm. Apparently worms are like me and they don’t matter.

Why? I never got an answer. People would just stare and walk off. 

Viridios and Speckle and even Helianthus are protesting. I know they are, but their voices are muffled. Instead, growls dig thorns in my ears. It’s not any language I know, but the meanings bloom in my head like cobwebs. “Shall we go further into the memory?”

I shake my head furiously.

“Don’t work so hard to escape, then. It’s nice here, isn’t it? We worked so hard to make it so. No, you’re staying - and so is everyone else.”

The room fades back into view as the darkness congeals into a single shadow. Only it’s not a normal shadow. It ripples and sheens like an ocean of oil tossed by angry winds - except for the eyes. 

The eyes are darker than an endless night when the power is out for miles and the stars and are barricaded by thick clouds and you can’t see well enough to do anything that will take your mind off your racing thoughts. they’re deeper with dread than you are when someone’s coming into your room and you know they’re mad and your heart’s pounding in your ears so hard you can’t distinguish it from their footsteps.

I step back.

The shadow bursts like a bubble of dishwater soap, and books start dropping into the vending machine. 

just so people see

is anyone still reading this?