Hello, lovlies! How are you all doing? I know, I know, and I apologize for the wait. I really do. At least I'm not dead–though college is a very close second to, mixed with depression and, well...
But we made it! And did you know? This chapter, supposedly, at first, in it's entirety, was a whopping 33 pages on google docs? It was a pain editing, never could get past the first half before mentally checking out. You know how when you stare at something for long enough it either stops making sense, or it all just starts looking okay and right and error-free? (I mean, I went to re-read last chapter and I found I'd written gestation rather than hesitation and oh my god, WHY? How could I have missed that? Where was autocorrect? Spellcheck? Google Docs? The regular browser squiggly red lines? They all left poor, fallible me! Abandoned me at my time of need! T-T ) So I cut it in two! And here's part uno! (Part dos should be up soon. Hopefully. Stills needs editing and polishing, though. Have you all tried changing fonts and re-formating and reading out loud for all you writers out there? It helps a fair bit with changing your perception of your piece, helps with changing your perspective– and spotting "invisible" errors.)
Hey, remeber the part where the Perci's an ADHD middle schooler? Well, after being in contact with a middle schooler of my own (my youngest sibling, help me) and getting first hand gossip and shenanigans and "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?" and "FOR GOD'S SAKE, Y'ALL ARE TWELVE!" I can at least promise a very realistic approach with that aspect. (God, middle schoolers are the worst. They scare me. They either need serious therapy or horse tranquilizers [just for the duration of their hormonal upheaval]. They think they're God's gift on Earth: narcissits with the biggest victim complexes and and I can't wait until she– uh, I mean, they get the reality check they, oh, so woefully need.)
Just keep in mind: all narrators are biased and unreliable. ALL narrators. (Especially traumatized children who think stabbing and kaboom-ing their way out of problems is sane and okay.) Looks at ~objects may be larger/closer than they appear~.
So...sigh. Onto the disclaimers!
Disclaimer: PJO doesn't belong to me but to the wonderful person working on a true and faithful-to-the-original-source adaptation, the man who almost named TLT The Son of Poseidon, the one and only: Rick Riordan. The title plus lyrics at the end come from Qveen Herby's Cheap Talk. Plot and OOCness are mine, so are any OCs. No copyright intended, promise, I've got no money for anyone to sue me, just college debt if you want that though, please, take it, it's up for adoption. This is a work of fiction and in no way ties or relates to RL (except for the obvious, bc before COVID ever happened I had planned on having the battle at the empire state happen and that it would be a virus that puts all humans to sleep/death/zombified-statue phase, but here I am and reality will claim to have me copying it and I've decided on a loose-ish timeline and IT'S CURRENTLY 2015 IN THIS STORY and Perci was born in 2003, and so on and so forth, except some things will stay the same like the Di Angelo's still being from around WW2– you'll see, promise.)
There are somethings from last chapter that maybe made no sense, like Percillia's comment about Grover being naughty when she'd stabbed that Mormo– and if you haven't googled it, don't worry, it'll be explained in the chapter when she'd FINALLY AT CHB! (I can't wait for that honestly!)
Tbh, this feels like a filler, but in no way, shape or form would my conscience have let me post the entirety of the og chap here. And, wow, that was a long author's note.
So, yeah. Enjoy!
~WYDETU~
Chapter 5: Cheap Talk
This was why she didn't like sleeping. Sure, she needed it– terribly so– but sometimes it just wasn't worth the mental strain. Funny, since either way….
Nevermind that though! There were bigger fish to fry at the moment (not the best analogy either– she was hungry, and hoo boy did some shrimp– Nope!).
She stood in front of the three ethereal women– beings, really, in defiance: a brow raised, arms crossed, hip cocked, and a frown marring her face (hey, it wasn't a scowl).
The three looked on steadily, almost bored, but definitely assessing. But aren't eyes windows to the soul? (Did they even have souls?) These women were as anxious as any such being as them had any right to be. They were anticipatory. And one of them was angry, too– looked like she wanted to snarl, but felt way high up above such trivial human action.
They were unsettled.
Percillia felt honoured (had the childish urge to jump up and down and start clapping). And despite all her current complaints, her spirits were exceptionally elevated for the moment, the hunger and stress thrown back into their respective dark corners.
The Moirai did not appear as amused.
"Well met," she curtsied, polite as ever (Gabriel doesn't count; he can go fuck himself). She was aware that fear, or a variation thereof, should be thrumming through her, consuming and overwhelming her to a point of non-coherency– her mortal being simply incapable of comprehending or even standing in the absolute immenseness that was their being. She was aware that the smart thing to do at the moment was to probably kneel and kiss at the hems of their robes and beg. Beg for forgiveness, for mercy, for who knows what–
But whatever. Percillia doesn't beg, she doesn't kneel. (Not anymore, not ever again.) They wanted her here, they brought her here, an unwilling guest, possibly a captive– it was on them to deal with it, deal with her.
Immortals are fickle, a voice that sounded uncomfortably familiar chided, don't be naive!
If her eye would twitch involuntarily in an immortal's presence (sometimes not even then) and they took offense… her life either way is of no value to them. A gnat to man: annoying at the moment but, in the grander scheme of things, utterly inconsequential. They had time, she did not. They had accumulated wealth and knowledge and power, and she did not. No matter how much she eventually got, it would never be enough.
Don't be stupid, or they'll eat you alive and not even death will save you. The reprimand left sensations of bugs scuttling up and down her spine.
But…she couldn't muster anything past the hollow nothingness impossibly amplified in a place of such magnificence and extraordinary power (she should probably listen to her mother's insistence to continue looking for another therapist– though after the last one had her hospitalized and the one before her needed hospitalization, she thought with how her luck seems to be in that department she'd probably land herself with a Hannibal Lecter)– somewhere, if even a where, beyond the physicality of existence and its simple certainties. It was a non-existence, a suspension, a nowhere.
It was an utterly unnecessary headache.
But just because she wasn't afraid, wasn't terrified out of her mind, in the presence of beings near blinding in brilliance– they were blinding, she'd heard that Zeus himself did not linger long in their presence, couldn't or wouldn't she did not know– and yet she couldn't muster the appropriate emotions to react. There was only a faint echo of wariness (it was more a long-ingrained distrust that inspired that constant wariness) that she was all too used to. And a sensible dose of alarm that came to her naturally when in the presence of those who ultimately would wish and do her harm. She wasn't stupid, her brain was properly functioning (to an extent…hush) and so she practiced caution. She was going to be dutiably wary and polite.
She didn't fancy testing her luck overmuch. She was trained for this– you were born for these games. It was a simple enough and well-practiced ritual. It would not be hard to deal with a couple of stuffy, old and imperious spinsters– ah, she's done it before.
~WYDETU~
Well.
Nothing, however, could have properly prepared her for… these, stuffy, old and imperious spinsters.
She must've read the room wrong or something, because what in the duck? (Yes, she was making an effort towards shrinking back that bit of her vernacular. She wasn't all that sure it was working though.)
In front of her eyes, from one time-unit to the next, their uniform forms… denatured before re-coalescing and each took on a… different appearance.
"Aren't you a polite little thing," one said, her voice the sort of croaky all starlets of the past seem to possess in the present, appraising her from top to bottom and back again.
Another wrinkled her nose, "Your attire, however, leaves much to be desired." She waved her hand in the air and what remained of Percillia's not-so-white-anymore sweatshirt vanished and was instantly replaced with swathes of silk draped over what felt like a simple cotton base dress and held in place by a string.
(Shit, her mother, poor Grover– she was on her way to see her brothers!– not now, focus.)
The traditional robes of all the blues in existence were quite beautiful– elegant like a glittering sapphire, tranquil as turquoise, with the decadence of royal blue, infinite and dynamic like the ever churning sea (pretty, but did everything have to tie back to him?). It was dazzling– nevermind the faint howling of souls and what she was half-sure was her own life's thread, a decorative rope now, being wrapped around her, keeping all that in place.
She couldn't help her wide-eyed countenance. This wasn't at all what she expected.
(Well, a mental attack wasn't so far off her list expectations, but, but THIS?!)
She slammed up walls, higher and higher in her mind every time they were knocked over, and thicker, as thick as she could when they were bulldozed through, blocking out what seemed to be a sped up, but extremely thorough, revisitation and reiteration of every single moment that's ever passed in her life, with a vividness, a heavy emphasis on her time out of this world. As if one time going through it wasn't enough, or ten or fifty, dammit, damn them!
Why were they doing this? WHY?!
She grappled around in her mind, repeating the utterly mundane: think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, thinkhappythoughts, thinkhappythoughts, thinkhappythoughts, happythoughtshappythoughtshappythoughtsHAPPYTHOUGHTSHAP–
She wasn't thinking happy thoughts. Her mental fortifications wobbled along with her now-hysterical thoughts. No, no, no, no, no.
Deep breaths, she couldn't react outwardly, she couldn't break down crying and screaming not here– Calm down.
The pain, shit. Please…
Did they really have to do this? Was it necessary? Did it serve a point? Was this a sadistic rite of passage? Or simply a sick joke some bored, old fucks thought was a good reception routine? She'd already gone through this, survived and was better for it. It didn't kill her then and it won't now. Was reliving it necessary?!
And if only for spite– and she could be horribly spiteful– she would get-herself-together. (Because mentally and emotionally? She was at the point of just bathing her mindscape in kerosene and hurling in a bottle of molotov and watching it burn.)
Her breathing was as erratic as her heartbeat, her jaw was as aching and throbbing as her temples were, and her eyes were burning with the same fury that flowed through her veins by the time she managed to block it out and refocus on the three literal banes of her existence.
One was outright giggling, but the other two looked highly entertained regardless. Her glare couldn't be suppressed and the one chuckling full on cackled, "Your suffering is amusing! Amuses us, yes!"
Calm down, if anyone were to swat her away as a gnat, it would be them. Getting angry– well, acting on her already blazing anger and resentment would get her nowhere good. And these women seemed barmy enough without needing further provocation.
"Oh? And what makes you think I'm suffering?" She snarled. Really?! Way to go, dumbo. Calm down, deep breaths. She lifted her chin and locked eyes–
The middle one, the one with the maniacal gleam in her eyes, again, answered, the other two content to just watch for now, "Oh, you sweet, sweet, sweet little girlie! Heh! Adorable, aren't you? Mmm, you sweet, sweet thing. Ah! It's all over your face! Oh, yes, it is!" She was howling in mirth by the time she got the words out, and clapping too. Percillia wanted to stab her in her smiling face.
Why, thanks to you, suffering seems to be my default setting now! (Chill, fera. Her inner wild cat wanted to rip their throats clean from their necks. Chill.)
The one on the right tsked, side-eyeing her sister, and shook her head before looking at Percillia again, "Oh, pardon her, sugarplum. We don't get lots of visitors around this time or place."
"Any time or place," the one on the left piped up for the first time. She was… kneading dough?
The one on the right lifted a shoulder, "Irrelevant."
The middle caught her breath and said, "Oh, and not just your face. I mean," she paused, inhaled deeply, "Ugh. So potent, I bet I'd smell it from over a mile away."
The one on the right rose in consternation from the chaise lounge they were all occupying, and headed to a stove to stir a pot, "Ach, you've got no manners, Lachesis!" She looked like somebody's prissy-prim grandmother, gnarled and hunched, yet stiff and proper, wearing pearls, a floral dress and even a vintage-y apron. Very 40's. She turned around and with a wooden spoon dripping with sauce admonished her sister, "Leaving her standing there! Sit down, dearie, have a drink, would ya?"
The left popped over with a flaming green drink, "It's absinthe, we know you like it." La Fée Verte– sigh, really?
Overwhelmed– and wasn't she just kneading pasta (eggs and flour only, thank you, Pasta Grannies) dough?– Percillia unacceptably stuttered, "I-I'd prefer plain anise tea, if you don't mind overmuch… milady." Stuttered! Her! And why milady? They don't deserve it. Get yourself together. Gah, she was such a mess.
And were they offering alcohol to a minor? Her mother would be appalled. Honestly if her mother was here, she'd have ripped them a new one, what with the horrid, negative two star treatment she's been subjected to so far…. Oh, she was furious.
The middle one, Lachesis (who looked like she just escaped a mental institution– head shaved and horribly dirty hospital gown and straitjacket– and yet her clothes left much to be desired) crooned and reached her hands and swiped at the air in front of her– she BOOPED HER NOSE! "Oh, she's just adorable!" The audacity! What the hell? Wash your hands first at the very least!
"Ugh, see! The sweetheart's got manners!" The spoon-waving maniac at the stove glared at Lachesis, "Unlike some."
She had to consciously hold her eye back from twitching– a feat usually reserved for when her brothers all met up, like that one time they all managed to cut off the electricity across NYC's five boroughs (she and her mama were still waiting on an explanation… not really though).
"And that self-control! Mmm, delightful…," what's shaping up to be the creepy one– leftie– sniffed her hair. She now, very visibly, flinched. Sue her. (But have you had to deal with a small demonic toddler, with metal fangs and a bonnet, offering you alcohol and sniffing you? No. And she has, and it never ended well. Was that how people would've seen and reacted to her early on?) She's been scented and sniffed before sure, but–but what the fuck? "Honestly, how she hadn't yet gone berserk astounds me…"
"Oh, let loose, would ya? It's not like you're a prisoner here," Lachesis (middle, crazy one) said and dramatically slouched onto a large cushion that appeared before the one Percillia was shoved onto. She couldn't tell if she was fifteen or fifty, the croaky voice said fifty, but she could just have a serious smoking problem at fifteen– appearance-wise.
She raised both eyebrows incredulously, "No?" She crossed her legs.
"Well, of course not, sweetie!" Stove lady walked over and lowered herself onto a chintz armchair next to Lachesis, handing her a cup of hot– she took a whiff– anise tea. "Here you go. We just wanted to chat."
"To talk," Lachesis nodded profusely.
"A little give-'n-take, if you will?" Creepy from the left grinned, resting her chin on her hand. Her teeth were needles. "Interested?" Or were they spindles? The Weaver, Clotho, maybe?
"I don't think I've got a say either way," Percillia shrugged– the anise seeds in her tea were squirming, like maggots. And, well, if she drowned out the general ambience of screams of heartbreak and agony (a very macabre choice), she'd hear her tea seeds wailing and weeping like newborns and octogenarians (very specific, yes… blame the Fates). She put the tea down and refocused on the conversation, "But shoot, let's hear it. It's not like I've got anything better to do here."
"Ugh, rude!"
"No, no, no, feisty, sister. Feisty and just, mmm, scrumptious!" Creepy licked her lips. Lovely. Has she ever heard of dentists? Or dentures?
"Oh, we just love it when you take back," Spoon Maniac clenched a fist high in the air, the spoon faithfully in the other hand– now dripping black, clotted blood. Interesting choice of ingredient.
"Fists and blood for everyone and their dog!" Lachesis crowed, arms thrown up. Percillia was surprised she didn't start barking and yapping like one.
"Not everyone has a dog, Lachesis," Spoon Lady waved her spoon. "Honestly! Some people have cats, you know. Or lizards. Or birds. Or–"
"If I'm entertaining, I fear for the world," Percillia interrupted, resting her chin on her palm.
"No, you don't," Spoon Lady wagged her spoon in that particular way old people tend to.
"No, I don't," Percillia smiled, mischief in her voice as in her eyes. She raised the temperature of one of the boiling pots on the stove surreptitiously, overcooking whatever meat and vegetable were in there. She grinned even wider.
"My sauce!" Spoony ran to the stove, frantically.
"Ah, sweetling, what would we do without you?" Lachesis sighed, bringing out a rolling pin and working Creepy's dough to thinness.
"Going out on a limb here, but: torment another?" She raised an eyebrow, now entertained beyond belief. No, dammit, she was angry! Furious! What sort of fast-acting Stockholm syndrome was this?!
"Too true, too true..." Creepy sighed dreamily.
"But you're more fun," Lachesis stage-whispered. Of course, she was.
"Mhm, you give as good as you get." Creepy. Does she realize how odd that statement sounds?
"Not just lie down and think of England." Spoon Lady. Ew, alcohol and now this? She was sure she looked as if she had swallowed something awful. Ew!
"No, no, no, you don't leave it lying. You...oh, you absolute darling." Sweet psychotic Lachesis.
Percillia was doing a lot of raised eyebrows this evening…or whatever time it was. Un-time? Were they out of Chronos's domain? Was that even possible? A place beyond time and space? Probably. Maybe she was just overthinking it. "Buttering me up for something?"
"Well, if you insist…," Lachesis sighed, and nodded mock-sadly, "Yes. Yes, we are, Liebling."
Spoon Lady now had the largish aluminum pot in front of her, a black flame powering her manual oven. "Troubling times a-coming, dearie." Plop, and in went some chopped liver. Poor soul, a third-wheeler probably. She was sure that was Atropos, oldest looking and last in the seating arrangement. Right?
"Oh, yes, but you know that already, don't you?" Creepy held her eyes. No iris or pupil, their eyes were milky– a disgusting milky golden hue that she couldn't decide if it resembled churned honey or just flat-out puss. She held in a shudder of revulsion regardless.
"Got a whoooole file too, am I wrong?" Lachesis sounded both impressed and snide, and resorted to slapping the dough unnecessarily with the rolling pin (she'd washed her hand, Percillia was diligent in her scrutiny). She knew some grannies who'd be horrified by such a display. Poor pasta, poor soul.
"You would know, I'm sure. I just hate being called a liar." Fucking Hades, oh, when she next sees him–
Spoon Lady interrupted, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, little do they know, there's no one out there truthin' like you are." She slurped from her pungent mixture, hummed and threw some… parsley stems and tumeric in. What a way to end a life. A vat of acid would've been kinder.
"See, you don't care. You'll give it like you get it." Lachesis calmed down a bit and was trying to rework the dough, but she briefly looked up. "Sometimes even worse! Bahahaahaaah! Isn't she amazing?"
"But that don't mean you lack charm," Creepy tipped the small glass of absinthe in acknowledgment (she'd decided to drink it instead of "letting a masterpiece go to waste"– it had a flaming sugar cube and all), lounged as she was along the emptied chaise lounge. And neither did she, apparently– lack charm that is. "Oh, no, no, no. You're a goddamn expert in your... own... brand of weaving, no, hun?" Really?
"Oh, Clotho, you're just jealous she's got more class than you, sissy." Lachesis chortled– snorted. Very undignified of her. And she thought nothing could surprise her anymore. Well, no, not if she managed to get Hades to dye his hair bubblegum pink and have him pirouette in an equally pink tutu. That– now, that would definitely leave her gobsmacked. And she wouldn't even be mad about it.
"Well, at least I'm not her." Creepy sniffed at who must be Atropos (yes!), completely unprovoked.
"Something wrong with me, Clotho?" Her cushion, now a wooden stool, was shimmied a few feet back in order to get out of the swinging spoon's splatter zone.
"I'm just saying, Atropos... No one really likes you," Creepy– Clotho– sipped her drink of diseased fairy essence. (She found it utterly hilarious… no, she didn't. That was just plain rude.)
"You know, because of the–" she mimed slitting her own throat. "Bit of a turn off, sis. And you smell."
The bickering match between her and Spoon Maniac– Atropos– however was more than funny.
Lachesis grumbled, but mirth and menace lit up her pupil-less, iris-less eyes, "And they call me irrational. Just look at these two go at it."
"I am looking... Wonderfully entertaining, I must admit." She leant both elbows on her knees and plopped her face into her palms as she observed the chaos.
Atropos slapped what looked to be a peculiarly cut blob– huh, no, it looked like the state of Texas actually– towards Clotho. Clotho– murder, demon child that she was– grabbed it and crushed it in her palm before literally lighting it on fire, fist and all. Huh, at least they gave California a break– the poor blob was wheezing underneath one of the counters. The place was ever changing, unstable, power currents of all colors ebbed and flowed, kind of similar to what she imagined it could be inside a collapsing star, and just as painful and straining. Maybe less. She didn't know and wasn't keen on finding out.
"They sure are, sugarplum. Now, listen," Lahesis' voice was uncharacteristically serious. And the grip on her arm from spindly, long fingers felt like electricity digging into her and searing her soul. Maybe this was like being on the edge of one then, a collapsing star that is. At least she was clean now, just the ominous amount of dried blood left.
She didn't let the discomfort show. "I'm all ears, Milady."
"Ach, none of that pish-posh," The searing grip was loosened so she could wave it in the air. "It's Lu for you darling."
"Lu," Percilla's voice was never blander. Well. "Got another friend I call Lu."
"Call 'im Lucy, he hates it."
"I know."
Lachesis huffed and rolled her eyes, "Anyway! Shit's hitting the fan fast. At breakneck speed, if you will, Tartarus, it's already splattering everywhere!"
"As we've previously established, I'm more than aware, Miss Lu," she announced primly, back straight and legs crossed. Get to the goddamn point!
"Your mommy raised you well, kid, huh?" Percillia puffed up a bit. Lachesis huffed, leering, "My point being–," loud crashes and the elevated screaming of anguished souls and boulders cracking interrupted, "–play hard to get."
Percillia's own grin was feral, "I wasn't planning on being get in the first place, Miss Lu."
Lachesis sat back, "Good girl, you know the game, so play it well." Au contraire to her easy tone, Lachesis' fists were clenching and unclenching on the arms of the chintz chair she'd usurped after Atropos vacated it. "And you've got to play."
"Of course." So far none of her plans consisted of participating in the family feud or alleviating her uncle's tantrum. She was up to being persuaded though, but they did not need to know that. Playing hard to get. See, she was a great student! Alecto was just plain awful, and, no, a mile wasn't the same as a kilometer but called differently 'cause 'Murca, hun.
(If she ever encountered Alecto again she might just rip her tongue out for that detention… and no one would blame her, if her classmates were to have any bearing on this situation, they'd have encouraged her to do more, she knew. The Dodds' hate group chat was filled with the truly gruesome and morbid thing you'd only find in the unsound minds of middle schoolers….)
"No need to get hissy with me, kitty-cat. I know what you're capable of," Lachesis said. They thought her pride was hurt? Oh, that was a dig at her abilities? Ha! A piss poor one it was. That's their game plan? Reverse psychology? Riling her up? That never got anyone anywhere, only caused her to buckle down out of principle and spite.
"Not of it all, I'm sure," she replied pleasantly, deciding to go along. They were either playing her too well, or their nigh omnipotence was showing it's nigh.
"No... Not all of it, but what we do know is that you're more than capable." Lachesis went through another one-eighty, from displeasure to flippancy, "Eh, but anyway– shit's gonna rack up fast and heavy, and you've gotta face it."
"I don't got to do anything," she raised a smug brow–
To which Lachesis winked, "Sure you don't. But even with that heart of ice of yours– you're not dumb. You're gonna have to do something sooner or later, little missy." Bitch, no she doesn't, not if she didn't want to.
The anise seeds in her tea were now howling with misplaced mirth. She raised the liquid's temperature– their howling now back to what it was, pain. Ignoring the place's standard ambience, it was suddenly very quiet. Clotho and Atropos rejoined the conversation, it seemed like the purpose of it was about to be revealed. Finally.
"She is quite right, Lachesis is," Atropos hummed.
"She'd know, she makes the drama after all," Clotho flicked a stray soul thread off her blouse.
"Juicer and spicier, mmm mmm mm!" Lachesis affirmed, kissing the tips of her fingers with a flourish.
Percillia only raised both her eyebrows in, Truly?
"Listen, sweetling, you gotta do something," Atropos laid both hands on Percillia's shoulders, looking as serene as a goldfish, and the tormentful nature of the grip caused writhing behind her walls. Ouch, it must really hurt, begging a twelve year-old for help. "I know you'd rather it be of your own volition than being forced into it." she patted her cheek before sitting back. "One hand on the wheel, at least."
"I've got plenty other wheels to have my hand on." She wasn't budging. Do better.
They smiled, all together, at the same time, with an equal ferocity and intensity– quite unnerving, she could admit.
"Let's just hope it's the steering wheel, luv." Condescending Clotho. Bitch, reach my waist at least and then talk.
"Don't want you to get crushed underfoooot." Lachesis, the shitty vocal artist.
"Or left in the dust." Atropos, now with a mortar and pestle, was crushing bones and hopes and dreams into a pesto.
"Don't you got pasta to make and poor souls to torment?" She hopped off the stool, and poured the noxious tea into Clotho's flour well and the obnoxious seeds into Atropos's mortar. "Extra flavor. It won't hurt, promise."
"They're one and the same! And thank you, dearie."
"But for now you're right here to torment!"
"I'm not tormented, Miss Lu." Hag.
"Suuure."
She scrunched her face, petulant, "I'm just fucking pissed, is all." Conceal, don't feel, don't effing let them know….
"Ooh, naughty, naughty!" Lachesis giggled like a fucking child. (Wow, her vernacular did not appreciate being held back. And so it forever will be an amalgamation of raw and alternate swear words.)
"What a potty mouth, don't let mommy hear you," And now back with the Atropos and her Swinging Spoon. "She'd be very disappointed."
"Oh, your mommy... she's a sweet one, isn't she?" Clotho grinned, needles flashing as the dough violently writhed as she slapped and kneaded it on the low work table she was seated in front of now.
Lachesis sighed dreamily, "Oh, yes... Sally, Sally, Sally. Wonderful, beautiful Sally."
She bristled, with half a mind to grab the knife Lachesis was cutting the dough with in strands and cut her into strands. Not her mama, you wench!
Clotho scoffed and gave her a derisive look, "Oh, don't get touchy. Your momma's fine! She's good at hiding…" She turned a baleful grin at Percillia, "Oh and call me Cleo."
She smiled tightly, "I'm not worried about my mama, Miss Cleo. She's a big girl, and she can take care of herself better than me and you even." Oh, what she'd give to be able to run Loire through her bonnet-clad skull.
~WYDETU~
"Say you want some peace but you make war / Problem is you reap what ya pay for / Life could be a dream but ya can't afford / You've be talkin' cheap
"Got your mouth a-runnin' but you're poppin' lip for nothin' / Always gunnin', always comin' with the cheap talk"
~WYDETU~
Soooo? Hope it was worth the wait! And soon, after editing, UGH!, part 2 of this should be uploaded. (I know me better than to challenge myself with a time: "Oh, you dare presume to lock me in timed bargain? Fool! Never shall I conform to your whims, set in place or not!" And then there's a whole rant and I don't want to subject you all to it.)
So what'd you think? Personally, trying to write stuffy and stiff was tantamount to a death sentence. So batshit crazy it is! Very proud of that, by the way.
Hey, let me know if there's particularly anything you might want to see happen or any particular creatures appear lemme know! (Bc even though I have ideas written down and even a whole chapter outlined [I know, I know, I'm surprised too] I will probably most likely not be able to go through with them, bc if muse likes anything then it is bulldozing straight through my best laid out plans and ideas.)
–3anona, out!
3/6/2022