#sense and sensibility fixit

[shannaraisles]

Fidèle de la Cœur - Chapter 1

In Regency era Thedas, the second family of a deceased Bann are forced to uproot themselves and build a new life far from the place they called home. Invited to live in Kirkwall by the Viscount - an old friend of their dead father - the two Lavellan sisters discover two very different paths to understanding the merit of a truly constant heart.

A Sense and Sensibility/Dragon Age mash-up, in which Brandon gets the right girl, and no one gets married before they reach the age of twenty.

Next Chapter - OR - Read on AO3

Chapter One

The sonorous tones of a melancholy piano echoed through the family wing of Ostwick Keep, lending voice to a grief that must be heard and accepted. Servants kept to themselves, speaking in hushed tones out of respect for the family so recently bereaved, yet forced to be about their business thanks to the arrival of the new Bann and his wife. It seemed to those women who could no longer call this place home that no sooner had word arrived of the old Bann's death than the new Bann Trevelyan had arrived hard on its heels, greedy to take up his position of respect, authority, and wealth. 

Johannes, they could have tolerated without much issue. The piercing gaze of his wife, Lady Goldanna, was an insult that could not be borne, and yet must be ignored for the sake of peace. She had made it quite clear that she had never approved of her father-in-law's second family, and now she fully intended to see them out of the only home they had by filling it with her ostentatious tastes and offensive personality. That her in-laws were elven appeared to make her poor manners ever more unfriendly, a fact that the servants were very quick to note. Her announcement upon arrival that her brother, Mr. Alistair Theirin, would soon be arriving to spend the winter with them was simply one more headache for the household to absorb.

The Lavellan women - for such they would now be called, no longer entitled to their half-brother's family name nor expectant of any support from him - were forced to accept this unwelcome change so soon upon the tails of the former Bann's death, and each reacted to the pain and inconvenience in their own ways. Ellana, the now Widow Lavellan, a handsome elven woman no more than forty years of age, had given way to her grief so wholly since the death of her beloved husband that she barely stepped from her rooms, weeping inconsolably as though she might never look upon the world with dry eyes again. Her somewhat romantic and dramatic view of their new circumstance was transmitted to her younger daughter, Lanise, who now chose to spend hours in the music room, playing the saddest of music at the highest of volumes, determined to cloak the house in the mantle of her grieving sixteen-year-old heart. And then there was Eralen, the elder Lavellan daughter who, though as heartbroken and saddened by their loss as her mother and sister, showed the world a calm face and gentle manner, taking on the burdens of running the household, making Goldanna and Johannes welcome in their new home, and consoling her mother during the worst of her fits of grief.

"Mamae, there is no need for this," she said, watching as her weeping mother swept about her private rooms, tossing keepsakes and personal items haphazardly into an open trunk. "Johannes will not simply toss us out onto the street."

"Yet he was quick to arrive and take charge of the estate," Ellana snapped back at her daughter. "And sending that woman ahead of him to hurry us along! Vultures, the pair of them, taking stock and inventory, laying a price on every precious memory we have made here. I will not stay to be a stranger in my own home, I will not -"

Yet here she crumbled, collapsing onto the stool by her vanity, her tears renewed with a wail muffled only by the press of her handkerchief to her mouth. Eralen bit her lip, moving further into the room to lay a gentle hand on her mother's back.

"I will start making enquiries to finding us somewhere else to live," she said quietly, not knowing what else she could say in the face of her mother's distress. "But until we have somewhere to go, you will have to bear it, Mamae."

Ellana groped for her daughter's hand, pressing her wet cheek against Eralen's knuckles.

"What would we do without you?"

Eralen smiled faintly, bending to kiss her mother's hair. As she straightened, the sonorous music faded for just a moment, only to be replaced with a melancholy rendition of a song the late Bann had dearly loved. Eralen winced just a split second before her mother burst into tears once again, throwing herself fully into her grief for the loss of the husband she had loved. 

With an imperceptible sigh, the elder Miss Lavellan left her mother to her weeping, calling for Orana to bring Mrs. Lavellan a cup of tea and sit with her a while until she was calm again. As the young maid nodded and hurried away, Eralen turned her face toward the music room, steeling herself to enter the whirlwind of dramatic emotion that was her younger sister. 

Passing one of the drawing rooms, she paused at the sound of voices, tilting her head toward the cracked door to briefly overhear what her half-brother and his wife were discussing. 

"Really, my dear, three women can live comfortably enough on the annuity granted by the terms of your father's will without putting you to the trouble of overseeing such a thing yourself," Goldanna was saying. "Indeed, they will be quite set up for life. And, of course, when the mother dies, the girls will receive ten thousand between them, which is not a sum to be sniffed at."

"My dear Goldanna, I made a promise to my father that I would see them cared for," Johannes answered, but even Eralen could tell he was being persuaded by his wife's greedy reasoning. "What do you say to the occasional gift of fifty gold every now and then?"

"And what would they spend it upon?" was Goldanna's reply. "In their situation, it would be more an insult than a help, I am sure, and we must think of our sweet Henry's inheritance. I feel certain your Papa never meant for you to help them with anything so vulgar as money; indeed, you need only give them the assistance they shall need when it comes to their relocation."

"No, Fanny, I must be plain on this case. My stepmother and sisters may remain here at Ostwick for as long as necessary to secure them a comfortable living."

"Of course, my dear," Goldanna soothed her husband in syrupy tones. "Yet one cannot help feeling that they cannot be allowed to engage in polite society with us. Miss Eralen is, I concede, acceptable in appearance and manner, but your stepmother and Miss Lanise are simply out of the question. Such violence of emotion cannot be allowed to stand and taint our reputation with the memory of the former incumbent."

"Oh, I quite agree on that point -"

Forcing herself not to frown, Eralen continued on, anxiously sweeping her hands down along the soft wool of her dress. So Goldanna was already working to have them gone with no inconvenience to herself; that was no surprise. She was saddened by Johannes' attitude, however. She had thought her half-brother stronger of spirit than this, yet it seemed he would bow to his wife's will. They could not expect any assistance from him. It was disappointing. But they would manage. Eralen had kept the books and helped run the household for several years now; she could keep her mother and sister from living beyond their means somehow. 

She opened the door to the music room, a sympathetic cast to her gaze as she looked upon her sister, not more than four years her junior. Lanise's eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks glistening with tears as she watched her own fingers dance heavily over the keys before her. The music was beautiful, yes - Lanise had always had a gift for it - but the heaviness of emotion she instilled into it was enough to make anyone's heart break for her. 

"Lanise, da'len," Eralen began, moving into the room to catch her sister's attention. "Could you play something else? Mamae has been weeping since breakfast."

Lanise sighed tearfully, her fingers stilling on the keys, and for a long moment, the sisters simply looked at one another - one openly passionate in her grief, the other calm and composed in spite of it. Then the younger nodded, lowering her eyes to begin playing once again. This tune was no less melancholy than the last, though lighter in sound and complexity.

"I meant something less mournful, da'len," Eralen said, but she knew she was defeated before she began.

She loved the passion and fire in both her mother and sister, envying them the freedom to express whatever they felt in any moment. Yet in grief, they fed off one another, each one plunging the other deeper into more violent expressions of loss, until she herself felt inadequate in her own pain. No doubt Lanise thought her cold in many ways, but Eralen knew one of them had to keep a calm head in this trying time. If the conversation she had overheard was any indication, the sooner they were gone from Ostwick, the better things would be for all of them. 

#FdlC #regency crossover #dragon age fanfiction #sense and sensibility fixit #lanise lavellan #ellana lavellan #eralen lavellan

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

I keep seeing something about writing three lines for a WIP? Posting three lines from three fics? Anyway I’ve seen it so many times at this point it’s become one big GO WRITE SOMETHING YOU ABSOLUTE NINNY for me, so here I am with three short-ish (~600 words each) segments from three tragically neglected WIPs that have nothing to do with each other. Very rough and rusty, but I hope you still enjoy these glimpses.

1. Bispearl week “swords” prompt ficlet I didn’t manage to finish back then, or: Bismuth and Pearl invent rubber ducking.

The first few swords were a disaster.

The Forge was rudimentary still - early days - didn’t look like much, but it was a start. Bismuth did her best: all of her hard-won knowledge, scrounged up information not meant for her or her kind, going towards building what she thought they would need to get weapon production up and running. Materials gathered at a great risk - Snowflake had chipped her gem during the last of the supply runs! Tools for Bismuth to try to replicate and experiment with, and a raided armoury with a wide variety of weapons for Bismuth to learn from, to suit every possible rebellious inclination. All arranged to enable what she judged might be a sensible workflow.

She decided to go with a simple, plain, straight-edged sword to start with - mid-length to her, meaning a dagger to some and a hefty two-hander to others. The sheer variety already present in the rebellion was half of its charm and point, wasn’t it just? And Bismuth wanted so very badly to fan the flames of it, to do everything she possibly could to see it, to see all of them, flourish and persevere and come out on top for once.

Bismuth tried, and tried, and tried again. Considered her mistakes, weaknesses, what she knew (or, doubt never failed to creep in, thought she knew) she was supposed to be doing and achieving here.

And failed.

The first blade that at least looked right shattered in her hands when she tried to force its tang through a guard and into a handle to put the whole thing together. The rest of its batch became hopelessly crooked when she quenched them.

She crushed the latest useless ingot she’d clearly gotten ore ratios wrong for in her fist and tossed it against the wall with a frustrated cry.

And of course, of course, that was the moment Pearl chose to walk in.

“Bismuth?”

Her voice was filled with concern as she inched closer from the entrance, but there was a glint in her eyes that made it clear Pearl would not be deterred.

So, figuring she had nothing to lose, Bismuth allowed her shoulders to sag and let her misery show.

“I’m not cut out for this. Literally.”

Pearl snorted, hopping up onto the anvil with a deliberate and highly unconvincing casual air. “Tell me about it.”

Bismuth sighed, rubbing the back of her neck with a tiredness she wasn’t sure she was supposed to be capable of, and leaned next to her.

“I ever tell you of my first actual visit to a forge?”

Pearl shook her head.

“Wasn’t that long ago. I took the chance and snuck into a weapon production plant when the hematites weren’t around. Me and the other bismuths had been working on some training grounds right next to it and I’d wanted to see one for so long, so one day I just went for it. And it was... Well. The last time that place had seen a bismuth was when it was being built. I didn’t even fit in there, Pearl. I was too big for the bellows and too small for the anvils, and I could barely walk around the quenching baths they had set up. It was all just… wrong. The whole place was screaming at me, telling me I didn’t belong there and couldn’t if I tried.”

“You’re still trying, though, despite that,” Pearl pointed out, and swept an arm out to seemingly encompass the entire Forge. “And look at all of this! You’ve been working so hard to make it your own.”

2. That HDM/Daemon AU that desperately needs updating - I AM SO SORRY - but here’s some actual (distressing) plot from the underground resistance meeting.

Pearl led Rose to a chair at an empty table near the wall, but didn’t sit down herself. Instead, she went over to the centre of the room where someone had brought out a projecting lantern and several small reels. Aristobulus stood tall at her side, stretching his long neck, and Pearl squared her narrow shoulders and cleared her throat.

The room’s attention was fully on her within moments. Pearl wasn’t what one would ever call a commanding presence, but there was an odd air of almost-imperiousness to her now that made both Rose and Neshu want to stop and listen - not their usual inclination at all.

“As you’ve no doubt heard, 37 people have been arrested by the Consistorial Court of Discipline in the last two months, including two of our own,” Pearl began. “After a cursory sentencing for heresy, all trace of them had vanished. We have now found records of the fates of some of them. I will warn you that these recordings are…” Pearl’s hands folded on each other nervously, “extremely distressing.”

At her nod, someone dimmed the lights and the projection started with the flick of a tiny switch, and all the murmuring that Pearl’s grim warning had prompted died down.

The silent scene hanging in the dusty air seemed to be the inside of a highly advanced laboratory, mostly taken up by strange devices Rose couldn’t fathom a purpose for. The only occupants of the room were a woman a little older than Rose herself, and two dour-looking men in long white overcoats, suggesting some sort of doctor or scholar.

Both the woman and her kestrel daemon were strapped into a particularly large and ominous-looking contraption, with odd metallic coils surrounding the bird. As one of the men approached and expertly plugged in the connectors on a series of cables, the coils started to vibrate and rapidly heat up - enough to emit a glow visible even in the grainy monotone of the recording.

Before their eyes, the kestrel seemed to take on a glow, too, thrashing about as much as the restraints allowed. But then its body started to elongate, its shape twisting and stretching in ways that should have been impossible, losing wings but gaining countless insect-like feet, the beak looking more like mandibles by the second.

Then- sparks, and sudden darkness, and the horrifying experiment cut short by what appeared to be a power outage, with the recording cutting out soon after.

The room was deathly quiet as the projection lit up again. The scene changed, but the same woman was the focus of the projection, now struggling against half a dozen uniformed guards.

The kestrel - back in its original form, it seemed - fought valiantly, leaving deep gouges for many of the guards to remember him by. His human kicked and bit and struggled. But ultimately it was in vain, and they were outmatched and outnumbered, and soon enough thoroughly overpowered and shoved into separate chambers of yet another machine.

Silver grates closed and locked behind both of them, while a similarly silvery guillotine shone above and between them menacingly, and seemed to hum in anticipation.

Pearl looked down at the floor - she had to have seen the recording before, and looking at her and the way Aristobulus was subtly nudging his head against her hand, Rose felt a dawning fear she, too, knew what was coming.

The blade came down.

The woman didn’t die, and the daemon didn’t disperse into so much dust. But they both looked like they wished they had as they were dragged away in opposite directions, without even a whisper of strained bond between them.

Rose struggled to force her fingers, clenched tightly in Neshu’s mane, to relax their grip even a bit.

The scene changed again, and no matter how much she wished she could, Rose didn’t look away.

3. The huge, huge Pearl/Rose fixit-ish fic that I started as an attempt to deal with the gag order mess when ASPR was still fresh. In this excerpt: some Rose/Pink sky arena angst that probably makes a lot more sense in context.

She still looks the part of the fierce rebel leader as her solid, quartz-heavy fists smash into the perfectly hewn pink stone over and over and over again (just the pink, only ever the pink). But her diamond-hard knuckles don’t bruise, don’t bear a trace even as the first floating insignia cracks and shatters into haphazardly hovering fragments.

And why would there ever be any mark left on her? She is, after all, just a spoiled, untouchable princess in disguise, playing a losing game that’s costing lives, making others dance a deadly dance to her self-indulgent little tune. And she could declare herself bored of it, give it all up and abandon them to horrible fates and go home whenever she wanted to in order to be relieved of this burden she clearly wasn’t ready for after all, such a shame... and they wouldn’t even know…!

The weight of the thoughts sends her spiralling back down to the pockmarked floor of the Arena, her landing nothing approaching elegant. A voice she knows she can’t possibly be hearing because its owner is in a (pink, always pink) bubble, hidden away, calls her a coward and a traitor.

She kneels in the ruins of her own making and wonders if Bismuth had a hand in carefully carving out what she has just smashed to pieces. If Bismuth would have cheered her on in this highly symbolic bit of destruction, in what is obviously a very defiant, political act with no practical or tactical purpose but with such a clear and pointed message. Everyone will readily believe that - why would they not?

Everyone except Pearl.

Pearl, who she has now so unthinkingly cruelly reminded of her station, reduced her (reduced them both!) to what they have supposedly been working on growing past and leaving behind. And for what? Because she was terrified, in that moment, that Pearl would find out the truth? That, inevitably, no matter how many Homeworld bases she snuck into and how many of the Moonbase’s systems she scoured, she’d find no trace of Bismuth anywhere, and she’d turn to Rose with those eyes large and shining with betrayal…

Just like they were earlier today, after I forbid it and I order you to stop.

The illusion and the beautiful make-believe are as broken as the symbol - the symbol of her - and how can she even think of considering herself any different from White now, demanding and taking and having her way, draining colour and will and personality to make way for the obedience due a Diamond? Pearl had gone so still, in the wake of the Order, all of her gestures, from nervous to exuberant, gone without a trace, posture stiff and perfect. It all seems a negligible step away from an empty smile on a newly bleached-white face and perfectly poised, outstretched arms; from being faced with an eerie automaton in the place of someone she dared to consider a friend.

She- oh, she wants to call herself Rose but she can’t, she’s not, she’s failed at that every step of the way so far. Pink curls her pristine hands into her fanciful dress nobody sensible would think to fight a war in, and cries, useless miraculous healing tears that couldn’t ever hope to begin fixing what she has so carelessly broken.

#oathkeeper writes things #steven universe #pearl #rose quartz #bismuth #yeah that's supposed to be centi/nephrite #i'm sorry #long post #in case the cut doesn't work #fanfiction #daemon au #those stars of brightest magnitude #bispearl #pearlrose #i'm alive i swear #feel free to validate me and such

[sesquipunzel]

Act 2 (Backtrack through 251-264)

(I am better understanding the appeal of reading Homestuck liveblogs because now I really wanna go read how other people dealt with this lil reveal.)

So...one thing that didn't occur to me in my many previous Thoughts was that the Vagabond might not be here accidentally — I may have been unduly influenced by knowing them by the name "Wayward Vagabond." They might have been searching for the SBURB bunker precisely so they could interact with the kids/the past; they might even have arrived or been summoned here on this specific day so they can do so. Or they might be the Skaia-survivor I hypothesized, who was out of the bunker running errands, and we joined them as they were coming 'home'. Though the impression that the Vagabond was curious and wary and exploratory and Not At Home was pretty strong, so I dunno. (Also, I would think if they were in on the plot, they'd understand more about John/the game/the lingo.)

But the Vagabond DOES recognize that they can communicate with the boy on the screen, DOES know how to operate the console (simple as it appears to be), DOES know how to read and write and type (although not to turn off the Caps Lock). Which perhaps adds weight to the notion that they were alive/educated in the Before Times?

Also, this console is clearly designed to let someone communicate with those on screen — but Skaianet also clearly had the technology to allow even more extensive interaction, à la John's magic chest on the roof of his house. So why is the connection only via the command line, why not a full suite of SBURB-style fixit tools? It could be an inherent limitation related to: a) the time disjunct, if "years in the future" is true; or b) a place disjunct cos we have no idea where either John or the Vagabond are; or c) an internet disjunct cos we have no friggin clue how their computers are communicating with each other at all (especially since John's house shouldn't even have power). Obvi, the command-line could simply be the default function, and the console is capable of other things that we and the Vagabond don't know about yet, but we shall see.

Because the arrival of the "BOY" Voice coincided with the division of the Kernelsprite and creation of the the Harmesperm, I made an assumption that the Voice was the Sperm's voice (and I imagine I ain't the first). I do speculate that the coinciding wasn't completely coincidental, though.

The first image the Vagabond sees is just after John took the bite of the apple and got his house ozzed to wherever he is now. So I wonder if that's where this mysterious connection between their computers starts — maybe the Vagabond couldn't have watched any of the pre-Meteor stuff in John's house, or interacted with him before then? 

As to HOW the connection started, or whether the ability for them to interact has anything to do with the KERNEL or the SPRITE? On that I have no guesses yet.

One curious thing is why the Vagabond's commands are reaching John as a "voice in his head." John is reporting this to Rose as new and troubling, so he didn't experience the previous reader commands in the same way, even if his "free will" occasionally argued with those commands. I've been told Hussie doesn't use dialogue in his comics, that all information is conveyed through Pesterlogs, command lines, narration, etc. So why did he choose to have the Vagabond's words manifest differently than the other reader commands, and differently from any other form of communication we’ve seen?  I think the most important part is probably John saying “i feel compelled to do these weird things i don't really want to do,” that commands coming from that particular console/place are ones he can’t disobey? 

If those commands had been communicated in a different way (like appearing on John’s devices) it wouldn’t have allowed for confusing the Vagabond's Voice with the SPRITE's, I suppose, and would invite more questioning from John as to who was 'on the other end' of the computer, but still interesting distinctions. 

So — going to re-read from that first "BOY" on page 251, and capture any deeper/revised thoughts along the way.  

Firstly, "the two halves go their separate ways, leaving behind the SPRITE portion" — I see that I misread that the KERNEL was the dual clown-silhouette things and the SPRITE was the mandala-thing left hovering in midair. But I see now the KERNEL was the circular "container" for the clown, i.e, the portion that existed before it was prototyped, and the SPRITE was the now-spermy clown-bit left after the seed-potential-power parts split off to go fulfill whatever that potential is.  (dum dum DOOM!)

On to the weird interactions within the Flash…

Calling John "BOY" reinforced the impression that the Voice didn't know who he was, or much of anything else yet, which made sense if it was a newborn SPRITE. But now it means the Vagabond also doesn't know who John is — just a boy on a screen. So why are they so imperious in the way they talk to John, so sure that John needs to listen and obey?  (How much does Vagga know about why this boy is on this screen at this moment? What do they know about what happened before, or what could/should happen next, for Earth's survivors? And are they friendly or foely to our heroes? Or to Skaianet?)

And who exactly is talking back (in the Green Boxes in the Flash version, or in plain text between black+orange Command Boxes in the non-Flash), calling the Voice a "nincompoop" and "sophomoric?" It seems to be our narrator, the one who used second person to start the story with "Your name is JOHN. As was previously mentioned it is your BIRTHDAY", addressing the character of John for the most part, but also the reader/player in some ways. But to have that narrative voice talking directly to another character is quite strange. (Although much of the response to the rest of the Voice's "EXAMINE"-type commands is back to our familiar narration style.)

"TIER PROTO TYPE THE SPRITE, OR THE THING YOU SAID. DO IT." Again, Vagga seems pretty sure about this being important to do, when they don’t even know the right words to describe it, or know that John can't do it himself.

Weird inconsistencies like not having enough Earth-context to call it a "towel", but enough to call it a "small Persian rug"?  Familiar with "sewing machine" and how big it should be, but not with "totem lathe."

It's not the SPRITE that loathes clowns and harlequins, but the Vagabond.

(Housetrapped is still funny.)

"On the other hand, you would probably benefit from [NANNA's] elderly wisdom now…"

“UGH, NO.”

“So coy. So mysterious."

Twas an odd enough interchange when poking around the Flash the first time, thinking it was the SPRITE talking. But is there an implication here that Vagga knows (and dislikes) NANNA somehow, or the idea of John talking to her?

"A YOUNG STUPID BOY." On what grounds is Vagga judging John stupid?

Regarding the clowns in dad's study, the Voice says "IT HAS A KNIFE. BE ALARMED BY THIS." and "I SEE TREACHERY IN HIS EYES." — rather paranoid, aren't they? Worrisome in a newborn SPRITE, leaning towards interpreting it as inherently suspicious and violent, if not evil. Not really surprising, though, in a post-apocalyptic/post-traumatic wanderer (although it certainly doesn't rule out violent or evil).

Back to the main stream of the story, at 256:  “NOW JOHN. RESPOND TO YOUR FRIEND UNIT.”  Again, Vagga knows the word ‘friend', but not how to use it in a sentence.  (is it because they've never had a friend?? are they a poor lonely, suspicious, violent cinnamon roll…???)

My curiosity about the Voice knowing the contents of the Pesterlog remain — is Vagga actually reading Homestuck, as it were, viewing John's screen/Pesterlog "over his shoulder" the same way we are? Or does the Skaia-built interface allow for more ‘camera angles’ than we have, or other direct access to the content this screen is meant (but by whom?) to show?

The narration on 257 that says "Oh well, you're the boss." has so many implications, doesn't it? But still notes that the commands are "awkwardly worded."

The Vagabond doesn't understand the difference between what John can do and what Rose can do. 

(I just caught up to the fact that when John was fucking around with the Alchemiter, he could only create Perfectly Generic Objects because the dowel he had was Perfectly un-Lathed, with no distinguishing data points. You know how it is, it was all so new and confusing then… cause yeah, I'm WAY less confused now, right?)

But they get a platform built, and again the Narrator and the Voice tussle over commanding John and considering his feelings — the Narrator now seems protective of John, rather than objective. (That is, it has generally seemed objective before now, except in matters of taste and humor.)

The double "==>==>" commands that the Narrator was getting salty about make a lot more sense, imagining the Vagabond flailing at their keyboard.

John sensibly wants to go back inside, away from the aching and windy void, but Vagga says, "NO DON'T DO THAT. HOP OFF THIS LEDGE ON TO THAT CAR."  This is the first time they've really suggested an action they came up with themselves, rather than responding to John mentioning prototyping, or encouraging him to follow Rose's instructions. (I'm not counting all the EXAMINE THIS and DESTROY THAT that helped us explore the Flash-House — those were still essentially passive responses to John's environment.) So I’m thinking that the mail in the car is really important in some way (I mean, I didn’t think it had been placed there as a time-wasting whim — it was the only real plot point of John’s excursion outside the house), which probably means the SBURB host software John can presumably use to rescue others the way Rose-as-host rescued him. (GG’s green gift might be important too but harder to guess how.) But that brings us back to the question of how the Vagabond knows about the software and its significance if they don’t seem to understand the game itself, or even how they know the software’s location in the car.

"==>==>==>==>==>" — and I thought two was impatient!

[hee, the Vagabond's keyboard does have the CAPS LOCK key lit!]

Right-Eo… long post, but more because I had a lot more musings to capture than because there was significant re-interpretation to do over whose Voice it was. Still worth the trip in my book. My blog, I mean.

The Kernelsprite has only actually attempted to communicate twice, right? Once with strange square textury symbols, and then after Harmequin-typing, with assorted Mardi-Grahdy fleurs-de-lis? (Floor Da Lease? Flurry d'Elise? Lorida Fleas? Flour Day Lilies? Stopping now.)

Gonna bet someone in HS fandom tried some pre-empty-ve code-breaking on the comparison between the two, but Ima keep on keepin on, trust that we'll discover what the Sprite is tryin' to say sooner or later in the story.)

Left-Eo then, backtrack completed and Yawnward Ho!

#homestuck liveblog #sesquipunzel reads homestuck #hs act 2 #homestuck #hs week 004