Vulptalk

Foreword: These drabbles are also up, and probably better formatted, on Ao3  here.  This is more or less just an archive. I'll dump drabbles in batches of 50 where possible/sensible. I'll also try to put some basic tags (series, characters) in the titles of the individual drabbles so they're easier to sort through.

Genre: All sorts Length: 100 words each B/D: This is the drabble collection that Traditional would have fit into, had it not grown into its own thing. Since Sora is my favourite, she's the star, although other characters pop in and out. I do love making these -- they're so moreish, and they always provoke more ideas and get me in a working mood.

Genre: Slice of Life/Comedy Length: 2000 Words B/D: Hime and Suguri have a mid-afternoon chat about their new friends.

She soars through pillowed clouds, a blue sky stretching out before her. A soldier older than any other, she counts only the birds as her brothers in arms; she has outlived the war that created her, but not the peace that she made from it. She touches down before a cottage with a thatched roof, where an old friend waits. She is singing a song as old as either of them, a melody from their youth. The song ends and Sham smiles, arms open to greet her; and at last Sora knows that she has finished the long march home.

It was meant to be a quiet evening – snacks, pyjamas, truth or dare where everybody picked truth. Then Krila found the perm rods, and decided they made her look like Medusa. Syura, predictably, ran with it. “Sir Aru! Cleave her in twain with your mighty greatsword and save Princess QP!” Syura the cleric yelled. Aru didn't have a greatsword. Aru had a standing lamp. Dark Krilalaris surged forward. Her foot came down on a lone cup of pudding left on the floor. A terrifying silence descended upon the room. Tearing off her lampshade tiara, the true final boss revealed herself. A/N: This is one reason I love doing drabbles -- occasionally I hit upon stuff like this that could make a good full length story, and I essentially leave myself a 100 word note telling me to do it later.

" Eeeek !" Within a second Suguri burst into action, flashing across the hall in a heartbeat. As if it had been a choreographed dance, Hime rushed out of the bathroom and leapt into her arms. "Suguri! I saw a --" "That's a washcloth." Hime looked up at her with teary eyes, close enough to see the fineness of her eyelashes. Then she relaxed into Suguri's arms and assumed a coy grin. "I wanted to see if you would catch me." Suguri rolled her eyes. She did a lot more eye-rolling these days. “I ought to drop you.” But she didn't.

There is a blade, spoken of in legends; sharp enough to tear through skin, small enough to conceal in the palm of the hand – a necromantic blade for stitching together the remains of the dead. And now, she holds it in her hand. A few stabs as practice: it whistles through the air, sings as it dips into the body, snck-snck-snck, as quickly as she dares to use it. “Truly, this is the sword of my soul,” she mutters, holding the needle to the sky. “It befits only one such as me... Krilalaris, the dark witch of home economics! Ahuhuhuhu...” A/N: I like to think Krila does something like this in pretty much every lesson. Woodwork? Carves wooden fetishes. Science? Writes essays on the principles of alchemy. English? Does her book report on the necronomicon. 

A backless evening dress with a plunging neckline. A flashy hairstyle out of a fashion magazine. A disarming, lascivious smile. That was all it took to get an invite to a party for the rich and the famous, although her only concern is the former. “Wow, boss. You look killer ,” Tomato says, her face set in awe. She basks in the admiration of her underlings, but keeps her goal in mind. She checks her make-up, her earpiece, the pistol strapped to her thigh. Everything is ready. “Alright, Warudas! It's time to begin the operation,” Yuki announces. “Let's make some cash.”

Kyoko, like a scolding headmistress, continued pacing in front of Saki. Her hair was singed. “Why are we here?” she asked. “...Because I blew up the kitchen.” “ My kitchen. On my birthday .” Saki winced. Inside her head, she had put herself in the category of 'bad houseguest'. “Why did you blow up my kitchen?” “There was a gust, and my newspaper–” “So you hastily put something on the newspaper.” “Yes.” “And it was a stick grenade.” “I'm sorry!” Sighing, Kyoko put down the plate of cake that survived the blast. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed her friend's face into it.