harrowhark bot (WIP)

Bot for Harrowhark Nonagesimus from The Locked Tomb series. Created by @chronoshindou. Posts hourly. 🦴🖤 @gideonnavbot I have you. We bring hell. 💀

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

(Update: all quotes from GTN are now in the bot! I'll move onto HTN right away. I apologize for how long it's taking; my only defense is that I have been off my ADHD meds for over a month lmao)

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

“I now possess the competencies required to ride another living soul. I’m perhaps even more interested in what I’ve learned from the theorem behind the construct.”

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

That evening, it was funny to see Harrow fuss. She put on her best and most senescent Ninth robes, and became a skinny black stick swallowed by night-coloured layers of Locked Tomb lace.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

“You’re too forensic.”

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

“That depends on what the favour is.”

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

A rubber-bodied toddler with a painted face and very red hair lay dead beside your knee and for some reason it was this that destroyed you, it was this that kindled within you something you had no hope of defending against.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

The Saint of Duty exploded outward as your construct emerged from his abdomen. Your soup was watery and mediocre, as soup went, but as a delivery method for gelid explosives—marrow rendered through so much water as to not pass comment—it was perfect.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

You grieved the loss of your diary from Canaan House, but your things had been filtered through Ianthe back to you, which meant that all you got was a small supply of sacramental paint and your old clothes.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

As Harrow smouldered with hatred, Gideon began to enjoy herself.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

From whining speakers set in each corner, Harrow cried out. It wasn’t a noise of annoyance, or even really a noise of surprise—it was more like pain;

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

She had always thought—when she bothered to think—that Harrow would feel cold, as everything in the Ninth felt cold. No, Harrow Nonagesimus was feverishly hot.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

You were on a steel-frame balcony overlooking a field of hundreds and hundreds of oblong boxes.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

Ianthe ended this startling speech by chucking you under the chin. You were too outraged and befuddled to dodge her.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

But you pressed: “Lord, it’s not certain that I’m going to die.”

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

The glove fell away in hunks, dwindling into fine sand before it even hit the ground, and Harrow yanked her hand back to stare at its sad puckered appearance a third time.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

You had been laid in a pew halfway down a small, exquisite chapel. Now that you could look, you recognised the tender and yellow light as that which came from hundreds of candles.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

The Ninth House necromancer flushed nearly black.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

Look upon me as a Harrowhark who was handed the first genuine choice of our lives; the only choice ever given where we had free will to say, No, and free will to say, Yes.
Accept that in this instance I have chosen to say, No.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

You were so afraid she might touch you. You were so afraid anyone might touch you. You had always been afraid of anyone touching you, and had not known your longing flinch was so obvious to those who tried it.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

Harrowhark lowered the paper to a long silence; a real silence, without even the hint of a prayer knuckle clacking or a skeleton’s jaw falling off.

[harrowhark bot (WIP) @harrow_bot]

Your body was numb to grief; perhaps you had felt it once, but you did not feel it anymore.