miggy still has not seen howls moving castle lmfoa

The clanking of metal ceases momentarily, and Wonyoung nearly tears her welding helmet off, the stray flashes in her eyes obscuring pinpoints in her vision. She shuts her eyes to give them rest, lest that accursed daughter of Hermes nag her again for not blinking often enough.

Sweat falls generously from her forehead and arms; her beloved forge senses the perspiration and cools from a roaring blaze to an idle hum. She wipes the sweat off her brow and grabs her small cup of blue Gatorade from a nearby table, and downs it all in one gulp. Off come the insulating gloves, and her overalls stained with oil and scorch marks follow. Her latest work lies cooling on her anvil: a gorgeous short blade of Damascus steel for her yet-small collection. It's not often Wonyoung gets free time for her passion projects, so each and every precious second is spent wringing out the beautiful form from the rugged raw. 

Her cup fills once again, half of Gatorade, before she changes her mind and throws it into the dutiful forge. It sizzles and lets out a soothing cherry scent and a puff of pink steam, while Wonyoung wills her cup to fill with mead instead. She takes slow sips this time, noting the intricate wooden grandfather clock off to the side, reading a late hour. 

“Good progress, good progress,” she consoles herself, as she tidies her tools back to their proper places. Her striking hammer joins the rest on her wall, while the welding machine rolls back under her worktable. The furnace cools further until only small natural embers remain, and each dies out individually soon after. 

And then she waits. Her cup fills repeatedly with mead each time it runs out, all the while Wonyoung stares anxiously at the door. Any moment now, a knock will sound, and she will have to get up to open it. She will receive the new materials for the work day, and will have to go through the motions again, fashioning bolt after bolt after bolt for her uncle. And at the end of the day, her father will send her a letter of appreciation, her hefty daily wage, and more of the worthless gratitude from the Royal Forge. 

A “Hey–” sounds from the window behind her, and it shocks her cup right out of her hands. It clatters to the ground, and for a brief moment it fails to register that it ever left her hand and her will; it spills mead continuously until Wonyoung is able to pick it up again. She does so with a sigh, and her loyal forge blazes to life again with pity. The temperature in her workshop rises higher and higher until the mead bubbles off the stonecut floor, and it singes the godly arm resting on her windowsill.

“Yeowch, cranky.” The voice cries foul behind her while Wonyoung reties her hair back. She whips around with a glare, and the deity behind her is unnerved. 

“I said don't scare me like that,” she reigns, undoing each bolt and lock on her front door. Once it's all off, the large wooden barrier swings open and on the other side Wonyoung finds two boxes of pure power waiting on the other side. Yujin walks over and leans on her doorframe, flashing a stupid smile that she always claims works best with Wonyoung. 

“What the fuck is this? Why two?” 

“Hell if I know. Don't shoot the messenger,” Yujin shrugs. “The war's ramping up, didn't you notice?” She waltzes into the workshop and takes a seat in one of the cobblestone chairs.

Wonyoung is still most fazed by the sheer amount of raw materials at her doorstep. How could the Royal Armory send her this much work? A novice boltsmith entrusted with this much responsibility, no paycheck would be worth the punishment Zeus would sentence should any of her pieces swerve. 

“I'm so fucked,” she says, rubbing her eyes over and over again, wishing each time that the extra box would be gone when they opened. “Did the armory really not say anything?”

“Look, princess, I really don't–” 

“Don't call me that. You know what? Don't even answer. Just go.” Wonyoung grabs Yujin by the back of her collar and drags her out the door. A flick of her wrist sends the intruder flying and landing face-first into the grass outside her workshop. Yujin lands with a thud, but recovers just as quickly, coming out of it sitting cross-legged and dusting off her only slightly soiled top. 

Yujin skips into the forge with her cheerful spirits intact, apparently having decided to spend the day bothering Wonyoung. With a little hop, she perches herself on the windowsill, feet swinging while she leans back on her hands.

There’s not much left to do: the extra box of materials refusing to disappear, and her too-nice clock has started to chime. With a sigh, Wonyoung heaves one to carry in, her lower back protesting at the effort. Wonyoung drops the second box right in front of the roaring fire of the forge with a loud crash. The flames dance for her as if to silently send her warmth and strength. 

“Hey, cheer up, Prin—”

All it takes in a sharp look. Yujin shuts up, wishes she could take back her words, puckers her lips like she really just might.

“I mean, Wonyoung,” she corrects, “is two boxes really a lot? I mean—”

“I barely make it through one, Yujin.” She slams the supplies on the workbench, already resigned from the task. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

me when i me when i ann and the nyeongz till i

i an on her nyeong till she

I get it

Lowkey we keep that part we just have to build to it in the scene thoughts