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+---- Thread: [AW] Song For A Young GIrl (/showthread.php?tid=4495)
Song For A Young GIrl - Noëlle - 01-02-2020
The remains of a festival litter the streets with strewn ornaments, glittering fabrics and an easy going hush that befalls the city. The streets appear relatively quiet for the time being, despite the late morning. Faint, harmonious chords of an instrument play – her humble companion lifting his voice dances to her rhythm. Filling the emptiness with kindred warmth. Homes boast the same as their inhabitants begin to rouse, reluctant to pull away from their fires.
Noëlle navigates the city with a subdued curiosity. The inhabitants of Terrastella were more likely nursing their hangovers. While the children – left to their own devices – overrun the city equipped with toys.
She found herself neither annoyed nor amused by their foalish antics. Casting demure smiles or the occasional grin behind their wake. A city well celebrated is a city content – she thought briefly. Having thus far, found very little evidence of a major conflict. It eased her to the slightest degree.
In the meantime, the girl’s eyes searched carefully for materials. Taking the time to pick up festive fabrics along her way, and stuffing them tightly into her satchel. Until, of course, it could hold no more and refused to shut. And then the fabrics found their place hanging off her back, trapped between the straps holding her satchel in place. Around her neck, and braided into her hair. She knew it was silly. Her smile – lopsided and constant – boasted her peculiar nature with a brazen awareness. And when it was obvious she couldn’t possibly collect anymore, she slowed her search in the presence of the musician from before. He passed a curious glance towards her; she laughed carelessly in return.
“I doubt these will be missed… Everyone’s had their fun.” The year ahead, despite its uncertainties provided every kind of opportunity. She wasn’t quite certain what or how she would fair with her work – if you could truly call it that. Noëlle was determined to make something of it all regardless. Even if it didn’t make any sense at the time. A softer smile leveled her lips. She approached the musician and tossed him a coin. “Your voice is a blessing, good sir. If you could spare a sea shanty?”
He didn’t seem to mind, as she gave him space.
“Sleep bonnie pirate laddie while the waves they roll.
Sleep bonnie pirate laddie, ocean breezes blow.
Feel the ship rock to and fro, hear wind through rigging sigh.
A gentle ocean sounds below a pirate lullaby…”
---
ooc// for @Hugo! :D Changed to all open in case anyone else wants to join (let me know otherwise! :3)
song credits: The Whiskey Bards
RE: Song For A Young GIrl - Hugo - 01-09-2020
i used to make my parents proudRevelry.
It is one of your few joys. It is your only hobby.
It's so easy to drink, and drink, and drink, until you an see nothing but the blur of your own feathers fallen over your face. It's so easy to laugh when there's nothing else to do. You like the way you sink, warm and intoxicated, into yourself; it isn't scary, and it isn't dark, and what is still dark has the comfort of the womb, or a deep kiss, or something equally intimate. The world seems much smaller. You seem much smaller. It's better that way.
The pounding headache is for a future you, a more resentful you, a version of yourself that you see in the mirror when your vision is cleared. It's for the you, sat out in the square, with the white winter light in your eyes and one wing lifted to shield them.
You're watching her, like a spider: still, almost impossibly still. There's no particular motive behind it--she just happens to be there, and you happen to be bored, as usual, so she draws your eye--but you're watching her awfully closely for a man with no cards left to play.
You bend your head, propping it up on one knee. You don't like the way the feathers on your jaw dig into your leg but it's better than nothing. At some point anything is better than nothing, even this. For the 50th time today you think of your work, the smooth curve of a shortsword, the bright gleam of a halberd -- all precious, all infuriating, all exhausting in a way that goes down to your bones, into your marrow and sits like you sit, like a beast in waiting.
Overencumbered does not quite to her justice. You're watching her pluck fabric from the street, tie it into her hair or around her neck. You are amused but it doesn't quite show, just perches at the tip of your tongue, until the girl flicks a coin toward the musician and it breaks over your face in waves.
"I think that's stealing," you say, smiling almost conspiratorially. It is one of the few expressions that make you look whole, and full. You're still squinting. The wing is still shading your face.
You wait.
Hugo Arkwright
⚒
@Noëlle