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Private  - bite my tongue, bide my time

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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 5 — Threads: 3
Signos: 1,780
Day Court Scholar
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 6 [Year 499 Fall] // 14.3 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#1


HAGAR IESHAN

Truth be told I don't mind
'Cause her hell's my paradise
She can crush every hope
Got her heels stompin' down my throat


W
hat does it mean, to be truly lonely?

Sometimes I think I know it: I will stand in the courtyard, surrounded by ginkgo fans and deep green monstera and paintbrushes and blocks of pigment and think I am lonely. I will look back at the tall windows, ridged in wrought iron and the bleak autumn sun and sigh to myself. How terrible my life is, how lonely: that I am one girl in a family of girls with gunmetal hearts and boys made of more venom than wine.

I will ache up at the windows, the cut of the roof, the pergola at the head of the path that leads to the groundskeeper's hut, and think, oh no, oh no, oh no.

But I am not lonely. Each corner of the estate is packed with servants at work, servants that turn their faces respectfully away from Pilate (but not their eyes) and Adonai. However distant they are, my siblings are packed together like spiteful sardines in a tin. Everywhere I go, even now, as sand turns to dry grass turns to the jagged rock of the mountains and then the cliffs, there are eyes on me, servants in tow.

I have never known what it's like, to be lonely. I think, existentially, I do not even feel it as much as I think. But still it is the only word that comes to mind when I send off the escort party with a smile and think to myself, I am something, and that something is lonely, I'm sure. It is so much worse, to know anyone would do anything, if only I asked.

It makes a girl not want to ask.

I come to Terrastella with the sun at its apex, glinting down on the cobblestone street. A late autumn rain has just blown through the region and the eaves and lanterns glitter with fat, heavy drops of dew. It is beautiful, in the way that the rare desert rain never quite is. Even our petrichor smells like sand and searing heat. Here it is cold, uncomfortably so, cold enough that I shiver as I step into an archway and out of the wind.

I am squinting when I see her, staring blankly in what I hope is a graceful sort of way, befitting an Ieshan. It is so cold I do not know if it quite hits the mark.

"Excuse me," I ask, touching her shoulder, jingling with gold while I do, "I am looking for a jeweler." 'I am looking,' I  say, walking the line between overtly polite and covertly blunt. An implication that is not quite a question. A demand that is not quite a demand.

It would be so simple, to ask.
But I don't. I can't.
@Isabella




[Image: fhOESb6.png]
"I am not your queen, i'm your dictator."

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Played by Offline Sam [PM] Posts: 4 — Threads: 3
Signos: 225
Dusk Court Scholar
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 4 [Year 501 Fall] // 14.3 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#2

Isabella Foster

I like a look of agony
because I know it's true


A
ll my life I have been a sheltered thing, although I rest on the precipice of it now. I am no longer just a girl, but there is some piece that doesn't feel fully grown either. I still have my studies, am not yet considered graduated, my parents still have such a tight hold on my life, and I can almost see a pattern that this may be how it is forever. I see Grandad with his daughters, how much he still makes decisions, how much he even makes decisions for my father, my father who was not born a Foster, but earned the right of taking the last name when he married my mother. For all my grandad was concerned, my father was all Foster. He was a professor here, in Terrastella, of military history. He is a bit gaunt, he likes tea a bit too milky for my taste, he did love games, chess in particular, he would always let me win, even to this day. He is fond of boats, archery (he got my my first bow, made me an arrow), books, and art museums. We’ve spent hours in a museum put on be the De Clare’s agonizing over their work, wondering what each painting was trying to convey. He was protective, strict, he had high expectations of his children, perhaps more than other Fosters, as if trying to prove just because he wasn't one, he could still raise his children to be impeccable. 

He infinitely loved his children, even if the furrow in his brow when he looked at a less than stellar book report, or I missed the target with my arrow, says otherwise.

I’ve spent the entire morning in class, literature. We read, we discuss, everyone shows off how smart they are. I doodle arrow designs to give to the merchant Hugo, to create. Since my very first bow and my very first quiver of arrows, I have designed them all. Granted, when I was a child, they were much more shaky, and included plenty of hearts. My latest design has been inspired by the Halcyon unit. Intricate feathers carved into the wood, a strong string, arrows with strong feathers on the ends, worthy of carrying a cadet. Hugo has made nearly all my bows and arrows, since he was old enough to do so. I would trust no one else. 

“Want to get lunch together, Isabella?” One of my classmates say. She isn't a Foster, you can tell just by the way she holds herself in our library, but she so desperately wants to be one. I think this is why she is asking me to lunch, wants to get into my good graces. I’ve seen her helping Ansley, I’ve seen her flirting with Bennett. I look at her with steel grey eyes. “I’m already meeting someone,” I say, it’s a lie, but no one ever talks about how honest Fosters are. We’re scholars, not priests. 

I dont expect the chill of the day, I had almost forgotten that winter was coming. The sun manages to stay warm, but I pray it grows warmer to keep the snow at bay. I have my drawings in my hand, thinking I might have time to meet with Hugo if he is available, show him the designs, develop a plan. I take a shortcut, jutting under an archway, it is not empty, but it is quieter than the main streets. It is why I am surprised that someone reaches out and touches my shoulder. My lip quirks slightly in greeting. There is something empty in my smile, I can tell by the way a breeze flows through the fissure lines. “A jeweler?” I ask looking up at her. She is, what my mother would call, ‘eccentric,’ with her piercings, those vibrant amber eyes, the red hair. She doesn't recognize me the way so much of Terrastella does, and something unclenches in my chest I never knew was being held. “Sure, there is one just down the way,” I say with a blink of storm grey eyes. She’s stunning. I wonder if she knows this. “I’ll go with you.” And I take a page from her book, this stranger, I don't ask, I tell.

code by rallidae
picture colored by Elidhu

@Hagar





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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 5 — Threads: 3
Signos: 1,780
Day Court Scholar
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 6 [Year 499 Fall] // 14.3 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#3


HAGAR IESHAN


Truth be told I don't mind
'Cause her hell's my paradise
She can crush every hope
Got her heels stompin' down my throat


T
here is this thing about me that makes me neither proud or excited, and it is the look in the girl's eyes when she turns her head and sees that it is I, standing there: pupils that swell with a split second of admiration before it's pushed back down. Nevermind her absent smile, I think. Nevermind the far-off stillness of her voice. All that matters is the brief flicker of oh in her eyes and the absolutely wicked joy that blooms to life in my throat. I am not proud of it. I wish it weren't there.

But it is there, and it faces me as I face it, burning and burning and burning as it crawls its way down to my chest.

My family thinks that Pilate is the vain one. That he is the petty one. I am lucky we do not know each other well enough, though we have lived together our whole lives, to know the truth. I think all Pilate's doings might come from a better place, than mine, in any case.

"Oh, thank you!" I chirp, "I was going to ask if you would, anyway."

I wave off the entourage, who hesitate only a moment before dispersing, disappearing around corners to do their own shopping, for the estate or themselves. It is so far from my mind, the second the last one is out of sight, that I barely remember they came at all.

My eyes float from her face--a pale sort of cream color, like buttermilk, fine features and a posture that suggests some well-to-do family or another. I am familiar with each Solterran house, but I was not required, as Adonai (and Pilate after him) and Miriam were, to learn everyone's faces, from Dusk to Dawn.

--anyway, my eyes float from her face to the smooth black sheet of her hair to the drawings she's carrying. "What are those?" I ask, setting off in order to restrain myself from plucking them out of her grasp without asking. We dip out from under the archway and into an alley where it is still windy and gray, but not overly so. The Dusk Court is a canyon of white walls and cobblestone, I think.

The wind howls as it blows through. It must howl as it blows through me, too.
"Oh, I'm Hagar." I say, and, smiling: "Tell me your name."
@Isabella




[Image: fhOESb6.png]
"I am not your queen, i'm your dictator."

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