Post by Laurnath on Feb 11, 2022 1:14:06 GMT 10
Somewhere in Mirros, in a ridiculously boring middle class villa - on the outside. Anyway. The interior is plain at first glance, but at second and third it is understated expansive elegance. Plain rugs in woven silk, the squared furniture carved out of ironwood and polished with scented beeswax. Fresh daisies on most surfaces, an affordable flower - but in abundance.
Two dark haired elves argue in hissing, angry whispers. Butchering the melodic beautiful language as they face off in a bright alcove.
"This charade has to end. I will not keep wearing an /apron/ like a serf." the female says acidly, pulling at the cotton garment over her plain but well tailored clothes.
"This is our safety net, and we will continue as we are until we can do as we like. Besides, I think it's good to see you put your best foot forward." Himself, the man of the house attempts to dull her spite with placating firmness.
"You may have gone mad, mad and stupid like our eldest. Will you need written and picture instructions to sort this out before I leave you for good." is her retort, nailing him in the chest with a work blistered finger. Still the nails are buffed and polished neatly. The low vibrance of their wealth is obvious to any that looks.
"Don't talk about her like that. You love her."
"I can love a child and not like them." comes the quiet, angry and cutting blow.
Anastasie, fresh from sliding out of her reverie and leaving Elie to rest gets down off a bookcase. Remembering the quiet enjoyment of writing a note that says "Be safe. We will talk about last night." Adding a little yellow friendship rose sticker. It felt far away now as she moved away from the argument.
Her vibrant gold, black and pink robes don't stop her from wandering around unseen. A ghost of families past. Quietly stepping through hallways full of beautiful oil paintings of her siblings. Sometimes she is there, hovering in the back with her blue eyes deftly daubed over with brown. With a gloved index finger, she pushes her least favourite painting off kilter. Awkwardly askew in the row. It was her favourite silent come-uppance when she wandered this 'house'.
Having unburdened herself of secrets to her friends, she felt she should trawl the halls again. Moving things around into different drawers. Dropping single earrings into vases. Tangling necklace chains into big knots and gently unscrewing doorhandles and drawer knobs half the way with her sharp wakizashi. Walking on the balls of her feet, silent as a tiny mouse. An angry poltergeist in the body of a cute Shiye.
That was her, Anastasie the tiny mouse. The thought amused her, almost to soft giggles. Gently seeking her way upstairs, rifling through documents and maps in any rooms left unlocked. Sadly she had not invested time into that skill, maybe she should.. maybe she would. Maybe not. Leaving the offices, she caught sight of herself in a wall mirror. Shocked by how slender and tall she had become in her battle armor and with her penchant for adventure and violence. Her soft mauve stockings that hooked over high heeled boots of the same colour exactly, a black corset with an overcoat of swirling black and mauve velvet. Gold accents, buckles, straps.
No, the mouse really had left the house. There was no room for this person in this house. She was Lark, adventurer of Threshold. Not Anastasie, daughter of.. terribly, horribly, surely bad people.
Still, she had to create the piece de resistance. She went into her bare, cold, upper room and pulled back the covers and rumpled them. Creating a dent for her head and pulling out some hairs to push into the space. Then opening the window, pushing things off the desk beneath. That would scare them, that would worry them. They might even nail it shut. Good.
Her done-ness pulled her right through until she reached The Nest. Sneaking past the scruffy drunks and the cutthroat bandits. Weapons out, though unseen. A desire to tangle, to take out her stress on them and their ilk. Still she resisted and made it to a nondiscript door. Rather than knocking, she took out a leaf from her pack and toed it under the gap of the door.
It opened enough for her to slide her slender self in. There she was enveloped in quiet warmth and murmuring voices, the feel of an arm over her shoulders.
"Ay love, good thing you're here. Got work to be done after you lie down for yer weird open eyed thing."
"It's reverie, Marta and a bloody well need it." As the portly, silver haired human woman led her to a big room of clean cots and a smokeless fire.
"Yer safe with us girl." offered the woman, a little worriedly.
It was then Lark realised she was still clutching her gold weapons, out, ready to eviscerate. She sheathed them slowly, apologetically - sliding down into one of the cots, fully dressed and before she knew it - her mind was somewhere else. Someone else, some other deep desire of dark spaces and soft sliding skin. Where she was just a girl and they were just... them.
Two dark haired elves argue in hissing, angry whispers. Butchering the melodic beautiful language as they face off in a bright alcove.
"This charade has to end. I will not keep wearing an /apron/ like a serf." the female says acidly, pulling at the cotton garment over her plain but well tailored clothes.
"This is our safety net, and we will continue as we are until we can do as we like. Besides, I think it's good to see you put your best foot forward." Himself, the man of the house attempts to dull her spite with placating firmness.
"You may have gone mad, mad and stupid like our eldest. Will you need written and picture instructions to sort this out before I leave you for good." is her retort, nailing him in the chest with a work blistered finger. Still the nails are buffed and polished neatly. The low vibrance of their wealth is obvious to any that looks.
"Don't talk about her like that. You love her."
"I can love a child and not like them." comes the quiet, angry and cutting blow.
Anastasie, fresh from sliding out of her reverie and leaving Elie to rest gets down off a bookcase. Remembering the quiet enjoyment of writing a note that says "Be safe. We will talk about last night." Adding a little yellow friendship rose sticker. It felt far away now as she moved away from the argument.
Her vibrant gold, black and pink robes don't stop her from wandering around unseen. A ghost of families past. Quietly stepping through hallways full of beautiful oil paintings of her siblings. Sometimes she is there, hovering in the back with her blue eyes deftly daubed over with brown. With a gloved index finger, she pushes her least favourite painting off kilter. Awkwardly askew in the row. It was her favourite silent come-uppance when she wandered this 'house'.
Having unburdened herself of secrets to her friends, she felt she should trawl the halls again. Moving things around into different drawers. Dropping single earrings into vases. Tangling necklace chains into big knots and gently unscrewing doorhandles and drawer knobs half the way with her sharp wakizashi. Walking on the balls of her feet, silent as a tiny mouse. An angry poltergeist in the body of a cute Shiye.
That was her, Anastasie the tiny mouse. The thought amused her, almost to soft giggles. Gently seeking her way upstairs, rifling through documents and maps in any rooms left unlocked. Sadly she had not invested time into that skill, maybe she should.. maybe she would. Maybe not. Leaving the offices, she caught sight of herself in a wall mirror. Shocked by how slender and tall she had become in her battle armor and with her penchant for adventure and violence. Her soft mauve stockings that hooked over high heeled boots of the same colour exactly, a black corset with an overcoat of swirling black and mauve velvet. Gold accents, buckles, straps.
No, the mouse really had left the house. There was no room for this person in this house. She was Lark, adventurer of Threshold. Not Anastasie, daughter of.. terribly, horribly, surely bad people.
Still, she had to create the piece de resistance. She went into her bare, cold, upper room and pulled back the covers and rumpled them. Creating a dent for her head and pulling out some hairs to push into the space. Then opening the window, pushing things off the desk beneath. That would scare them, that would worry them. They might even nail it shut. Good.
Her done-ness pulled her right through until she reached The Nest. Sneaking past the scruffy drunks and the cutthroat bandits. Weapons out, though unseen. A desire to tangle, to take out her stress on them and their ilk. Still she resisted and made it to a nondiscript door. Rather than knocking, she took out a leaf from her pack and toed it under the gap of the door.
It opened enough for her to slide her slender self in. There she was enveloped in quiet warmth and murmuring voices, the feel of an arm over her shoulders.
"Ay love, good thing you're here. Got work to be done after you lie down for yer weird open eyed thing."
"It's reverie, Marta and a bloody well need it." As the portly, silver haired human woman led her to a big room of clean cots and a smokeless fire.
"Yer safe with us girl." offered the woman, a little worriedly.
It was then Lark realised she was still clutching her gold weapons, out, ready to eviscerate. She sheathed them slowly, apologetically - sliding down into one of the cots, fully dressed and before she knew it - her mind was somewhere else. Someone else, some other deep desire of dark spaces and soft sliding skin. Where she was just a girl and they were just... them.