Charlette Bellamy @charlettebffxiv - Tumblr Blog

FFxivWrite2024 - Prompt #5: Stamp

“HAPPY NAMEDAY CAPTAIN!”

Sven nearly jumped out of his skin as he was assaulted by sudden laughter and congratulations. He had only emerged from the sanctum of his readyroom to get some coffee, and wasn’t really in the mood. A rare occurrence for him, but unfortunately navigating by the stars meant that he stayed up much longer than he normally did whenever they were about to embark on any kind of trip where they couldn’t rely on landmarks. He didn’t like to do it on the fly anymore. Not after what happened with The Incident.

He saw the grinning faces of his crew, his family, and the captain of the CETEA managed to force a smile on his lips. He couldn’t be short with them despite his exhaustion, not in the face of their obvious glee at surprising him yet another year. Cookie had gone all out as well, he saw, having baked not one, not two, but three of his favourite kinds of cakes. No doubt they hadn’t had any trouble finding people to help him decorate the mess as well, as was evident by the myriad of streamers and garlands strung about. A second glance had him notice that some of those garlands had paper cutouts of himself, drawn with over-the-top expressions of awe and appreciation. The least he could do was mimic some of them for their entertainment, and he was met with roaring laughter as he did so. Even Adra and Brigitte cracked a smile. Things were good.

Sven had been staring at the little stamp box when that memory had come to him, as vivid as if he had jumped back in time. Those moments seemed to come more and more, and he couldn’t rightly tell if it was his age, or some side-effect from whatever As’kari’s wife had done to his eye. His dreams certainly had been strange since then, but he wouldn’t be the first to fall for the trap of nostalgia as they got older either, so he couldn’t be sure.

He frowned as he tried to recall if the crew had thrown him one of their surprise parties this Twelvemoon yet. Unlike with most people, his was an actual surprise. He didn’t know what his actual nameday was, that was a discarded detail from the short life he’d lived before his current one. Sure, he’d made something up for the documentation for the Empire - former Empire, he corrected himself - but that was just as random a guess as the crew’s. It had become a little bit of a tradition to just pick a date each year and go all out like it was his actual nameday, but it had been a long time now. He sighed, softly chastising himself.

“You’re procrastinating.”

That little stampbox had been a gift on one of those Nameday celebrations. As captain, he had to read and sign a lot of documents - a lot. After an afternoon of parchment work, even a young scribe would get stiff fingers, and so he’d been given the little box. To ease the burden. Brigitte could be strangely thoughtful like that, even though she claimed this was a cheaper solution than the ink and quills he went through every season. She had also insulted his handwriting, claiming that it costs them gil each time a clerk returned a document on account of not being able to read his ‘scribbles’. They had argued, because that’s the only way he could thank her without making her upset. That, and by cherishing the gift so it wouldn’t need to be replaced for decades, perhaps never.

Today was the only time he had ever loathed it. Not for its own sake, but because of what he had to write, and to who. It felt heavier than a pistol in his hand as he lifted the stamp, the black ink somehow reminding him of the viscosity of blood. As he pressed it to the bottom of the finished letter, it felt like the soft thud was the drop of an executioner’s axe. Just like that, he might have signed his own death warrant.

Sven carefully placed the stamp back on the inkpad, then slowly placed them both back in their box. His heart was hammering like he’d just taken a draught of poison, though he outwardly looked as calm as ever. Brigitte came to his mind’s eye then: “Glad to be the one to kill you, captain,” her phantom image taunted, and he laughed out loud as he got up. Time to get going.

charlettebffxiv

<3

moksutinn

BG3 truly gave me everything i wished for

spicyraeman

Lae'zel of Crèche K'liir my beloved

velnna

More normal things

velnna

Don't worry he'll never be left out

slowcooker-ao3

Baldur's Gate in Darkest Dungeon style, two of my most favorite games!! This isn't my usual style but I've absolutely fallen in love with it after creating this piece! I may make more work like this in the future!

I got hella DD vibes from the Shadowlands in Act 2, which inspired me to make this!

Prompt #5: Cutting Corners

You benefit nothing from taking the short road. High road, long road, even the low road, but the defining characteristic behind the ‘right road’ is effort. If you try to skip out on the time required to let a worthwhile task occupy you, then you’ve likely removed the ‘worthwhile’ from that description. For Charlette, this can be something of a mantra, although not one she came to naturally. No, it took a lot of time and very much being forcibly shoved onto that wending, rising road before she accepted that there just isn’t any ‘quick fixe’ to capturing an aberration. Especially not now, under a pacifist oath, thank the Twelve. And that prayer is not just for her, because this evening she very nearly could excuse murder as a reasonable means of ending this gods-forsaken chase.

“Bugger off!” echoed down one of the many dirty, empty allies of Limsa Lominsa. The heavy thud of feet pounding down the wet gutter of a path that cut between the tall, white-walled buildings on either side of them. For a man with such short legs Charlette’s quarry was surprisingly swift, and it didn’t help that he could duck under and zoom between the plentiful obstacles in their way. “I will not! Come back here! It is dangerous!” she yelled after him, like a mother chasing a toddler on a sugar-high. Ordio Nadio had the good sense of a Limsan native to always wear comfortable, water-tight shoes even in the city. Charlette’s regrets ran deep, heeled boots clattering on the cobbles and quickly being smudged in garbage, constantly threatening to twist an ankle. Gods she missed the openness of the Shroud, especially as she doubled-over to clamber through an open crate at the bottom of a stack. Like a tunnel made through the rubbish tossed into this forgotten place. “Sod that! Y’ not gettin’ it! It’s mine!” Ordio tore his way down a turn, slipping around the corner. A leather bundle held tight under one arm. She would never catch him like this. Charlette pulled the tome, hanging from a leather strap across her chest, up and flipped it open mid-stride. Pages fluttered clumsily as she kept pace, stopping and starting every time she had to squeeze between rubble, clamber over heaps and duck beneath fallen rain gutters. It would be so easy to just… oh. Ordio made a mistake, Charlette flew around that corner in a clatter of scuffed heals, long legs and with a tumble that had her sliding through brown water on her rump. “Ugh!” her side soaked in the foul street brine. Ordio’s laugh was boisterous, confident, right up until she stood and stared at him, dripping and done with this. It would be so easy, it really would. The tome had fluttered to a schematic, red-inked and sinister with jagged geometrics that aligned with an arrow pointing to the head of the page. Like the ironsights of a machinists gun. Ordio was not laughing anymore, as the dead-end he had run himself into bumped into his back. The freckled, fire-haired man suddenly became horribly aware of the situation he had put himself into. He hugged the bundle to his chest, possessive and rebellious despite having nowhere to go. Charlette took one step toward him, pulling her quil from a holster-like strap on her belt “Remain calm, Ordio. This has gone far enough, I think we can both agree on this.” as calm and polite as she was trying to be, that cold wetness running down her side put a mean edge to her tone. “Naw, dun’ think I will. ‘S not yours, ‘s mine. I found it, fair ‘n square, ain’t no leggy-treehugger gonna snap it from me.” He raised a pudgy hand, pointing it at Charlette. “Walk away, ain’t gonna warn you again.” The other gripped that bundle to his chest, then started to unfurl it. “Do not do that.” Charlette placed the inked tip of her quil to the page, like a finger to a trigger. “I ain’t givin’ it up. ‘S too good.” the leather falls away, and he’s already slipped his hand into the glove that had been contained within. His fist gripped around a pearlescent stone, like a spherical mirror that reflected the alley around it, Ordio on one side, Charlette on the other. Her heel snaps on the ground as her next step comes fast, hard. “You know what it does every time you use it Ordio. I am not the only one that noticed the tears, but I am your best option now. Give it up, and you can go.” his feet scuffle on the ground, he looks to each of his sides. Only walls looked back, his chuckle is heavy and humourless “Y’know, you ain’t the only smartass in this city. I know ‘bout you, Bellamy, they’s told me what your thing does, your people. I ain’t going in no vault.” swift as Charlette can finish that schematic, he cocks his arm back, the sphere glinting in his palm against the weak sunlight, and he tosses it as hard as he can over Charlette’s head. It would have been so bloody easy to just pull the energy from this irritating little scallywag, take that aberrant relic, and foist him onto the Order to deal with. But she had to be different now. Woompf! Orido disappears from where he was, and with another thud of air and space being displaced, he appears above Charlette. One hand with a death grip on that sphere he had hurled above her. “Aaaaaaaaaah!” he squealed, arms and legs flailing in the air like he was trying to paddle for flight. He tosses it again, woompf, and he’s several yalms in the other direction. “Ordio!” Charlette swipes the schematic, firing the draining aether into the literal cracks that had formed in the air behind him, aether splitting and whirling where it had been shorn into a knotted mess. Instability, the kind that can quickly get out of hand. No time, she had to chase him, listening for every thump of the lalafell tearing his way through the flow that surrounds us all. Gods the high, long road sucks.

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Prompt (Extra Credit) #4: Taxidermy

To the man with the owl in his window, Hello, this is your neighbou Charlette from across the street. It is a pleasure to meet you, even if only through the medium of paper and ink. Well, that is not entirely true. We did meet once, when I first moved into the building across from you. We bumped into each other while I was transporting my houseplant, I remember it being a little shocking for you! Carnivorous seedlings often make a rather striking first impression do they not? You can see Nibblet in my window, they are doing well!

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Prompt #3: Temper

Tempering is a tragic thing, could there be anything worse than having who you are torn from you and replaced with some idealized personality, designed by a creature incapable of viewing itself as anything less than perfection personified? Charlette couldn’t, even if she tried to dumb that concept down to a simple annoyance, it’s even worse than people who dog-ear their books. The news of a cure of was so welcome she couldn’t think of it as anything less than the most wonderful thing to come out of this troublesome twelvemoon. Until she did it.

She couldn’t speak, for her mouth was covered by a muzzle. It was comfortable, the stitch and inlay prevented any chafing, but it itched and every breath made it hotter, more humid around her. She could not struggle, because her arms were clamped in heavy metal behind her back, less comfortable and certainly chafing. She could walk in only short steps, the chain that joined her ankles by clasps clinked like it was attempting a merry tune, but creating a discordant dirge instead. She could listen, of course, she could see all that was around her. White-clad bodies frog-marched her down a long hallway lit with fire encased in crystal. A third stood behind her, the prim and feminine voice speaking with an authority that can only come from the righteous, or at least those that believed themselves so. When sense returns to her addled mind, so those prim words start to take focus, sharpen, until she could hear nothing else. “...deemed aborrant. Due to unconscionable acts made possible with your skills, talents or gifted belongings, you have been deemed a threat to yourself, Eorzea and the wider communities. For your, and the safety of all, a decision by the learned, rational and dedicated Keepers of the Archives has been made to remand you into our care and observation.” she lurches, her bonds pulling and pressing as her body involuntarily folds upon the last word spoken. The bodies at her sides pull her upright, and keep her moving. Door after door after door passes them by. All made of dark wood, polished to a shine and bolted into place with heavy, iron pins. They are massive, each panel that has been hammered into place the width of a trunk and the length of three people. “...while under our watch you will receive rehabilitation, care and education.” that voice continues, calm, almost pleasant. “If your aberration can be cured, it will be.” “If your aberration is due to an item, you will be freed from it.” “If your aberration is of your own making, or inherent to your being, a means to live with, control or repress it will be found.” “If you are the aberration, you will be safe and the burden of responsibility for your nature will fall unto us.” her legs had gone limp, folded beneath her. Her feet dragged out behind her. They did not stop, they did not wait, they did nothing but continue that long, cold march. Not until they came up to a door. Her door. “Subject two-hundred and forty-two, your time with the Archives begins this sun.” her head rises, why does this door loom so much more? It has no visible lock, but the scrape and clank of iron comes just before the ponderous swing. No one had touched it, like it knew to open once they were there. She struggles, she wants to scream, she wants to go back. It is black inside there. “No! I am sorry! I am sorry!” she would have shouted at them, if it weren’t for the leather that holds her words. “Please! Please I am sorry!” what else could she say? She would have gripped their robes if it weren’t for her bonds. Buried her face in their pristine, white robes and wept with all the grief and regret and shame that she could muster. “Please, please I am so sorry. Do not leave me here.” She was dragged into that room, turned and placed kneeling on the floor where she slumps. She raises her head, life and energy sapped from her, and does all she can to put that pleading regret into her eyes alone. She faces the source of that prim voice. Looks her in the eye and begs with expression alone. The Duskwight looking back pushes her thick glasses up the rim of her freckled nose. The open book she holds before her, thick and old, holds more of her attention than that desperation being bled out in tears. “Do not believe you are a prisoner, the Archives is not a jail. Redemption, salvation, healing or a new home. It can be any of these things for you, as long as you try.” Finally, this jailer of hers looks at her. Stoic, confident, just. But then why do the edges of her eyes crease when she sees those eyes, those wet, panicked eyes of Subject two-hundred and forty-two. Why does she, Charlette Bellamy, look at all when she knows an aberration should be corrected? It is here that she wakes-up. No panicked sweat or deep breathing, just cold. Like in that hallway, on that walk. Frozen within and without, cruel as the wind of Coerthas. She had been so close to forgetting, so close to being someone else. But tempering is a horrible thing and needed to be cured, she just never expected to envy the people who could have what they were, what they had done, swept away like a disease. How petty of her, to feel resentment at the fact that for them, it was that easy. For them, it was not their fault.

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Prompt #2: Bolt

“Perchance, is there not an option for something a little less invasive?” Charlette asked, a page held in one hand and a stack of them laid out before her. Sat at the round table centered in the Quicksand, it was an unusually quiet evening in the Ul’dah hotspot. Two others occupied it with her, all of them looking scholarly in flowing robes and sporting their own, somewhat extravagant tomes. “If this were to work, it could still cause a loss of aetheric ability. If it does not, it will leave pointless damage behind that could possibly worsen the situation.”

Across from her sat a Miqo’te, pince-nez balanced on his nose and a green beret atop his head. Long dreadlocks tumbled neatly to frame a nervous, stuttering face of boyish quality. “Y-yes this is true. But y-you also gave me a c-case that is not only incredibl-ly rare but poorly studied!” the poor man melted under scrutiny even of the gentle kind, brilliant as he is. Charlette leaned back, and placed her hands atop his notes “I understand Dihx, I am just being thorough. It is very important we do not rush to any conclusions and you are normally more, ah, out of the box than something like this. Direct aetheric manipulation?” Dihxoh’ya blinked so hard it seemed his head might fold in on itself. “I kn-know, but I’ve exhausted all possible resources I have and th-there just isn’t enough to go on. Charlette, I-I understand this is an incredible opportunity for you, a-and believe you me I would love to be accredited with curing an affliction of this k-kind. But I do n-not see any other way of doing so in the t-time frame you’ve provided. Th-that time frame being a ridiculous ‘Immediately or soon’.” It was the most timid way of throwing ones hands into the air, fingers splayed with a little apologetic wiggle. “T-time and available knowledge is simply n-not on your s-side I’m afraid.” Charlette paged through Dihx’s work. It was thorough and well-researched, of course it was, the man had devoured the library of the Arcanist guild with a memory prolific for never forgetting a detail. Gods, but they cannot do what Dihx’s suggestion. “It is far too risky, I appreciate your work and I am sorry for the unreasonable limitations placed upon it. It is just extremely urgent.” Their third companion finally chimed in, leaning forward and placing a finger atop the page. “Urgent or not, Charlette, you know Dihx is right. This is the most realistic option right now, so you have two choices. Do it, and accept the risks. Or put your nose to the grindstone and keep researching.” It is very hard to argue with Barapfrew, the man was as massive as he was often correct. A seawolf with broad shoulders, a long beard and a smooth, shaven cranium that might be an attempt to show-off the size of his intellect. “Either reel in your ambitions or take the leap. You know which one both Dihx and I think is the better choice.'' He lays his hand flat upon the report, and shakes his head. Charlette drops the page she held on the table top, resigned to still having no immediate solution “Fine, yes. I know. I know. I will take the time to investigate further. The both of you can expect to hear from me again concerning this.” Dihx’s nod is quick and eager to please, like a toddler promised pancakes if they do well. Bara’s, on the other hand, was slow and a singular movement as if he just won a predictable game of Triple Triad. Charlette’s was polite and swift, and then she was up and leaving them at their table. You can tell a lot about how a discussion between Scholar’s went by their nods. Charlette sighed, heavy with frustration. The longer it takes her to find a solution, the more danger he and the others are in. But she cannot be reckless either, not with a life that has been put in her hands with such trust. “Blasted man and his riddly-worries. I swear Red you are going to be the death of my curiosity.” Dihx’s report is shoved into her satchel as she makes her way to the Northern Gate of the city. Red was not going to enjoy the session they have this sun. Best she make a stop by the markets and pick him up something nice to balance things out. Perhaps new gloves? Would that ease the pain of a biopsy? She was going to find out.

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Prompt #1:Cross

And thus, there she was. Charlette had stood at the edge of this village so many times, waiting for the chocobocart to Gridania to arrive and haul her to the City-State. Sat on this same bench, rickety as it was, and wandering away with her thoughts. The only thing piqued were her ears, for the telltale trundle and “Kweh!”. This sun, it had felt good, normal once again. Probably on account of the fact she had sat here, alone, traveling in her own capacity and without someone to watch her. Without being treated like a risk, a criminal who could take flight. It felt good to not have that steel weighing on her wrists. She could do this alone now, not that she was.

Charlette’s hands ran over the satchel sat in her lap, the fresh leather of it recently stitched and only just starting to wrinkle where the contents caused it to bulge. She opened a small pocket at the front, fishing out the airship ticket inside. The corners were bent, and the ink was slightly smudged from being held by many hands. The Order had planned all of this long before her hearing, judging by the date of purchase on the creased stub of paper. ‘One-way to Limsa Lominsa’, how a little sentence could send such a nervous thrill rumbling from her gut and up her spine? The Arcanists Guild of the great City-State of Limsa Lominsa, the very first stop on this long, long assignment of hers. And she had chosen this too. It could have been the Thaumaturges of Ul’dah, even the Conjurers of Gridania or the Astrologian’s of Ishgard. It could have been anything the Order decided it should be. Instead, they begrudgingly allowed her to pick the trail she would walk for them. So naturally, she picked the one with the biggest library. With both hands she tried to smooth those bent corners and the fold that creased it through the middle. Charlette planned to keep this little stub, even if the bends irritated her. “Kweh!” the excited call of a chocobo rolled down the winding path fitted between the trees of the Shroud. The trundle is here, and the bo had brought Loash back with a snort, a jolt and an annoyed huff. He looked down the path, then to Charlette “What? Was getting to the good part.” he tapped a finger at his temple then stood and walked over to the pathway to wave the cart down. “Don’t lose the ticket, ‘s expensive and queues make me nauseous.” Charlette slipped it back to safety, swung her light satchel over her shoulder and stepping up next to him, nose raised “Of the two of us, you are the one more likely to misplace important travel documentation.” Loash flicked a pointed finger at her, just as the cart stopped in front of them and its passengers stepped out and started to unload it. “That’s true. Still, don’t lose it. Cost us a sun, and you’d be late for class.” This was also true and the thought of being tardy on the very first sun made her skin crawl. She stepped-up to the now empty cart, but Loash laid a hand on her shoulder to keep her there for a moment. “Y’ sure?” he asked, looking at her. Always the same impassive, unbothered expression. But she felt the concern in the squeeze of his fingers. She nodded “More than anything.” and without hesitation, he let her go “After you then.” both of them finding a seat, moments later the cart took off. The subtle jerk as it pulled them forward bringing that thrill up her body again. She watched her home grow smaller and smaller as they trundled along. “Sad or glad?” Loash asked as he watched her. “A bit of both. It is all so different this time.” Loash nodded, slow and ponderous “Better?”. Such a loaded question to ask in just a single word. “I do not know. But we are going to find out.” this seemed to placate him, or he had simply run out of his short supply of words, as with another dip of his head, he was fast asleep despite the gentle jostle of the cart. Charlette was not quite brave enough to commit to it yet, but a little voice in her hoped aloud ‘This time, I get to make it better.’

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Prompt: #6: Left Behind

((Unsung Prompts are a series of writing challenges given in my RP community. They centre around my character Charlette Bellamy’s life, thoughts, community and adventures))

Dust in Thanalan is quite something. Many might think that an odd thought, perhaps a pointless one, but if you take a moment you might be able to appreciate where it comes from. Charlette had a moment, she had plenty right now, and so this was what occurred to her. When every gust of wind billows a red plume over you and leaves you itching, sneezing and tinged with a gentle, ochre glow, is it not somewhat special? No? Well it certainly is irritating.

A leather boot that was practically burning with that ‘ochre glow’ scuffed at the ground, kicking up yet more of the red earth. A grey-blue hand peaked out from voluminous, location-appropriate sleeves and wiped at a sweating brow. The linen turban that had been lifted from it moments ago soaked dark with lost water. Charlette was not in her element at all, a fact that left a small knot of worry in her chest whilst she ambled down a pathway cut through the thin Thanalan shrubbery. It had been worn there by many carts, heading to where they all inevitably go, Ul’dah. Gods but it was malms away from the looks of it, though the waves of heat may be distorting her vision? Bespectacled people tend not to be all that trusting of their eyesight, pity she couldn’t listen for it, bat-like in her sense of direction as she was. Or so she liked to think. This was a fine mess to be in, and a fine time for this particular stretch of ‘country road’ she was following to suddenly be devoid of any other travellers. It was positively bustling when she had made her way out here, the guide that had brought her on his own cart had been positively fuming at the traffic. “I wonder what he was in such a rush to do?” the duskwight spoke aloud. She could taste her thirst on her lips, salty and sticky and threatening to crack, but all she could offer was a lick. Judging by the weight of her waterskin, she couldn’t quite afford to remedy that thick-feeling inside her mouth, like her saliva was slowly turning to paste. “Had other business, in the town just over, don’t you remember?” a voice answered her. Now she was alone that much was certain, but the second voice did not draw a startle from her. Instead she reached a hand into the satchel, always hanging from her shoulder, and from it she produced a book. Turned it over to face the cover and answered “Ah, so now is a good time for you to speak?” The tome she stared down at had an oval shape embossed into it, corners filled with floral designs like autumn leaves, and framed in the centre was the title ‘Legumes and Where to Find Them Volume 3: Decadent Desiccants of the Desert’. Yes, all that fit, but it didn’t really matter as at that moment the ‘M’ of ‘Legumes’ and the ‘W’ of ‘Where’ had blinked. The space between title and subtitle spread open, and the face of the tome spoke with a voice so soaked in smugness it could water the barren landscape and then some. “Oh do not be so dramatic, darling Bellamy. I am a busy text, after all legumes are the food of the masses, mmh? Many need me, and I can only attend to one volume at a time. You know this, you silly thing.” she did know this, she was well aware. About as aware as she was of the magnifying glass in her bag and its incredible ability to start fires in the midday sun. “Of course, though it seems your ‘popularity’ has distracted you from the important task of scheduling. We had an appointment, about five bells ago? I believe you said ‘With my vast knowledge and your nimble appendages, we will find those beans in a matter of minutes!’. Or was I mistaken?” Her impression of the book was only half-right, but we can forgive Charlette’s performance considering the circumstances in which she was giving it. The tome did not do her as much kindness “Well that was rude. I do not sound like that, though if it was an honest attempt at dignified speech then perhaps you should be more aware of your limitations.” The pout on the books ‘lips’ stretched the words and creaked the leather it was made out of. It did look positively insulted though. “Rude? Hmh, let us speak of rudeness then, yes?” Charlette smacked the spine of the book, Legume’s giving a pompous “Oh my!” as its pages fluttered, then snapped shut from the impact. Now it was paying attention, the eyes in the circles of ‘g’ and ‘d’ going wide with indignation “Is it not ‘rude’ to say you will do something, and then simply not do it?” Whack! She lifts the book and slaps it down on a flat palm “Stop that!” it complains. “Is it not rude to agree on a time for a meeting and then simply not. Show. Up.” she emphasised each word with a hard stab of a fingertip against the ‘face’ of the tome. “Ow! Stoppit! Stop!” it complained. “Is. It. Not. Rude!” Charlette rolled the ‘R’, practically revving an engine of disgust. Holding the tome with both hands, stopping in her dusty tracks and looking directly at the fat-lipped, indigent cover of a book about beans. “To promise someone you can lead them out of a bloody desert, to levin aspected beans, across the treacherous biome of the Thanalan savanna, all before the midday sun has a chance to roast her bloody ears to burnt match tips. AND THEN NOT DO IT?” She pulled Legume’s in closer, for that is now this book's name. It was but an ilm from her manic, dehydrated, bordering on uncivilised face. “And possibly leaving her for dead in the process? Is that not rude?” if the tome could nod, it would have. Instead, Legume’s offered this: “If you are quite done, you should probably know you are going the wrong way.” If Charlette’s sun could have been further ruined, it was. But perhaps not much more than Legume’s who found itself strapped to Charlette’s waist, and breathing in every puff of Thanalan dust her furious footsteps kicked-up. What kept him there, face forward and present at all? A magnifying glass and a rather angry promise to use it should they require a campfire at any point. If it had any clever thoughts to add on the subject of said dust, Charlette was glad that nothing but coughing came out.

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Prompt #2: My Secret Companion

((Unsung Prompts are a series of writing challenges given in my RP community. They centre around my character Charlette Bellamy’s life, thoughts, community and adventures)) It twitched. No, it was not the wind, nor a hard to see insect. That was movement, perhaps not voluntary but the source of it was the subject Charlette had been staring at for nearly four bells now. Gods above but it was gross, like a pot plant modelled after a dissected tongue. Or, at least, if a vine grew grapes that might lick you back before you bite into what is hopefully sweet, but clearly juicy fruit. It brings unbidden thoughts of tongues rolling inside mouths and Charlette has to break her longest spree of unblinking observation to flutter that rude thought away. “Find focus, this is important.” Her knees were screaming far louder than any lurid imaginings that hopped through her mind like exhibitionist rabbits. It was likely due to the squatted position she had been holding as long as her gaze. But the crick in her back, the click in her knees and tears welling at the edges of her tortured eyes was all worth it. Because that was a twitch!

“Stop it!” they said, poking her in the ribs and making her sit straight. A terrible habit of hers, really, the stock-still slouching over her books and notes. Her posture constantly suffered for it, and if left to her own whim and awareness, she would be a bent crone long before her eightieth summer. They were late into their bells, the night quickly passing by in a furore of study, the earliest suns at the Archive were some of the most intense. Learning a lot, with so little time, it often felt cruel. Not for someone as naturally bookish as Charlette, and not for her very first friend amongst her generation of inductees. Brianne and her had bonded over their ability to lose themselves in the pages, in the pursuit of a subject that had captivated them, such that letting it lay for a night of sleep or even a bell’s worth of something else felt unacceptable. The ‘Twin Red Eyes’ of the Archives, a fitting if irritating nickname they were graced with by Frederick, ever the comedian. Another voice that spoke with Brianne’s in that little, chastising knot at the back of Charlette’s mind. “Oh smile, will you!” he said, reaching up high to pinch Charlette’s cheeks and pull them up in a very resistant-looking faux grin. Yet another week spent on the road, passing town after town, sailing through the land with heads pointed forward despite the incredible wilderness around them. Remaining holed-up in rented rooms, or secretive camps far from any influence or distraction. A journey they were quite familiar with at this point, one that allowed nothing to take from the task at hand, by oath and rule and enforced by the constant watch of a Higher Member of their Order. They were always watching, and so Charlette was always performing as expected. How many times had she been out here? In the sands and plains of Thanalan, the fjords and coasts of La Noscea? But the task kept her from taking any of it in, welcoming any of the adventure that was just there, waiting to be grasped by her hand and heart. Frederick was a terrible performer. Well, at least on this particular stage. Had they been standing in a theatre or a mummers set Charlette did not doubt he would be in his element. But under the scrutiny of a watcher? He would get the Sheperd’s hook. One of his favourite rebellions was to encourage the same in his stoic Duskwight partner. Poking, prodding, joking and jesting wherever he could find the ilms worth of a chance. Every time he broke her be it a smile, a snort of laughter, a gentle touch to a cheek or shoulder, she could feel him revel in the ‘chaos’. So small as it was. She still wonders if he knew how much he was also keeping her spirit alive. “Don’t give up, one more tome.” Brianne encouraged, bringing three bells of study to an even eight in a single sentence. “Come now, just a sip. It isn’t even the strongest kind you can find out here.” Frederick’s charm pushes her to venture a small taste of La Noscean spirits, the following coughing-fit having to be smothered with a pillow shoved into Charlette’s head lest one of their companions hear it through their tent. “I found it! Just here, right under our noses. I skimmed these scrolls about a hundred times, and missed it with each.” Brianne wakes Charlette from a bent-over, spontaneous mid-marathon nap Her back ache ignored in the rush of excitement at the answer finally presenting itself. Never mind that it was just Brianne’s sleepless delirium making her see things. “Don’t be afraid, there’s no one else around, and if a tree falls in a forest but no one is around to hear it, it does not in fact make a sound.” Frederick uses her own, nagging quote against her as they stand alone, crystal-clear waters of Costa Del Sol before them and Frederick already down to his undergarments. She tried hard not to show it but, however he had managed to bait her off the path and away from the group, she was utterly grateful for the chance to touch salted water for the first time. Before Charlette knew it her mind snapped to the present, the path beneath her having guided her more than she had followed it. She was home and the voices in her mind, the two at least that she was hearing that sun, went quiet. She passed low, stone walls covered in green moss and algae. The verdant foliage always seemed more vibrant than ever in the wet, spring season of the Shroud, more alive. Perhaps an ironic observation, but then irony is maybe the subject of this current sun. She reached her new destination and stood under the low branches, fresh with newly sprouted leaves. She let those voices speak, hearing within her mind the many times they had kept are alive in her most ‘dead’ times. Hearing them only way she can, now that she was living more than she ever had.

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Prompt #1: First Day of Spring

((Unsung Prompts are a series of writing challenges given in my RP community. They center around my character Charlette Bellamy’s life, thoughts, community and adventures)) The flower crown rested lightly on Charlette’s head, the slight weight of it and the tickle of long petals against her temple the only tell that it was even there. Cold moons lay just behind the people of the Shroud, and this was a tradition, to weave the first flowers the blooming times had born. It slipped at an angle, weighted unevenly, and everytime it did she shifted it back. Like a tick, again and again, it pulled at that unconsciously practised need to be as perfect as possible. Nevermind the sweat on her back that stains the dress she wore. Thin fabric only so helpful as the light blistered on her skin on this particular sun, chosen specifically for the blazing midday.

Celebration, it is the first thing that comes to everyone’s hearts when the cold winds break and the warm gusts arrive. Ah, so fresh, so comforting, so good to be free of stuffy homes and thick clothing. Skin bared once more on shoulders, knees and even toes. The mud between them cooling, soft, diggable, far from how hard and chilling it can be. Even the pete smell of bogs coming downwind, heavy and hard on the nose, could not calm the clamour of welcome. “Smile on us, Shroud sun. We all are leaves, thirsty to drink. Pour! Pour! Pour onto us!” a woman, The Greyest, preached to the open sky, her grey-blue skin crinkled by the time and effort it takes to be alive. A golden chalice held in both hands and raised, empty, light winking off the polished edges. It poured in, in a sense. Charlette stood amongst a ring of Duskwights, all wore crowns of many colours, dressed to match the foliage atop their heads. “Pour! Pour!” they chanted with The Greyest as she ‘collects’ the warmth. Their hands raised together, upward, Charlette could feel the heat against her turned-out palms. Sweet in how it passed into skin, muscle, bone. The Greyest tells them it is the most intimate way they can feel the Star’s connection. “When we hold the hand of a lover, the shoulder of a sibling, the head of an infant, our warmth enters them, and theirs into us. We are held now, welcome the affection.” Charlette closed her fingers into her palms, twining them into imagined digits of sunlight. She gathered it into her palms and brought it down with all the other women in the circle. Each fist is pressed to her lips, one after the other. They all turned, first to the woman on their left, then their right, opened those warm hands and pressed them to the cheek of the other. “Life is what we hold, what it gives. And we pass it, flowing through us, to one another. To the Star.” the entire circle bent, crouched down to haunches and pushed their palms to the earth. Pressed through the overgrown shrubbery to touch soil. A tiny beetle, newly shed of its larval form and only now turning the orange that comes before their red, clambered over Charlette’s fingers. She watched, whispered under her breath “Hello…” the tiny little feet that traversed her skin utterly imperceptible. “...Dorian.” she named them “Happy Birthsun.” they stopped, turned as if to look up at her in thanks. Then their little shell parted, wings fluttered and they took off. Silence reigned as the warmth drained from their hands, cooled by the soil they dug into. “We give.” The Greyest declared, then fell silent for a long moment. Birdsong, the chirping of vilekin, the rustle of leaves disturbed by creatures and wind both. It felt like the Shroud itself had joined them. “And we receive.” all rose, fingers curled into the soft ground and pulled up earth, leaves, roots. Whatever came to be between their fingers was torn up and gathered in cupped hands. The Greyest walked around the circle, a pinch of each being plucked and placed in the chalice. Not chosen, simply grabbed. A young girl, dressed and crowned like the others, followed behind her and placed a glass jar at the feet of every woman. As the pinch was taken, the holder bent and emptied their hands into the jars, sealed them and picked them up. They are held, one hand around the neck, the other cupping the base. Cradled like newborns, and held against their navels. Charlette, grateful Dorian had escaped when he did, noticed a worm bending between her fingers. They wrapped around a digit, slithered in a slow panic to return to their home. She dropped them into her jar, with a glittering stone, a shard of bone, a strand of wild grass and Dorian’s discarded, larval shell. All gathered by chance, a spark of amazement passed through her at how much story there is in just two handfuls of her home. It was cold against her belly, the near-sheer fabric of their dresses thin. Nothing is worn beneath, this fact did not disturb the usually prudish Duskwight. This is one of the few moments it cannot. The Greyest returned to her place in the circle once more, the youngling at her side stared around the circle, found her mother’s gaze and recieved a proud nod of affirmation, a silent ‘Well done!’. Her little smile bright in the shadow she stood in, she held a bundle of The Greyest’s robe in a little hand and turned toward her once more. Secure. “Matriarchs, maidens, mothers. Caverns, canopies, canals. We will warm, as we shade. We are the keepers of our kind. For in the dark, we are the sun. in the light, we are shadow. In all things, we are the answer, the keepers, the hearts of our kin.” She raised the chalice one last time. “And this is the season of our return.” every jar is raised with it, bathed in that light. The oath, made far from Gridania, a promise all women of Charlette’s near-gone coven make. No longer taken deep in the collapsed caves of the Under Shroud, and changed now to suit their new home. But still devoid of the Elementals, pure and Duskwight. Entirely for them. Renewed far from disapproving eyes, suspicion, hatred. They will endure. The circle breaks in silence, and each woman takes her jar home to the place where the sun lingers longest. Charlette’s remained in her seemingly bottomless satchel. Where it clinked, amongst books and papers and pencils, to be taken out every sunset the Unsung saw on their journey. The Shroud, ever embraced.

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Unsung Prompt #3: Trust

A thin piece of paper was clenched between Charlette’s fingers, she was trying hard not to crush it in her grip, but the contents had left her on edge. It had been one of those things that just makes your entire form clench in a manner that was just, sometimes, out of your control. For Charlette, that just made it worse. “Tea?” asked the waitress, a miqo’te that was unusually tall for her kind. It left her shorter than Charlette, but not by much, though the dusky hue to her skin suggested a Seeker. That, and the fact they were in an Ul’dahn cafe. “Yes please, black.” Charlette replied, pushing her empty tea cup closer. Steam and the floral scent of the drink rose up as it was refilled. Charlette only saw it for a moment before her mind faded back to the contents of this note. “Everything okay?” the soft voice asked, gentle and light, almost like she was out of breath or struggling to project above a whisper. “No.” Charlette replied, the waitresses tail flicked behind her and she placed the teapot down. “Want to talk about it?” she did not ask for confirmation before sitting down across from Charlette. This was not unusual, you see, not in this cafe. It was a very special place, a very specific place that sat in the smallest corner of one of the city's most tightly packed and busy streets. Hidden away, like a gem in a thief's stash. All that marked this place's existence was a wooden sign with the kindly, tearful face of a woman carved into it. ‘Hand Holders’ was the name beneath it, and everyone that came here sought just this. A person, across the table, asking if everything is okay. “Is the tea warm enough?” she asked, Charlette nodded. “It is lovely, thank you.” A stiff smile added to her gratitude, she hoped. “Would you like to know my name?” Another nod. “It’s Y’tahlia, may I know yours?” A moment of hesitation, before Charlette responded “Angelica.” saying that, did not feel good. But it did feel necessary. “It’s nice to meet you Angelica. That’s a wonderful name, I had a friend from Ala Mhigo with the same one. But I don’t think there are many Duskwights that far east.” Charlette held up her hand, one finger raised “You might be surprised, how many Wildwoods and Duskwights head that way. The Shroud is not always the perfect home for us.” Y’tahlia’s laugh was light, airy, so short you could miss it in a blink. “I know. I’m a Keeper myself.” Charlette dipped her head to the side, surprise obvious on her face. “That is not the guess I made. Goes to show how easy it is to judge incorrectly, apologies.” She waved away Charlette’s concern. “Nothing to worry over, I’m sure you already have something to pay attention to, if you’ve come to us.” Silence answered her. Charlette lifted her hand, holding the note, and opened it to read the words again. “I do, but I am not sure where to begin with it. I cannot give the whole story, you understand I am sure, but I do not think it is something anyone can really… comprehend without all of it.” None of this tripped Y’tahlia up at all, her attention never left her company, and Charlette would have to admit to herself that this was, validating, comforting. “All I need to know is what you need me to know. We’re here for you, after all. Not for answers or decisions. Those are such loud and demanding guests, why don’t we uninvite them from the table for now? Let them have their debates by the fireplace in quiet solitude.” she reached out between them, a hand pressing up behind the note and folding it down, pushing it into Charlette’s palm, then holding it shut with a gentle grip that somehow delivered a suggestion of firmness. ‘Put that away.’ it said. The last words of the note that flashed in front of Charlette’s eyes before they were tucked into her palm played across her thoughts. The Owl is nested in Thavnair. It was time to chase him once again. Or it would be, after this. After she had let Y’tahlia pull her from her seat, and lead her way. Half drunk tea steamed on the saucer, the trails waving the two of them away as they abandoned answers, decisions, worries. That’s what this place is for, after all. So they did.

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Unsung Prompts

((A series of prompts similar to FFXIVWrite, but run by my RP community The Unsung, lead by Eorzean Tales.)) #1: Kin Charlette was used to children, she didn’t like them much and found watching them to be more chore than joy most suns, especially with this particular pair. “Auntie Charlette! Look what I made!” one of the Nilsen’s youngest boys, Patrick, was shoving what looked like several twigs stuffed into a slowly melting ball of clay, moulded by clumsy little fingers to, well, Charlette was not sure what it was. “That is very nice Partick, I like the details.” The boy faltered, only just, his smile was there but the gears were turning in his young brain. “Do you know what it is?” Children, so stupid and yet they can always tell exactly what you don’t want them to say, and then they say it. “Of course I do, Partick.” Charlette attempted the deflection, raising a hand and pressing a twig in deeper, lest it slip out and land on her skirt. “What is it, then?” he insisted, Charlette stared at him, then his creation, the back to Patrick. “Aaaargh!” A sudden whail, not of pain or shock, but a boyish battlecry that followed the swing of a stick that thwacked against a mound of mud that had been slowly grown by the tiny-spade-full until it was half as tall as the child attacking it. Joshua Nilsen, Patrick’s unidentical twin, was not as ‘artistic’ as his brother. Though they had both weighed their mother down for the same nine-moons and been born on the same sun, it was only Joshua who fit right in with the Nilsen clan's appearances. Bright red hair, freckles from scalps to feet, and bright green eyes. Partick though, was the only one of the seven Nilsen children to take after his mother with pale, unaccented skin and golden-blonde hair to match the blazing-blue eyes he stared up at Charlette now. He did not take well to his brother stealing their watchers attention in that moment, and a gentle whine and the insistent push of his creation closer to Charlette’s face from her seat brought her back. “One moment Partick.” She insisted, finger raised and wagging like it was cutting the needy little stream of connection he was attempting to bind her in. “Joshua, careful! That stick will snap and half of it will go flying.” Joshua, unlike Partick, did even register Charlette’s attention and was either pretending not to hear her, or was far too involved in mud-murdering to notice. Another hard whack sent several splatters of the mud flying toward Charlette and Patrick, not enough to hit them, Charlette had been careful to stand well out of range when the two had decided to stop helping her with planting and instead focused on the freshly made mud puddles after the recent rain. Partick, though, was quiet and a muddy hand had reached Charlette’s skirt and tugged down on it. So much for coming out of this mostly unsoiled “Auntie Charlette, guess what it is!” Joshua’s stick had been thrust into the mud, and snapped, the boy nearly missing a slip that would have sent him falling into the lost half. Instead, he was looking at the splintered tip of his lost armement. His frown made him look quite dumb, good thing Charlette would only have that thought in her mind. He seemed safe for now, though, and kneeled down to be a little closer to the hyur boy. Taking a closer look at that creation, she figured she was stuck with only one option now. “It is a face?” it was the best she could offer, she raised a finger and pointed at the gouges that might have been… “These are eyes? And the pebble is a nose, and this here is the mouth? Are they smiling?” Patrick did, big and bright. Oh good, Charlette had won this round. “Yes! It’s you!” he cradled his creation, this new revelation earning him a practiced smile from Charlette and very thoroughly smothered criticism that would never see the light of this sun. “Thank you Partick, it is lovely. Now go and practice some more, try using less wet mud?” he shot off toward the puddle again so fast she was not sure he had absorbed the suggestion. I did free her to step up to Joshua, and help tug his ‘sword’ free from the mudpile. “Thanks Auntie Charlette!” he shouted, snatching it up and twirling both like a duel-wielding branch thief. Charlette looked back at the cart of flowers she had hoped to get planted this sun, and shook her head. This is the last time she offers to entertain Alistair’s brothers. Two-birds with one stone, is what she had though. Though this isn’t so bad either, she thought, looking over her shoulder before snatching the branch back from Joshua, and taking up a battle-stance. “Ready your blade!” and he was, Joshua didn’t give her an ilm.

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Prompt #31 Catharsis (Extra Credit)

“So it’s done then?” Charlette was seated at a table in the library. It was set far to the side in a quiet corner that few people visited. She had three books with her, one she held open and had just started reading. ‘Signs of Change: Noting Aetherical Influence’ was not a text she had ever read before, but it had suddenly become very relevant.

“I’m back in the Order. But I’m being reassigned.” Loash crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat. It looked a little like he was preparing for a blow. “Reassigned where?” Charlette closed the book, and held it up for him, like it was a clear answer. He shook his head, not understanding her meaning. “I am no longer a Guardian. I have been assigned to Arcanist and moved over to the Research Division.” His eyes darted between her, the book, then her again. “That’s Chocoboshite. You didn’t do anything wrong, they can’t just take it away from you and send you off to some feckin’ chamber down there.” He gestured to the floor, indicating the winding tunnels and many rooms that lay beneath the library. Charlette sighed, laid the book down, and crossed her hands over the top of it. “They can, and they did. Let us just be glad it was not the worst case. It is not exile, it is not shame, it is not imprisonment either. I think they are trying to be fair, but to follow their own rules. It is, well, far from a perfect outcome. But I will accept it, eventually.” Loash was watching her the entire time, he did not looked convinced. “Alright. So you’re being made to trade sword and board for a book and crystals. Not the worst thing, but at least you’re on the team again.” Charlette’s smile was wide, and hopefully placating. “Yes. I am on the team again, or I will be after I complete my first assignment with them. So, in a few moons.” Loash reached for one of the other books, picking it up and taking one glance at the cover of ‘The Star Around Us: Biology through Eorzea’. “What’s this first assignment?” He parted the pages, and flipped through them until the first, large picture was displayed. It was a diagram of a frog, cut in half to show the inner organs from a side and top-down view. “Education and investigation. I am to visit the three major academies of magic in the three city-states. I will be tutored there and I will complete the assignments given to me and earn the accreditations that they offer. I will also, however, be watching for the Order. For aberrations in the institutes. They have a suspicion, one I cannot fully discuss, but I will hopefully be uncovering. My first stop is the Arcanist Guild in Limsa, your old haunt.” Loash snorted, snapped the book shut and placed it back on the pile. “They’d be right to suspect anything about Limsa and its ‘institutions’. Arsebiscuits Charlette, all of this. Want me to come with you?” It was, perhaps, the most serious she had ever seen him.

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Prompt #30 Abstracted

((Continuations from: Prompt #18 Devil’s Advocate.)) “The Mercenary group was called the Winds.” Charlette’s back was starting to ache, just a little in the very small of her spine. It happened, when she sat as bolt-upright as she was right now, for as long as she had. Harriette rifled through the second pile of reports, the first having been dealt with and set aside. “They were a small group, made up of individuals that had been recruited either because they found the Winds, or the Winds had found them. They were professionals, good at what they did, and honourable so far as I could tell.” The greying, portly woman that sat across from Charlette placed her hands on the flat of her massive, wooden desk. Her expression was calm, and gave nothing but attentiveness, even as she cut in with her comment. “I understand that you were not the one to seek them out, but it was instead Q’talhdi, your friend from Ul’dah.” Charlette nodded, hands gripping tightly in her lap, her reports had been thorough, and Harriette had scanned through them far quicker than she had expected. “Yes, she was hoping to use them to help with her quest for support for her tribe, and thought that they may also benefit me in my own search. After an initial meeting with the Wind’s leadership, I agreed.” The Head Librarian’s reaction was cool, and calm. Charlette knew this was going to be one of the more difficult parts of this meeting for Harriette.

“Tell me about the leadership then.” she flipped a page of the report over, and ran a finger down a list of names. “Waemrys was the leader, yes? All mercenary groups have a de facto leader and this man must have been it. It says here he was in a partnership with a Doman businessman, Kuzhuk, but that the Winds were organised almost entirely by him?” Charlette bobbed her head in a short nod “He was, for all intents and purposes, the leader of the Winds. He often claimed otherwise, and mentioned that he did not technically own the group. But he was the one that called the shots on most occasions, and the one that the majority of us- ah, the Winds trusted and listened to.” Harriette’s brow raised, Charlette’s correction not going unnoticed. “He must have been a convincing leader then. He was the one that brought the situation of the Gelmorran ruins to you?” Charlette’s mouth twisted, that ache in her back grew twice over. The thought of that place brought nothing but unpleasant sensation to her. “He did, yes. It was one of the jobs we agreed to partake in, while seeking help for our own situations.” Another page turned over, Harriette’s thick finger slid across several lines of Charlette’s writing. “It says here that there was a possible connection between this site and your own heritage. Is this true?” A coldness gripped her, she shook her head. “It was unclear if there had been a connection or not. Either way, the ruins were destroyed for everyone’s safety.” A disapproving puff of breath shot out from Harriette “Disappointing that nothing could be recovered. That is a very Mercenary solution to a discovery like that, you write that you disagreed with this?” Charlette nodded. “I did. I thought it would be best to seal the ruin, but leave it intact for future research. There is precious little of our heritage left, I did not feel comfortable destroying even a piece as corrupt as that one.” A flash of empathy passed over Harriette’s features. “True enough. I’m sorry you had such a disappointing experience with it all, but Gelmorra does continue to be a source of trouble for us. Perhaps it was the best decision, sad as it is. Your people have a new place now, at least. It might serve you better to focus on that.” Charlette stiffened, then placated Harriette with a polite “Perhaps you are right.”

“Now then, this other owner of the Winds, Kuzhuk? After your mission in the Gelmorran ruins, he was the one that helped you chase your lead from Ul’dah, yes?” Charlette’s mind flashed back to her first meeting with the Xaela. She had never really felt at ease with the man. “He was invaluable in finding the man in the Owl Mask. Kuzhuk is a merchant who primarily works in trading goods between Eorzea and Doma.” Harriette stabbed a finger at the report “This includes less than savoury connections on both ends. I see speculations about pirates, Syndicate contacts and Yakuza agents. You were never able to confirm any of this, however?” Charlette reached over the table, and tapped at a line on paragraph down from where Harriette had been focusing. “None, save a small connection to the Yakuza through a fence we interrogated. Personally I feel sure about all three connections, but I have no evidence so I cannot put it to paper. Not yet.” Harriette shook her head. “A troublesome resource to work with, Charlette. There is a good reason why we suggest avoiding unsavory elements as much as possible. They rarely come without costs that are lesser than the gains.” Charlette said nothing. “You and Kuzhuk attended a meeting of several organizations working out of the city of Kugane. Kuzhuk brought you in as a part of his staff, so at least there was no obvious connection back to us. But the company in this place Charlette, this was a veritable thieves' ball was it not?” that was putting it lightly. “It was a snake pit, more like. There were no clean hands in that place, and none that intended to change their ways either.” Harriette listed off a few of the names “Hayami ‘Red Palm’s’ network, The Giant Ozuru’s Mercenary band and Gaiwan ‘Ijin Lord’s Syndicate? By the dramatic titles and descriptions, you would think you had found yourself in a crime novel.” Charlette pulled her shoulders upward “It is the way they do things, apparently. It seems exciting, even fun, now, but at the time I found it all rather terrifying.” Harriette stopped reading and looked up at Charlette, leaning back in her seat. “We ask far too much of many of you. It’s an unfortunate necessity when you are as small as we are, but have so much work to do at all times. In this case though, I’m starting to think we may have put too much weight on you alone.” Charlette wanted to protest this fact, her pride screamed at her to argue, to disagree, to affirm her abilities to Harriette and alleviate her of this idea. But she couldn’t, she would not be sitting here if that was entirely false. Would she?

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