once upon a dream;

no. i hate to bother you, but i am talking about evil. it blooms. it eats. it grins.

[isleblack]

@rolestrange

Isla had spent so much preparing herself for the event that she hadn't done her homework from before, telling herself that she would finish it after -- but then those poor people went missing, and she hadn't the heart in her to sit down and force herself to work, not in the face of such tragedies. Professor Forrester had given her an extension -- and whether or not this was because of her or her last name, she wasn't sure; she was never sure -- and thus Isla was inside the library catching up her on her Charms essays, though she kept getting -- distracted -- thinking about the night of the Maquerade, thinking about Bilius and his kiss. She could stop thinking about how he had kissed her -- soft and affectionate, like it mean something more than he had said it did -- and how he had said such nice things to her; how he had looked at her with such a nice look on his nice face, so -- nice. She was so distracted thinking about Bilius and how nice he was, that she start doodling his name over and over on her parchment, surrounding his name with little hearts and flowers before she realised what she was doing, and -- still half-absent, though now half-aware -- writing his name and hers together inside another heart, a larger, louder heart, filling it with smaller curled hearts and swirls. Once she had filled up most of her piece of parchment with her doodles, she realised the implications of her doodles and started to scribble out her work, blushing a bright red as she did so -- not a beautiful red, not like a rose, but rather like a tomato. Like even her cheeks couldn't be romantic; like even her cheeks were ridiculous. She burned tomato-red -- in spite of the heart inside of her that kept blooming rose-red and beautiful with each heart-beat, each heart-beat that sounded out his name; the combination of her heart-beat and the rhythm of his name making the tune to her new favourite song. She didn't manage to cross out all of her doodles, however -- at least, not before someone came up to her and sat in the chair that was opposite to her own. She looked up in a start, biting down on her bottom lip -- hard, hard enough to force her head out of the clouds and back down to the ground -- and tugging it into her mouth, smoothing down her hair (she was sure that it looked as ruffled and out-of-order as she felt), her cheeks flaming scarlet in embarassment and nerves and -- something hotter than both embarassment and nerves combined; something that felt a lot like fire, like her stomach was a burning house, collapsing in on itself. Her eyes were wide and uncertain as she stared at the person across from her -- Roberta Lestrange: who she knew from her parents' balls was another member of the Sacred 28; who knew she knew from Hogwarts was the twin sister of that awful Francis Lestrange. "Um," she started to speak, sitting up a little straighter and swallowing down her nerves. "Hello."

[isleblack]

lutherblckwood:

He feared no longer her reactions, balanced on no trepidation of spread-out eggshells to be thin covering the senses and conquered with hard crunches with the backs of heels. What he had said to her had been received, even appreciated, and she shied not backwards from him, found no interest in ducking out of this in order to pursue something difficult. God worked in odd and favoured ways, bringing those in and out who He deemed fit to be or not to be, and He worked as the true master of the story’s writing. Such realisations had Luther’s form grow tall rather than buckle beneath the weight of his un-wanted burdens and sin. Sometimes, even the briefest of encounters with another were meant to be cherished, and he would not spend too much of his time in questioning.

“It is unfortunate, how the world attempts to perceive what we think, even going so far as to expose it to the unsuspecting. But such things can dangle beyond the crawling fingers of the masses because it is you, and I am certain you are unequivocal in your shimmer.” He wished for her to not be so concerned with such frailties. The world would spin and the world would break and such were the settlements of life’s stories. That meant not that she needed to be gathering concern for what could not be eavesdropped upon. So much in this life contains preoccupation or exasperation; finding moments to oneself was more treasured than the general output might have others believing. “Yet for this reminder, I am most grateful I could be the one to have given this, to have gifted it to you. Our memories allow for us to be swept upon their red tides, and it takes a pair of hands to prevent our foolish drowning. For this, you are most welcome.”

And he hoped she would not walk from this masquerade, shed the cloths, and forget what had been so aptly reassuring to her. The dancers had stopped in their proverbial motions to make a pause for the upcoming two-step, and once they, as their new united pair, had taken a place ( and she doing her BEST to put her hands properly, with that girlish giggle at his height ) the music had begun anew. Now he WAS in charge of leading this, of ensuring that nothing too precarious occurred. For a moment, his mind blanked. But his feet moved regardless, mimicking what was seen around him. “You will have to forgive me for, ah, my lack of talent in this area. I will never prevail in a smoothness akin to those of your station.”

She still seemed not to mind. Luther, relax, he told himself - but he was too tall for that. “You are unable to be quelled because you let none others dare to do so. And you are unafraid to utilise what has been graced to you to keep this from occurring. Yes, she is brilliant indeed, and strong in her individual manners. You and she just might be one and the same.” If his heart may have paled in shock, then it would have here; instead, it swelled and throbbed. “Ah, that line I have given you was written not by Shakespeare nor an Italian sonnet writer - but my mine own self. Upon the improvised moment.” He was near embarrassed to admit this, and it showed itself through this almost sheepish smile as he guided her in a neat circle of two-step and glow and firefly promises. “I shall be that self for you.”

A small flurry of giggles billowed out of her as she smiled up at him, leaning into him a little, like a flower turning its petals up towards the sun. She settled into the movements of the waltz with ease, settling her heart-beat to the music, like it was something that she was born to settle into -- and to some extent, it was; it was something that she was born to do, born to love. She had been born to wear flowing, fluttering princess-like dresses; she had been born to dance at parties with nice young men; she had been born to dream about love, True Love, without ever having it, without ever being able to hold it in her hands like something precious (to have and to hold). This was what she was born to do; but this was also what she was forced to do. If she tried, she would be able to remember being forced to go to dress-makers, dance lessons, match-makers, even -- even her dreams of romance and True Love had been forced, from the fairytales that her parents read to her when she was little, to their emphasis on finding a good husband; on finding a good escape. But she didn't remember these things, because these things had been forced so far back into the reccesses of her mind that she couldn't access them -- not tonight, not right now; not when her heart was so full from dancing. And besides, though it had been forced upon her, it didn't mean that she didn't love it. It didn't mean that she didn't love wearing dresses that swirled and swirled; that fluttered around her ankles and fluffed around her calves like a cloud or a dream of one. It didn't mean that she didn't love dancing with nice young men, and it did not mean that she didn't love to dream. Rather, it meant that she wanted something more than what she made for -- something more than just her dreams. She didn't just want beautiful dresses; she wanted a beautiful life. She didn't just want to dance with nice young men; she wanted to dance with one, The One. Perhaps not this one, perhaps not this night, but -- perhaps. Perhaps in the future; perhaps in her future. With someone who could make her rib-cage feel less like a prison and more like a palace. With someone who wore the curve of her smile like it was born to fit against their own. With someone. Perhaps, if she kept dreaming, if she kept wanting, she would find that someone. He had reminded her -- and she had promised, to both him and to herself -- not to let herself forget. And she wouldn't forget: forget that, perhaps in the future, perhaps soon, she would have a someone, her someone. If she only kept dreaming; if she only kept wanting.

'My station?' She thought, frowning -- the frown flitting from her face like a sparrow hopping from branch to branch; the frown hoppinf from feature to feature until she wore her confusion like it was another mask -- though it soon settled into a smile: she was too light and happy when dancing to frown, even if it was only for a moment, even if it was only in confusion and not sadness. Though she was attentive to the class statuses of others, she didn't think much of her own; taking it for granted that she was rich and successful and collected, because she was Isla Black, because she could afford to take it for granted. She could afford her kindness; her brow being as untouched from wrinkles as her clothes were. She did not think much about her station, and she did not think much about it now, prefering to rahter focus her attention on the latter part of his statement. "Oh, goodness, no! There is nothing to apologise for, as there is nothing to forgive. Her smile grew as he described her -- brilliant and bold, like the brightness of stepping into the sunlight after being in a dark room for an extended period of time. "Oh, she sounds wonderful! Are you sure that she is like me? You make her sound so nice, that I'm almost certain that she can't be like me!"

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

ursula-flint:

The compliment brought a smile to Ursula’s face. She was glad she had chosen a darker color, in comparison to the many blue and yellow dresses that seemed to surround them. If anything, Ursula enjoyed standing out and few people had chosen such dark colors for their dresses. It made her feel special, like there were a certain number of eyes on her at all time and that was comforting. “You look wonderful as well, dearest Isla. That dress shimmers like molten gold, or perhaps rose gold. It is quite a wonderful look on you,” Ursula stated, her eyes grazing over the details of her dress and mask before they met her eyes again. Isla was far easier to talk to then Elladora who seemed keen on ignoring her unless Ursula had anything important to say. And if it wasn’t important, the only way Ursula found she could grab the attention of the older sister was to poke and prod until she exploded. However, Isla it seemed was far easier to talk to, seemed to want to talk to her, and so far as Ursula could tell, the younger girl did not resent her for being her future sister in law. It was rather comforting. “Well that is very nice of them then, I hope that your friend understands how lucky they were to be able to accompany you. I am very sure someone will ask you, Isla, how could they not? You look amazing and you’re very sweet. Someone must.”

She ignored telling the girl that perhaps she should spend less time waiting for someone to ask her because it may not matter in the future. Soon she would likely be spoken for and she should take the small amount of time she had as a free woman to have fun and dance with whomever she may chose, but Ursula did not say that, not wanting to crush the young girls dreams.

"Oh, goodness, I'm the fortunate one!" She giggled, her smile like laughter come to life. Imagine someone pinning their encounters with her down to something like luck or, Merlin, even fate. In truth, nice faces -- both in terms of expressions and features -- were all it took for Isla to be lured in. Though she was, without a doubt, vain (both for herself and other people) and was thus drawn to attractive, well-presented people, she prized kindness above all else -- she would rather someone with kind eyes than handsome ones. Still. If given a choice (not that she was being given a choice, not when it came down to it; not where it mattered) she would pick someone with both other someone who just had kindness.

"Thank you, Ursula, that is so sweet of you," she said, her smile warm and bright. "Thank you. I do hope so." She looked around the room as she spoke, catching someone's eye and smiling at them -- another one of her delicate, pre-prepared smiles, given to each person that she met. In the back of her mind, the thought distant and indifferent, she noted that the music seemed to be coming to its close, that the couples were dancing tighter and tighter in their partner's arms. All at once, she became much less distant and indifferent, and much more alert; she straightened her posture and softened her features, in the hopes that it would now be her turn to whirl around the room. Sure enough, someone soon walked over to them (and though he was handsome, she could not tell whether or not his eyes were kind). She smiled at him as he approached them, hoping that this would be her chance.

[isleblack]

lutherblckwood:

Ah, loveliness. Purified, unadulterated, untouched by the hands except perhaps her own. She radiated with it, and it was not from having perfected it down to a flawless act; instead, it was embedded, a sparkling-diamond part of her, an unfurling of a series of blossoms from the gold centre of a flower. Almost as if in a dream-state, surveying an illusion’s ghost-trail, he watched and listened, saw her reminisce to another location different from this one. Part of him wished he could join her in this escape, but his other self desired not to intrude upon the private pause she took for herself. Some worlds were not meant to be bordered and crossed and conquered. She seemed to be one of them. The sort of waif-kind of shadow who allowed for a writer to wax lyrical and remain sincere in each pressing word, like violets to a parchment’s page. She could prove to be the undoing of several - and perhaps she was aware of it. If she was, what a lethal weapon was at her disposal; if not, that made it all the more ardent in pursuit.

He could write of her. Inspiration flowed like the milk and honey of Babylon.

“Not supposed to think of these things? Perhaps this next morsel of a secret will come as no surprise to you, but alas: there is no individual whom can garner control over your thoughts. You reside with that power. None of these things can be stolen from you. And so if you presume it to loftily dream of what you so desire, then so be it. To engage within hope is one of the more braver quests to embark upon in this dawning age.” Encouraging a life of hedonism, so it would sound like, but what line was there between hedonism and individuality? He let for their budding, continuing kinship to thrive in its soil. “But I do now hold you in an esteemed gratitude; I daresay I hope we both find what we so wish for in this area of life’s journey.”

When she looked at him, he concentrated his peripheral more so towards her actions, and he took note that she seemed not to glance downwards to the haphazard robes. This enlightened him; perhaps she overlooked such things, despite how she portrayed herself. “You manage to decipher my words before even I myself have been devouring the moments to do so. Asking you to dance? Since this offer has been accepted, so it shall be.” With light foot, he stepped forward, and he raised his hand to delicately take hers. She might perch like a bird in the cage of his ribs.

“Have no qualms of that; the girl of whom you remind me is quite benevolent. Bright and shimmering and unable to be quelled.” I like nice people. Such things could end him - and others. But where was the harm in being carried away over the aura of the evening? “And I am whomever your heart bespeaks, for the heart never lies.”

Isla did not crave control: she was content to let others control her life and her choices, and she was content to let others control who is was that controlled her -- most of the time, at least. Some people she couldn't pick, no matter what, like her parents or siblings: chosen through blood; controlling her through blood. Some people she could, like her friends. And there were some who she could choose and could not choose -- like her future husband. Whether or not she chose her own husband, her own True Love, was dependent on whether or not she had the strength to take control of her choices. And if she had the strength to take control of her thoughts, of her dreams, then perhaps she had the strength to put them into action.

Her heart was touched with the sweetness of his words, with the kindness that he lent to her with his reassurances that she had this strength. He seemed nice (as she had told him; she didn't like to lie) and though she was certain that he was -- in fact -- nice, in that moment she was also certain that he was more than nice: that he was good and kind. Most people were nice; it was an extension of politeness, but with more feeling attached to these polite gestures. And though most people were polite, and meant their politeness -- she hated to speak ill of others, but Merlin, she could think it, couldn't she? -- few had the heart to have feelings that were not derived from social norms, but from a desire to see others glowing with good-humour and happiness. He seemed to be one of those wonderful people, so she gave him one of her more precious smiles: a smile that was not derived from social norms, but from the warmth and openness of her ever-beating heart. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper -- almost like she didn't want him to hear her voice, hear the tremor and tremble of her heart. "Thank you," she spoke louder this time, "I -- I so often forget that. I so often forget that other people cannot hear what I am thinking, and, therefore, cannot -- police what I am thinking. I forget that I cannot get in trouble for what I think, because -- well, what I think is private to me. Unless I share it, of course, but -- it's nice to have something that belongs to oneself, isn't it? Thank you -- for reminding me." She leant a little closer to him, like she was telling him another one of her secrets. "I will not let myself forget this."

Her smile brightened to a beam when he took her hand, and though Isla knew that it was not good behaviour to urge a man to dance, she did not care -- this man seemed so kind and good, that she did not think that he would judge her for her poor form. "Oh, wonderful. I love this song, and I love the dance that goes with it -- the two-step? It's a favourite of mine," she said, leading him to the dance floor and giggling all the while. Once it was close enough that she could get into position, she reached up to rest her right hand below his shoulder -- or at least, she tried to, but he was rather tall, and she was quite short (having not finished growing yet), so her hand was closer to the small of his back than it was to his shoulders. "I like that -- 'unable to be quelled'. I would like not to be 'quelled'. That girl sounds quite nice. Quite strong. I would like to be strong. Oh! Thank you!" She smiled up at him, bright and bold, like summer sunshine. "Oh, that is a nice line. Like something out of Shakespeare. You are whomever my heart bespeaks? Well, then my heart wants you to be you -- no more, no less. Just you. Whoever that is. I do apologise, I know it's not Shakespeare, but -- it is true, and as you said, the heart never lies."

[isleblack]

She had been dancing. She had been dancing when it first started -- so light and carefree on her feet, like the world was made from fire and she was a moth, drawn to its flame. First, the screaming: not her own, and not directed at her and mask, but it didn't take long for them to head towards her; it take long for the screams to become her own. She didn't fight them, though -- how could she fight such monsters? How could she fight the monsters that hid under her bed, that hid in the corners of her dreams? Monsters, demons, ghouls -- lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to stop moving, waiting to swallow her whole. She didn't fight them; she couldn't fight them. Not on her own. She looked, first, for her brother and sister -- to the help, to get them to help her -- she looked for Bilius, for Seraphina, for anyone that was a person and not a monster, a demon, but she couldn't find them. There was no one that was left for her to save, no one left to save her -- so she ran.

She ran from the Great Hall, running faster than she knew she could, all thoughts of being proper and well-dressed thrown from her mind as she hitched up her skirts to travel faster and farther, to run better -- the demons wouldn't care about social norms; the demons would care about catching her and ripping her (and her skirts) in two. She picked up the edges of her skirt and her crinoline and held them, bunched them up in her arms as she ran -- for perhaps the first time that evening, she didn't care about what she looked like; all she could care about, all she could think about, was getting to a safe spot -- running until she found a staircase that seemed far enough from the Hall that she would be safe, and then climbing it until she found a corner that seemed high enough from the start of the staircase that she would be safe. She crawled into it, hugging her knees close to her chest and folding herself in on her frame in order to make herself as small as possible, in order to holding back the sobs that fought their way out of her frame, clawing their way out of her throat with hiccups and gasps. She held a hand over her mouth, to keep the sounds from getting too loud (to keep the sounds from alerting the monsters to her presence) but her gasping, stuttering sobs sounded even louder when echoed against the cage of her hand.

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

malfoyvis:

Isla’s gentle giggle echoed through the air around them, one moment of softness amidst a tumultuous world. How was it that she could seem so delicate and warm? It was a rarity in their kind of people, and a quality that Abraxas admired - while also being skeptical of its legitimacy because of that rarity as well. As she took his hand, her face burned a lovely pink. Slowly spinning her around, he took in the movement of her exquisite dress. “You look a vision this evening. I’m sure it’s proven to be worth the effort.” When she’d finished moving, he smoothly slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow. “Care for a stroll around the dance floor? No use standing in one place like a pair of frozen pine trees.”

Her voice radiated frosty sweetness, his favorite kind of paradox. Still, Isla flooded him with questions, one after another without pause, like she felt the need to fill the space between them with words. “I’m overjoyed that my presence is wanted. But so many questions… I don’t make you nervous, do I? I wouldn’t want that,” he said in an innocent tone which somehow still insinuated that such a thing would be exactly what he wanted.

“How pleasant to hear that your evening has been successful. You must tell me all about this carriage ride. And who accompanied a lovely young lady like yourself on such an adventure?” He cocked his head in calculated interest. The last he had heard, Isla was distinctly non-involved in any sort of relationship. Knowing her personal involvements would be one more piece of the puzzle.

After addressing her presence throughout the festivities, he wondered how to characterize his own participation in order to answer the rest of her lump of questions. “My night has been unusually eventful, I would say. A little dancing, a little drinking,” he said with a sly smile. “No carriage rides for me, but then again, I’ve always been more interested in the people than the scenery.”

She looked down at their linked arms for a second -- a second too long, perhaps, a second too late -- before nodding and flashing him a quick smile. "Of course. Thank you for keeping me from becoming a wallflower -- or something else of the sort. I do appreciate it." A blush rose to stain her cheeks red and violent, his question setting her back on the edge; anger -- anger at being caught out; anger at herself for wearing her emotions to close to her sleeve -- rose to colour her features, the sort of anger that is more akin to the blunt side of a knife than the sharp. Her anger made her bold, but stupid with her boldness. "Oh, goodness. I do apologise. I was -- I am -- attempting mere politeness, I can assure you. I didn't intend to," she hesitated, before smiling, sharpening the blade of her anger against her bones, against her self-control, until its remnants were ground into dust. "I didn't intend to make you feel insecure." Her smile was a bright, dangerous thing; so bright and so dangerous that it had to cut through her fear in order to get to him.

She watched the dancers with interest, letting herself be distracted from Abraxas -- or more to the point, letting herself be distracted from her fear of Abraxas and all that he represented -- as she eased in their conversation. And as she did, she became more certain that he wouldn't hurt her -- couldn't hurt her -- and for a multitude of reasons: because of her social standing; because of her last name; and because her siblings wouldn't let him even dare. Her confidence rose from the shadows, like the sun coming out from behind the shades. "Oh, Bilius Nygard? Perhaps you know him. He's a -- friend. He's a friend. He was kind enough to escort me here this evening." She paused, before shaking her head -- as if shaking all her thoughts of him and the carriage ride from her mind. She couldn't think about it; not until she was safe and secure in the comfort of her room and could do something improper and ridiculous, like squeal or jump up and down or -- something. She turned her gaze towards him, focusing her attention on him in order to keep herself from focusing on -- well, she couldn't pinpoint what it was that she was ignoring, not quite, but she knew that she didn't want to think about it. Not yet. Not until she was alone enough to dissect it. "Did you taste the punch? I thought that it was quite wonderful," she remarked, her smile soft and golden, like sunshine, looking like it always looked. "Yes, I suppose that I can understand that. Have you met some interesting people, then? I, of course," she said, her smile growing into a teasing grin. "I don't count. After all, we've met before."

[isleblack]

lutherblckwood:

He turned both his ear and the fullness of his gaze to the words she spoke. The One Love? The One True Love? Luther thought on this for a moment. If such a concept existed, and oh, how his heart leapt to think of such a thing, surely it could not be for the likes of him. Such ideals in a society where arrangements and prudence in matches were necessary amongst the higher ranks and those who were low merely did for the sake of convenience, oftentimes following with those preset traditions - where was there ROOM for a one true love? “I do like that idea.” When he said as much, his wistfulness was evident. For someone to not mind when he apologised to plants, for someone to want to press gentle fingers to dips in shoulders - yes, that would be all and very quite grand, wouldn’t it? He kept himself from sighing, though, by taking a drink. “I can foresee it in your future perhaps more accurately than those tarot cards could. Someone who is as ensnaring and bedazzling as you with a mask on will be tenfold when it is removed.” If she had felt regret at her words, then perhaps his own EMBOLDENED statements would put her a little more at ease; he tasted it in the air, that sort of unsettled hesitance after she had finished expressing her opinion. “Nothing is impossible, and with impenetrable ardour I do so believe it.” He raised his glass, just a smidgen, to her, and provided his lopsided smile. “So I like the punch and I like your ideals on romance. So far, we have not trapped ourselves in a conundrum, which I do find to be quite pleasant.”

His gaze narrowed somewhat, although it would not be visible from behind the fabric of the mask, and he set the glass down upon the table, where it was quick to hurry itself away. And then his lopsided grin grew in nature. “Ah, this glimmering brilliance reminds me of someone. And now she tempts me with the song and the siren’s dance, despite my clumsiness.” He may have compared her to such an eruption that she suggested in writing - but with more flourish to description, more golden-tongue to the tips of the words, rounding them and smoothing them and making them wholesome. “But I suppose, if you would be compassionate enough to let me be provided with such a chance, I could partake of this secret with you.” He would not name who he suspected her to be ( even if she was a light one lonesome moth could see even from the furthest of distances possible. ) “Dancing and all.”

She smiled up at him -- like her smile was a secret in and of itself -- and her gaze turned soft and rose-tinted, taking on a interested and dream-like look to it as she let herself imagine it -- love: real love, pink love, rose-hued and shaded with sparkles and sunshine; love like a wedding cake, tiered tall and frosted with sweetness. And all at once -- quick, like when waking up from a bad dream -- she hardened, both her posture and her expression. No, love wasn't meant for the likes of her -- she couldn't forget that. She couldn't forget that this, all this, all of her dreams and wishes were just that, dreams and wishes -- unless she went out and found him; unless her parents found him (though she doubted that this would happen). Dreams and wishes were just dreams and wishes, unless she made them real. She had to make them real; she had to keep looking for him, for her One True Love. She couldn't let herself forget that. She couldn't let herself get caught up in her dreams. She smiled, and once more her features softened into their dream-like state. "Oh. Oh, thank you, that is so kind of you, I -- I hope so. And I hope that you find your One True Love, too, I do hope so. Another secret, but," she looked around, the movement quick, more of a pantomime of an action than an action with actual intent, before turning back towards him with a giggle and a wink, light-hearted and -headed, leaning towards him a little as she confided in him. "I am not supposed to think about these things -- love and whatnot, let alone true love. It seems like I'm reaching for shooting stars and hanging moons, most of the time. Like love, even the concept of love -- like it is so far off, that I will never have it, never even reach it. But, oh -- I can hope."

She looked at him, careful and considering, appraising him and his appearance -- looking more at his expression and his manner of speaking than his clothing -- and her smile became brighter and more bemused, the teasing in her voice gentle and sweet, like it was more of a prize than a game. "Am I permitted to presume that you like me, as well? Well, then I have another secret for you -- goodness, I didn't know that I had so much! -- and it is that I like you too. You're very nice, and I -- I like nice people." Her smile turned into a laugh, low and twinkling, like stars or glass or whatever else glints and gleams, but is quick to break down and disintegrate. "Are you asking me to a dance? How nice! Well, please know, then, that I would be delighted to -- if you are asking, of course," she exclaimed, holding out her hand for him to take, her smile flashing silver against the golden light of the room. "Oh! And who do I remind you of? Someone good, I hope?" Her gaze returned to his features, looking him over like she would look over a piece of text, skimming it to get its core points and ideas, her interest flashing low in her eyes, bright and heated. "And who are you, then," she said, soft, but not questioning -- more like she was voicing her thoughts aloud than she was asking him. 

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

malfoyvis:

The night was turning out to be more engaging than Abraxas had expected. He’d set his expectations low, granted, but still, it was nice not to find himself wallowing in boredom. Making his rounds around the Great Hall, it was time to find another target for conversation. Luckily, there were a number of candidates that would do just fine, and soon enough he spotted one: the sweet young Isla Black.

Although Isla was the Black sibling closest to his own age, she was the only one of them not involved in the Senate, and not even in Slytherin besides. While they’d interacted at the various pureblood gatherings their social circle was party to, he rarely spoke to the girl here at school. It was almost embarrassing, how utterly different she was than the rest of them; and yet something about her was still fundamentally the same. Underneath her innocent exterior, Abraxas just knew that there had to be more, some element of desire for power or control. It was there in the way that she carried herself, in the way that she dressed. If it manifested itself strangely, more the better for it.

He spent a moment watching her, standing daintily by the edge of the dance floor, no doubt awaiting a potential suitor or prospective dance partner. Her dress was a cream-and-pink concoction of silk and light, striking against the black ringlets of her hair. A waif-like, fae quality shone from her alarmingly sweet face. She looked the part of a proper fairytale princess, from the flowers in her hair to the gentle jewels gleaming across the pale skin of her neck. Abraxas had no doubt that it had taken the girl an immense amount of foresight in order to pull off such a stunning outfit. He felt no genuine attraction to the female body, but he could appreciate the effort put into her appearance - Isla was a girl who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it, evidently. More so than he usually gave the youngest Black credit for, which only leant credence to his belief in some element of depth to her. He was sure that she would break more than one heart at the ball, unless the majority of the student population was suddenly struck blind by some disastrous addition to the autumn punch.

It was high time for a chat. Abraxas slowly floated through the maze of students towards her, watching her carefully all the while. As she turned and laughed in surprise at the sight of him, the sound gentle and bright, Abraxas gave her a playful half-bow. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything?” The silver threads of his dress robes gleamed in the candlelight when he reached out to take her delicate hand as if to spin her around. “I saw the illustrious Isla Black from across the room and knew I absolutely must come speak with her. We don’t talk nearly enough, you and I.”

"Oh, not at all! Please, come join me," she said, her smile sharp and sun-lit, and formed from habit rather than intention, appraising him as she spoke. Abraxas. Of course, she knew him, knew of him -- she knew that he was her age and from her class, and she knew that he was a part of the Sacred 28; a pureblood poem that her mother and sister spouted like it was Shakespeare. She knew him -- knew of him -- from her parents' balls, his parents' balls, but -- each time that she met him, at each ball, it seemed like she knew him less and less. And here she was: at another ball, meeting Abraxas, or perhaps -- meeting another Abraxas, or meeting him for the first time. She could never tell with him. She looked over his frame, quick, her intent clouding her widened eyes. She registered in the distant recesses of her mind that he looked good. She knew that he looked good: he looked like he was dripping with wealth and power and confidence; he looked like what a pureblood was supposed to look like. He was handsome, but she knew this -- in the back of her mind, in the pit of her stomach -- she knew that he was too sharp- and too smart-looking. It wasn't his face that set her on the edge, but rather what hid behind it, and this -- this handsome exterior -- sharpened her edges to blades. Still, she smiled at him: sweet and simple, like she was less than she was. Like she was no one to be bothered with; like she wasn't worth the trouble. "No. I don't suppose we do," she said, almost repeating his earlier words, her tone warm and bright. She giggled, then, low and soft, almost like she was nervous, her laughter lingering in the air even after she had closed her mouth.

She flushed somewhat when he took her hand -- her cheeks flooded with pink, rather than red, like a rose before it blooms -- from embarrassment or nerves, or an automatic response to touch, she couldn't tell, but still, it burned her features from the inside-out, the tips of her ears turning as pink as her cheeks. She bit her bottom lip, raking her teeth over it and tugging it into her mouth, sucking it red and swollen before biting down on it, hard -- hard enough to sting, hard enough to anchor her and her thoughts back, back down to the ground -- before letting it go and nodding, licking her lips to make them anew before smiling (again), as bright as she could manage. "It's nice to see you, Abraxas," she said, the smile in her voice light and cold. "I'm so glad that you came over here. How has your night been? I do that it has been going well. Have you danced much? Have you been for a carriage ride? I did earlier this evening, and it was -- perhaps -- the highlight."

[isleblack]

lutherblckwood:

He had wondered if werewolves experienced the lacking fortune extension of life as vampires did. He had wondered if he would be doomed to the perilous outskirts whilst watching the rest of the world turn onwards without him, the lives of those he had come to know passing unseen into the cavern, and replaced with others he could come to know, others which would endure the same fate. Perhaps then this was the reason behind wolves sticking together, for it was in their masses that such things could be understood, and nowhere else. But at least these poor creatures did not become condemned with longevity. So it would not plague him. Regardless, her words and explanation on the topic made him think of how it would have been possible - how he could have been bitten by something else and been cursed to that.

“I think the darkness of that stretching onward would overshadow the rest, especially if one who was given extended life had learned all there was to learn, spent time devouring all that the worlds had to offer no matter their state of being. And I do not think we are so condemned to be alone for the rest of our lives, at least not to such perilous measures, at least not unless it is our personal and most intimate choice.” He felt a strong need to bewitch the next cup of punch - but he wished not to see the consequences for such an action. He would just - refuse to think of it. She was much more keen on the description of the punch besides, and he could barely contain his excitement. “But yes! That is exactly it - a sharpness, but a sweetness. It contrasts itself almost too well. Colour me impressed with it.”

He leaned in as well, although Luther kept his back erect for the most part and turned his ear to her rather than the entirety of his body. Promise me? He looked to her small hand, and to the gleaming face behind the mask, and it was with perhaps only a mere second’s hesitation before he lifted his hand to lock pinkies with her. “What eruption of chaos have I sworn myself to?” he whispered, clandestine and teasing. “Nonetheless, I make this promise to you.”

"Oh, yes. I do understand what you mean, but -- well, I believe in the whole 'One True Love' concept; I've believed in it ever since I was a little girl. I suppose -- I suppose that I could have multiple true loves, but I want -- I want the one. All of my life, I have had this expectation this, at some point, I would find the one, The One. And I want that expectation; I want the romance of it. Yes. Well. I would be fine to live forever, as long as there was someone that I could live forever with." She felt instant regret at her words. Were she not masked, Isla would not have been so free with her words as she had just been -- she would have laughed off her words, apologised for them and demeaned them, demeaning herself in the process. But she was masked -- there would be no consequences for her words and their implications, social or otherwise. So, she chose to do nothing about them -- though she could not help the blush that rose to colour her cheeks red and wine-stained, an automatic response to her automatic embarrassment. Though she felt terrible about how honest she was being, and to a complete stranger, too, she also felt somewhat good about it -- because while she was being honest with someone else, she was also, to some extent, being honest with herself. To hide her lingering shame, she took a long, hard drink from her glass, almost finishing it. Once she was done, she held her glass up to the light for a brief inspection, her smile broad and flushed. "It's wonderful," she said, her tone bright, like she was drunk with truth. "I am so glad that you like it. I like it when other people like things. It's exhilarating."

"Oh, a great eruption, mhm. Akin to the fires of Pompeii, even," she said, amusement sparkling in her features, her eyes brimming with light -- but she was so full of light regardless, that rather than making her look mischievous and teasing, she just looked gleeful and bright. "It's dancing," she said, leaning up towards him on her tiptoes to give him her 'secret', before resting back on the balls of her feet with a flourish and a giggle. "Dancing," she said, raising her eyebrows as she finished off her drink.

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

seraphina-bones:

Seraphina’s giggles turned to a genuine smile once her friend had recognized her. Oh, how she was enjoying that small detail of the ball–a fun way to surprise those you knew and to meet new people without class gap ( for the most part ). “Oh, you are much too sweet, Isla. Thank you.” But then her friend began speaking of dressmakers and shopping, and the smile faltered just a little bit. Shopping with Isla would probably mean shopping in themore expensive parts of the country, seeing as she knew of Isla’s upper class status. Of course, Seraphina was well aware that Isla was not asking for the pure opportunity of throwing a jab at her status. Her friend was her friend, and good friends do not and should not judge based on some small factor like that. Friends were friends because they liked and loved you for the person you are. And it was not like Seraphina despised her own class status–in fact, she did not even have an opinion on it. “I’m actually not quite sure who this was made by. My grandmother had it made and sent it to me without actually telling me where she got it.” Her smile returned to her face, gently swaying her dress from one side to the other with the music. “My night has been surprisingly splendid.” She let out a light laugh at her friend’s question. “No, I have yet to dance with agentleman. But it probably is for the better.” Seraphina leaned in, her voice low enough just for Isla to hear. “I’m a little nervous to dance, truth be told.”

She smiled at her friend, so much warmer and brighter than before, like going from the spring to summer sunshine. "Oh, how of her! She has excellent taste. Are you close with your grandmother, then? Oh, goodness, I think that last time I saw my halmeoni, I must have been -- six, maybe seven? I don't know. It was a while ago." Her smile grew at the sound of friend's laughter; her happiness sourced from Seraphina's own. "Well, I'm sure you will soon! You look so nice, I'm sure that a nice young man will ask you soon!" She said, tacking several conspiratol giggles on the end of her sentence. Upon hearing that her friend was nervous, Isla's smile -- though it was still there, always there, a smile always present in her features, no matter how dim or bright it was -- became more concerned, less summered -- more like a spring sun. "Oh, no! Don't be nervous! Trust me, even if you don't know how to dance, which -- do you? Well, even if you don't, you still ought to dance. It's not difficult to do the waltz, even without practise, it's a little like -- well. It's a little like kissing. Though," she said, leaning towards Seraphina and lowering her voice, liking she was sharing a secret, pausing to give a quick wink before continuing to speak, "Seraphina, I beg of you, please don't tell that I know what kissing is like. I'd never hear the end of it from Ellie or Phineas! At least, I don't think I would -- though I can't imagine that they'd be pleased. Well. Regardless, it's like kissing: once you get into it, really into it, then your partner won't notice if you have no experience. That is, unless you step on his feet -- or, I suppose, in terms of the kissing metaphor, bite his tongue. Yes. Don't hurt him and you'll be fine."

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

ursula-flint:

Despite the fact that she was most definitely not wearing an autumn color, Ursula was sure it surprised no one when she arrived in the deepest green dress she could have her father send her on such short notice. There was something about the darker colors, the wintry greens and navy blues that Ursula found far more inviting than fair oranges and pinks. That was why as she walked the length of the Great Hall, having gotten at least a moment away from her date, Ursula looked like a forest, green silk brushing the floor only slightly as she walked. There was a sort of air around her that she demanded and enjoyed, walking through the great amount of people like they were not actually there at all.

The silver mask on her face shone in the soft light of the halls as she continued her progression, eyes sweeping for one of the few people she was sure she wanted to talk to during the night. Formed perfectly to her face and around her nose, the metal looked of fine lace, but had been crafted out of silver strands, thin enough that they were malleable, but firm enough so that they would withhold a night of wear. She only needed the mask for one night, after all, but she did want it to look as beautiful as the rest of her did until the ball was over. Red lips pursed, it did not take long for Ursula to find the very girl she knew she would be able to recognize in a crowd. Isla Black was definitely not a woman of small tastes, and the dress she was wearing could only have belonged to her, pulling a smile out of the older girl as she walked over to her future sister in law, smiling softly until she got all the way to her, not meaning to startle her in the slightest.

“I apologize, Isla. I would have called your name, but a lady does not shout, and I wished not to draw too much attention over this way.” Although she knew that people looked their way anyways. It was so wonderful to look some of the nicest women in the room, the ones who could afford for dresses that were made for balls such as these. “I would have thought that by now you’d be dancing. Do not tell me that you allowed yourself to be brought here alone, without a date?” she asked in surprise. She thought she had heard from a passing student that Isla had walked in on a man’s arm, but she was alone now, looking out over the dancers and gossipers alike as though she were searching for either her date, or another man to sweep her off of her feet.

"Oh, it's fine! Please, don't worry about it," she said, her smile bright and ever-present, flicking her gaze up-and-down, appraising her outfit with the intention of finding an aspect of it to compliment. "Oh, you look beautiful, Ursula! I love that colour -- it's so dark and rich, like emeralds. You look like a forest come to life! You look wonderful." She loved to look at beautiful people, beautiful things -- it reminded her of the fact that, to some people, at least, she too was considered a beautiful person, a beautiful thing. There was also something beautiful about wealth: one could always tell who was rich and who wasn't from their clothes, from the purposefulness of their appearance. And the cleanliness of it. Rich people smelled rich, like perfumed oils and not much more, the sweat soaped from their skin, while poor people smelt dirt -- and not the rich dirt of lands owned, but the poor dirt of lands worked -- and poor people pretending to be rich smelled like soap over grime, their skin too poor for pretences. Isla liked beautiful people, beautiful things -- and Ursula was both beautiful and rich. "I did come here with someone! A friend with kind enough to ask me. And I did do some dancing earlier this evening, but I took a break and now I'm -- I'm sitting here, waiting to be asked."

"Yes, now I'm," she paused, letting the moment and its charm drift over her, letting her vision grow bolder and brighter from all of the possibilities of romance that the night held ahead. "I'm waiting," she said, her voice soft and wistful, before dissolving into giggles. Waiting for her Prince Charming, her One True Love -- not that she said this aloud, though it was in her voice, in how she held herself, dreaming and dream-like.

[maylsiemayls]

Visit Original Link

[zionqt]

Lee Sung Kyung 2014-1015

[isleblack]

lutherblckwood:

If he could have stolen a margin of celebration from the others and taken it upon himself, he might have surrendered to such a thing. Although he was involved in what occurred about him, still his mind found it of the essence to wander. Some floated amongst themselves with all of the prowess of the experienced, touching the elbows of their friends and comrades, and the hands tucked into pureblood future marriages with glimmering rings; all of it, a headiness that couldn’t be ignored. To take in each detail had him swimming from moment to moment, almost in the aura of a butterfly, skimming the air to land gently upon one petal before continuing on to the next. He was thankful he had not taken a sip of the cognac, for then his vision might have been blurred and he would have been incapacitated. To be in such a state of mind would not benefit him and his absorbance, for all of these things would need to be written later.

A flash of colour across his gaze brought him out of his cocoon and began the process of the metamorphosis. He thought he recognised that stride, how it bustled and floated, and the lack of reluctance in the atmosphere, for it echoed the childlike reticence previously witnessed. He narrowed his gaze, watching her move, attempting to place her; of course, he provided himself with his own conjectures but refused to name them, for power was quick to be assigned, and he also did not wish to be incorrect in his guess. She, too, wore a mask, but some could not be disguised from their true forms even with lace, fabric and lavishness. And the buoyant nature of her voice, how it echoed towards him, not hollow but golden and brilliant, and he recognised her, and he hoped that she might recognise him for his gentleness and - eloquence?

( Was he eloquent enough to be remembered? )

“It would - to watch the rest of the world continue onwards around you. Although it might also prove to be fascinating, an observational chance for once in a lifetime.” He returned the smile, and he imagined that glass-laughter, and yes, he did know her, but he might keep it a secret for a while longer, see if she knew him back. “It tastes somehow of fallen leaves, yet in a manner which is appetising.” When she winked, his smile widened. “It encourages mine own spirits to see someone else’s so lifted. I might have to ask for your secret to overcome my fear of it all.”

"I do hate being alone, and I don't hate much -- or at least, I don't think I do." She shook her head -- a slight, short movement, almost like she was shaking all thoughts of hate and its subjects from her mind -- and smiled, its cheer blazing in the orange light of the Great Hall. "Still -- there would be so much to do. You would never be bored! And imagine all the knowledge that you would collect over the years, and all the people that you could help with it, all the people that you could save. The wars that you would be able to stop with your wisdom. Oh, that would be wonderful." She sighed, deep and dream-like. "All the same, I -- I don't know if that would be worth the loneliness. I think it would be so sad -- too sad -- to live so alone. I know that I would be sad," she said, laughter flooding her voice, the sound acting in complete opposition to her words.

Her smile brightened at his description, and she looked down at her glass, taking another small sip of the drink and licking her lips to keep the taste on her tongue, before biting down on her bottom lip and sucking it into her mouth, scraping her top two teeth across it when she released it to speak. "Yes," she said, almost like a confirmation, looking back up at him with another smile -- softer and much more subdued this time, but no less warm. "I see what you mean. It tastes almost sharp, almost hot -- like when you burn your tonuge, but it's cold -- oh, I don't know. It's good. Fallen leaves, though -- I think that fits it quite well."

At the sight of his growing smile, her own turned into what could have been called a smirk, it held so much satisfaction within it, were it not so bright and beaming -- were it not still so much like sunshine. She leaned a little closer towards him -- still a respectable distance, but close enough for him -- and him alone -- to hear her next few words. "I will tell it to you, but you must promise to keep it a secret. Promise me?" She asked, holding out her littlest finger for him to wrap his own around.

[lilydazs-blog-blog-blog]

Visit Original Link

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

seraphina-bones:

Seraphina was usually a quick dresser. In general, she never quite enjoyed taking much time to get ready for activities such as school, bu the masquerade tonight called for more attention to such a thing. She had pulled her dress on first, one she, admittedly, very much liked. Her grandmother had truly picked a dress of Seraphina’s taste, and she couldn’t be more impressed by it. It was made of a fabric she wasn’t sure of ( but was most definitely not silk, for that would have been too much for their simple middle class life ), but it felt comfortable in her skin. It was intricately detailed with flower patterns in a gold lining, the pattern laying on top of a maroon color. Simple and elegant, just what Seraphina liked.

She was going to leave right after the dress had been pulled on, but her grandmother’s voice echoed in the back of her head: make sure your hair and face look proper, Seraphina. Of course, she really did not have to listen to the instruction that had come with the delivered dress, but Seraphina also knew she would feel a terrible knot in her stomach later out of guilt. So, she sat and did her best with what she had–she was not too god with all the likes. But in the end, looking into a mirror, she had felt happy with what she saw. What else was needed? After all, she would be wearing mask.

When she walked into the Great Hall, she could not believe it really was the Great Hall. Not only was it filled to the brim with beautifully well-dressed people, it was decorated in a very gorgeous manner. Everything was simply wonderful to look at, enough so that Seraphina just wanted to look round the whole night. In doing so, her eyes caught a girl in a beautiful dress. In fact, she looked beautiful head to toe, and Seraphina felt the need to offer the girl a compliment. But as she walked a little closer, she startled her, and when she spoke, she was sure she recognized the voice. “Isla?” Seraphina giggled quietly, nearing her friend. “Is that you? You look absolutely beautiful.”

When the girl -- for it was a girl, and from what Isla could tell, from her hairdo and her dress, she was a beautiful girl -- spoke her name, her brow wrinkled in confusion, uncertain as to whether or not she knew the person on the other end of the mask, or if she should. But then she recognised the sound of her giggles, and her features cleared up, her smile lighting up like the sun when it comes out from behind the clouds. "Oh, Seraphina! Hello! Thank you, that is so kind of you," she said, flitting her eyes over Seraphina's outfit to appraise it, her smile blooming upon noting its colour and pattern. "Goodness, I do adore your dress! It's so beautiful. I love the colours -- vibrant -- and that pattern. Gorgeous. You must tell me the name of your dressmaker; I've been looking for a new one. Perhaps we could go shopping sometime!" Had she known the details of Seraphina's class status, Isla would not have focused on the origin of her dress as much as she had, but alas, she didn't tend to think about such things -- for Isla, there was rich and the poor, but no-between. Her understanding of the world was coloured in black and white; all her states were extreme. "And I do apologise for not recognising you earlier -- it's been quite a confusing night, with all of these masks. It's a bit like being a different person, isn't it? Like instead of putting on a mask, you're putting on a whole new persona. Oh, goodness, ignore me. I'm being foolish. I think it's all the dancing! It's starting to get to me." She laughed, her smile a touch too bright, a touch too forced, though it soon settled back into geniune happiness at seeing her friend. "How has your night been so far, Seraphina? Have you met someone -- someone like a handsome gentleman? Have you danced?"

[aliceanders-blog1-deactivated20]

The dress robes had, of course, been the most expensive of the offerings for this place. In fact, it had been to the marketed price of Luther telling his charges to forget it, that such a piece of attire was not worth the exorbitant tag, not when even the top tier dress robes of the lowest class could not compare to those of the higher. He would never forgive himself if the nuns had to spend the next several weeks recollecting what had been lost on frivolities; even with the addition of the last of his pleasure-based earnings, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Then, he had discovered it in an parcel delivered by owls - in the common room, waiting for him on the bed. To whom it had belonged, he did not know, and perhaps it was only slightly out of fashion, but it was nicer than what he could have afforded new in a shoppe’s recesses and the back rooms of the forbidden wardrobe. And so he had donned it with gratitude, thanking both God and the unseen sender ( who had not included a note, and it made him wonder whether it was the nuns having discovered something as a surprise, or one of the professors assisting him ) for this lavishness - as it was, indeed, lavishness to him.

Now armed inside of it and protected with his gentleness, he perched himself near the table of refreshments, the beverages and hor d’ouevres, swallowing at the sight of them. This was more than he had sometimes obtained as rations in an entire week. He would refrain from gorging himself; not that he would be able to, considering how tightly his stomach was wound in knots. He knew not what he waited for, or if he waited for anything, but he remained with a mask of gold and black settled on his face ( one he had transfigured from magic and parchment ) and stood tall at the side of the table. Perhaps his position was to be sentinel tonight.

However, temptation won out - and he found himself with a small glass of the Autumn Punch. In partaking of it, it bubbled against his tongue, and he blinked in surprise. “This is,” he murmured to himself, lacking notice of any potential company, “quite ambrosial.”

[isleblack]

She had spent the night flittering and fluttering about, like the rusted leaves that were falling from the golden trees and tangling her hair -- their colours turning dark and roseate with the fall; trampled to dust from the thousands that walked across them, pressing them into the ground, breaking them up into rainbow shades of carmine and golden brown and violet-wine -- floating from person to person, from dance to dance, from quick lines to quicker laughter. She loved it -- loved the dislocating rush of being spun: round people; round the dance-floor; round conversations -- but it was starting to weigh down her spirits. She was not strong; she was weak, frail-boned and thin-skinned from the cholera that had permeated both her bones and her mind, warming her heart with its chill. She was not strong. She couldn't dance for hours and hours without stopping, without resting. And yet even with her exhaustion, her nerves still buzzed with the desire to dance, her heart hot and bursting, her heart-beat jumping like it was a song, another song that she could dance to. Like it could leap out from her rib-cage and take flight; like she could take flight. Like she could be free.

She bustled towards the table of refreshments, delighting in the rustling sound that her silk skirts made as she moved, delighting in the feel of the warm September air against her bare shoulders -- and the freedom of her shoulders, her skin, a freedom that was confined to parties and similar sorts of social events. She was getting herself a glass of the Autumn Punch when she heard him, looking up at him with soft surprise. With the force of habit, she scanned his features for recognition, before realising that -- oh, yes, of course -- she didn't know him, she couldn't know him, because he was wearing a mask. She smiled at him, kind and welcoming and no different from her usual smile, apart from its independence, the ease that lived within it. If she didn't know who he was, then it stood to reason that he didn't know who she was. Gone were the social expectations that covered her shoulders, like her sleeves, like Atlas and the weight of the world. She didn't have to be proper and correct and good, she just had to be Isla. Not Isla Black -- neither a sister nor a daughter, not a friend nor a saviour -- but just Isla. She was as free as her shoulders. And she couldn't have been happier about it.

"Oh, dear. I don't I want to live forever. Wouldn't that get lonesome? All that time. I don't think that I would be able to stand it," she said, holding her glass of punch up to the light like a salute, her tone light-hearted and teasing -- she even dared to wink at him, before taking a sip of her drink and smiling. "Ooh. It is good."