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@mindsmade
hi pals — excuse the radio silence; tumblr terminated this blog out of nowhere 2 weeks ago and apparently reinstated it today(?). i however have already remade because i wasn't receiving any feedback from support about the matter. anyway, y'all can find me over onpsychescape and/or forceguided ( as an continuation of forceblinded ) now. this blog will serve as an archive from here on out.
multimuse by luca, born april '95, dutch, living in italy. carrd for details! mobile muse list under the cut.
yikes, sorry to any and all that saw a weird ass ai-generated post coming from this account — got my ass hacked apparently. should be fixed now and all interlopers signed out; thanks @mercysought and @yakam0z for letting me know 💞
hi y'all, i promise i haven't forgotten about this blog and about you guys – i've just been going Through It and just started university again this week, so my mind is in the gutter as far as writing outside of my singular hyperfixation at the moment goes ( you guessed it: it's dnd ). i'm hoping to come back when i'm done catching up on my reading and by then i'll hopefully be talking to a professional again to sort myself out as well LMAO.
catch me on discord in the meantime if you'd like; i'm chronically online over there 🩶
Amelia wished Kane didn't sound so good when he called her darlin' like that; it was distracting from her irritation, the only thing forcing her fear into submission. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad if she was still under the illusion that the things that went bump in the night were just nightmares conjured to strike fear. Alas.
Her grip tightens painfully around one of those very things that went bump in the night - hoping that hers was the more powerful one, if there were any other ones creeping around in the shadows. Amelia crowds close, not allowing him to part a second time. ❝ Don't even joke ⸻ I don't want my soul to be trapped in a creepy place like this for all time ! ❞
She is hoping that, he will find some kindness in his old, grouchy heart, and maybe he will comfort her. Amelia should have known better. He leans in and her freckles stand out against the the whitening of her skin.
❝ You're going to be really mad and jealous, if something crawls up from the ground and kidnaps me to be their monster bride, ❞ she snarls, squeezes close to him. Joking or not, she's freaking out. ❝ Why are we looking for a stupid bible ? ❞ She's not looking at all, too scared of what she might see creeping in the corners of the room.
"That's ..." not how that works — usually, at least, but he dismisses the point he was going to make with a wave of his unoccupied hand. The other, held at his side by the white-knuckled grip Amelia has on his arm, tucks into the pocket of his jacket.
"Psht. It'd be a relief. If only some such creature would be gracious enough to take you from me," he grumbles. It's all a joke to him, but some part of him does feel a pang of guilt not only for recognising her fears at all, really, but also for insisting she's so disposable to him. He knows better than that nowadays.
It's not a thought he's particularly keen to entertain for too long, so he, in turn, casts it aside. "A bible, yeah. It's not about what's written in it. Something's been tucked into its linin', and I need it for ... well, a bribe," he trails off, dragging Amelia along towards the altar to start looking across it, under it, beside it. Nothing. "Fuck. Y'know, this really would go much faster if you'd let me go and help me search. Go into that little backroom there, will you? That's where the creepy patriarchs or whatever probably hid whatever good stuff they got their hands on." He pauses only to prompt Amelia to follow him towards that little door. "It's said that one of 'em, despite their customs, rules, et cetera — one of 'em had a thing for Roman Catholic shinies. Greedy little magpie stumbled upon the artefact I'm lookin' for now, and here we are."
She nods, feeling her stomach burning the longer this stretches. The lack of noise and movement makes her nerves frayed. The last thing she wanted to find was the litany of corpses or worse learn that the reason why the guards had failed was not due to their death but because they had willingly abandoned their post. So she followed his instructions to the letter, holding part of her dress to make sure that the rustling wouldn't attract unwanted attention.
It is a thunderous noise that makes her jump in place, throwing herself against the wall to attempt to look as small as possible. The sudden noise of grunts and fighting barreled through the corridor to their right of the nearest room. Maxima glances towards Brasidas, feeling her breath catch. Her mouth was about to ask when the figure of The Misthios came barreling through, pushing one of the masked figures against the wall opposite to them.
Inhaling, Maxima could hardly explain the wave of relief at the sight.
Cassandra looks to them with a surprised expression, eyebrows arching with a smile opening once she recognises Brasidas realising the now dead cultist, she turns to them.
“Thank the Gods. Brasidas!" glancing a Maxima, the Misthios simply nods. Maxima finds herself doing the same through the cloud of settling relief "The Cult is attacking, is the King safe?"
It's not like Brasidas to shun help when it's offered, so the Misthios' entry, however messy, is a most welcome sight. In the face of all that uncertainty, of where to even begin his search while his shortness of breath is catching up to him, Kassandra manages to shine just the right light down the path ahead. "We were searching — no sign of him yet," he sighs, a shake of his head following suit.
"Then let's join forces. We're not safe just yet," Kassandra proceeds, nodding towards the doorway across the throne room. "Behind the dais," Brasidas corrects, pausing to straighten his body — notwithstanding the sharp pain it sends through his torso. "We should take the stairs there."
It takes a final back-and-forth about whether he is up to the task in the state he's in, but at length Kassandra and he set off, having escorted Maxima to a begrudged exit — with Kassandra in the lead, as the unharmed party of the two. For the sake of efficiency, he will not make a fuss out of not leading the charge.
Some hours pass, night turns to dawn, the kings are found, and Brasidas is completely and utterly spent. Instead of seeking the help he – at this point – rather desperately needs, he goes to seek Maxima instead; to ensure she found the safety of her home at all. That, in truth, has been a lingering anxiety up until this point; up until the moment the door swings open and he sees her there, standing at her desk.
"You're safe ..."
TOM HARDY as Eddie Brock in Venom (2018)
Her words hang between them, searching his face as the moment wears on. It is a request she did not wish to impose on him--- but some part of her reminds her that she would be but one of many rangers the sons of Elrond have buried.
One last time, and one last favor; and to her amazement, his hands squeezed hers, and he granted her this last wish.
And like the first blossom of spring from the snow, she smiled, truly smiled, for what felt like the first time in a long time. She had expected a protest, to have to convince him, and yet as ever Elladan was as gracious as he was kind. She could not help but embrace him fiercely, face buried against his neck. The relief was palpable, and for a long moment they stood there, beneath that fiery sky.
"Thank you," she whispered when she pulled back; that smile softened, but her eyes glittered-- did he know the enormity of this gift, this peace he brought her?
"I think I just might forgive you your punishment, for that." The quiet laughter that followed was sincere. It was hard to believe that mirth could be found, when all was at the edge of a knife.
But like all things, it too could not last, and she turned towards the Anduin, watching the black water ripple in what little light still shone above them, lost in thought. Elladan had never shied away from conversations most others would. And yet, with him she could speak openly, honestly. After all these years, she hid little from his keen eyes.
"I have lived a long life," she said after some time, "I have seen many sights, meet many people---and I have fought in war, and seen many deaths." Both at her own hand and not. Tomorrow would bring only more. "But I have lived a good life, and have no regrets."
Grey eyes search his, steely and determined, before that ghost of a smile returns. "Should it be that tomorrow, Death comes for me on that field, I will meet it." They had not come this far only to falter before the end. She does not fear it for herself- but for others, moreso.
She shook herself from her thoughts. If this night were to be their last, she would not steep herself in misery. Not with her dearest friend at her side. "You remind me that there is much good to look forward to, as well as much change. That not all is bad, so long as you have those you love." Her hand found his again, expression softening as she searched his face, ever inscrutable.
"And what of you, mellon?" He, too, was no stranger to war, nor to death, even among his kind. Of all of them, Elladan and Elrohir held more experience than all of the Grey Company combined. Yet they had a choice, before them- one few of their kind did. If there were ever a time to make such a decision, such moments as these might be one of them.
"Do you fear Death, too?" Her head she tilted upwards, to meet his gaze. The night air is quiet, restless, between them. "Or do you fear that choice you may have to make?"
With that, with the knowledge her life has treated her well and left her with no regrets, his mind is put at ease. A death suffered on the battle to come should prove a good one, then — as a price to pay for a lofty goal, with a fulfilling life backing it. Whilst it may not make the impending losses their side is to suffer any lighter to bear ( not to his mind, at least ), Elladan can face the coming day with more tranquillity than he had in him moments ago.
Having the question find its way back to him might have shaken him some, if not for the predictability of the topic under these circumstances. They are facing death — what question other than any pertaining to it could he have anticipated?
Still, his own – or rather the consequence of it – has only ever crossed his mind in private, verbalised only in the presence of Elrohir and his father. Whilst not even they can truly understand what might await those of their line who have not yet made their choice, there is a quiet comfort to be found in the knowledge that he is not alone with his uncertainty.
But the same might apply here, tonight, too. Créa, the dear friend she is, has never lacked the sympathy delicate topics such as these require. He decides to speak candidly as such, albeit after a lengthy moment of contemplation.
❛ I fear ... not knowing what will follow should I perish before I have made my choice. Will what might already be in my heart, unbeknownst to myself, be read so plainly; the decision made for me in the moment? ❜ he muses, gently clasping his free hand over hers. ❛ Perhaps I will end up in a purgatory of sorts. Or, maybe, I am simply not fated to die until I have come to my decision. ❜ Here, he almost jokes, but some part of him wants to believe it.
Another theorises whatever fate would apply to his father, who has made his choice long ago, would count towards him, too, until he decides otherwise. For the time being, though, his answer stands: yes, he fears it — the end that may not truly be an end, even should it have contributed towards a victory for those Free Peoples that remain.
A smile slowly fans itself across his face, yet sorrow is the foundation it builds itself upon. ❛ I used to think that, should there ever truly be an Age of Men and should I live to see it, that will sway me towards deciding to be a part of that era, rather than to either fade or sail. Now, I am simply not so sure. Does that ... make sense at all? ❜
𝐁𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐗𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐎𝐎. as all her dearest of treasures do, as words and wishes had been whispered upon her belly. gently tugged atop the sacred spot of gold, a ruffle of dark tendrils. ❛ you take after him in more ways than i can keep count, my dear heart. ❜ a smile beyond the depths of warmth, a place as pure as a mother's love radiant in the light of her children. celebrían chuckles, a knowing glint in golden eyes. ❛ i still have a few tricks up my sleeve, i made hobby of evading the galadrhim, too. ❜ a mischief that only followed the path of a lone child with such prodigious parentage. ❛ what do you think of the view, elladan? ❜ carefully watches her son's features, hoping for wonderment and continuing to sow seeds of adventure. ❛ what defiance is conjured in your brain? ❜ she teases.
Elladan manages to find a bough thick enough to lean against, near enough sitting on top of it. One of his hands seeks his mother's shoulder, more so in a gesture of companionship than a search for purchase. Her observation as to the myriad of ways he takes after his father in, Elladan pins to the back of his mind for now, now that he finds himself prompted to take in his surroundings. ❛ It is a marvel. No wonder you would risk the galadhrim's scorn for it — and their lord and lady's, ❜ he quips, a playful nod towards his own grandparents. ❛ Defiance? Of yet, none ... But a question, perhaps: how so do I take after father, to your eyes? Or, perhaps, what about me now so reminds you of him? ❜
𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃, 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄. an enticement of hereditary competitiveness, has her smiling brightly. fingers notched where they'd once worked over, her feet trailing behind on every wrung and branch. minding her way, agility spry in bones well over three thousand years in the making. determined to humble a dear son lovingly. ❛ silver tongue? ❜ she chuffs, true as it was. ❛ oh no, if the galadhrim catches us it will be you attempting such a feat and if you fail it will be your grandmother to answer to. ❜ celebrían chuckles softly, the commotion rustles golden leaves, her pace a quick burst up the remains. skylight at the peak, a glint in her eyes and palm outstretched to elladan. ❛ do not feel bad, i always beat your father too. ❜
Between watching where he places his hand and feet, he loses track of his mother — and in an admittedly somewhat embarrassing, wide-eyed display, he soon realises he's fallen behind quite a ways! In that expectedly desperate attempt to catch up, he slips down a notch or two, catching himself by the skin of his teeth ( hugging the tree as he slides ). He will assess the dues paid with his pride later, when his two feet are on firm soil again. Now, however, the only way is up, and so he continues clambering, at long last reaching for the outstretched hand. The apples of his cheek bear a healthy shade of pink. Exertion, or embarrassment? Both, he thinks. ❛ I see I take after father in that sense, then, ❜ Elladan murmurs in passing, dragging himself up far enough for his head and shoulders to poke out above the foliage. ❛ Oh, mother ... I understand now, I believe — your past and present defiance of your own mother's wishes. ❜
☆ put this star into the inbox of your favorite blogs - it's time to spread positivity ! DUUUUUHHHHH 😏❤️🔥
i am sending the biggest smooch to your cheek rn ... yours is eternally a favourite blog of mine too and i'm so happy with our plots n threads n chats 😭💞
she glances down at her hands from above her scarf, wrapped tightly around her nose. it is a sunny yet freezing day under a clear sky. even in the centre of night city some days are not as sticky and muggy as the dense smog makes you believe. there is a small container cushioned between so mi’s palms and she quickly hides it from view when she knocks on v’s door, impatiently.
❝ open up! i have something that needs your immediate attention! ❞ while she waits, she wonders whether she should have put more effort into decorating it. although, then the highlight of the art piece might no longer be … when vince appears in the doorframe, so mi stretches out both her arms, presenting the tiniest terrarium that holds her surprise. ❝ hurry, get it inside or it might freeze to death. i think. flowers are sensitive to cold? not all of them, anyway. ❞
it is a printed model of a yellow zinnia. not the real thing, unfortunately, as these are hard to come by, cost a fortune and would be less personal than the handcrafted version ❝ i was bored the other day and got a little too invested in the meaning of flowers. it represents great memories. good times ─ and i thought of you, so… ❞
Told to hurry, yet he remains rooted to the ground for perhaps a second too long. A second too long, that is, for his surprise to appear just that — and if he isn't careful, V thinks to himself, it might be misconstrued as disapproval, or some other sense of displeasure.
But something so far from it is stumbling its way through his mind now.
As a cloud forms around the current of his exhale, the cold threatens to creep even farther into the trailer he'd arranged for himself on the fringes of the city; the very same one they spent a night stargazing on top of. One of those two dingy, plastic chairs they'd used has already turned to scrap, one of its brittle legs having snapped under V's weight a few days later.
So Mi doesn't know it yet, but he's since gotten a set of nicer chairs for the two of them — with proper cushioning, and the ability to recline.
But his mind swings from that flash of a memory to the present in the briefest of moments, his eyes likewise fluctuating in their fixation: first on the 3D-printed flower in its housing, then on So Mi, and back again.
His befuddlement makes way for the steady swell of his sentimentality. It's an element he's worked hard to hide from all of Night City but failed parlously, having been accused of it getting in his way by the likes of Regina, and it having been targeted by opponents who thought they could get a leg up on him with it. They were often proven wrong with the pull of a trigger out of spite.
So Mi, however, seems to respect it, this mawkishness of his. This gesture suggests she might even like it about him — an impossible thought to V's mind, but it presents itself to him all the same. To be liked at all, truly liked, perhaps even loved, resides firmly within the realm of the inconceivable.
It did for a long time, at least. That same outlandish concept now seems to shift towards the perimeter of the plane it's been confined in; the grey area between possible and impossible — the one that might keep him awake all night, for several nights in a row.
At last, that thought, too, inevitably fades in the face of the tangible reality – which he can't dispute, no matter how he might try – materializing in front of him. A smile begins touching his face, smoothing out the lines across his forehead and between his eyebrows, and instead etching them from his nose to the corners of his mouth.
He's tickled by this gift, amused, and endlessly endeared, both by it in itself and the meaning apparently attached to it.
Oh, they've made some good memories, all right — and more will be needed yet to fully drown out the fading sting of the betrayal that tainted all that came before it. He wishes he were the type not to hold grudges. It'd all be so much easier to just forgive and forget. The upside, he thinks, is that it makes their recovery from what once was all the more meaningful.
It's uncomfortable at times, difficult and painful even, but all the more worth it because of it.
In moments like these, though, she makes forgetting his apprehension and the reason for it so damned easy.
❛ Huh. Thanks! That's ... real sweet, actually. ❜ His teeth flash as his expression toes the line between an entertained grin and a soft-hearted smile — and at last, he takes the terrarium from So Mi's hands.
He swears he can feel his fingertips brush past her knuckles even as he attempts to avoid it for her sake. He also swears he can feel his stomach churn with the same yearning he's tried to beat down more than once.
The feeling goes ignored as he steps aside, pushing the door farther open with his back.
❛ Let's make some more good memories then. I've got a few cold ones we can crack open — and better chairs for us to sit on this time around, while you tell me how you got your hands on this pretty print. ❜
𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. nothing in comparison to what was created between her and her beloved; one such blessing gazing back with glitter of mischief - she could certainly take credit for that. ❛ i wouldn't say entirely blind but you and your brother are all the more formidable because of your agility. ❜ she beams, a brush of tenderness lifts her palm to elladan's cheek. now finds the same spark in her golden eyes, a grin so woven in harmless trouble. ❛ well, my dear boy. ❜ a gentle pinch to his cheek, celebrían dancing past her son to notch fingertips into the tree. ❛ i could be obnoxiously poetic about it or, you can try to keep up and see for yourself. ❜ as though no time has passed since the lady of imaldris began to scale the mallorn.
The pinch to his cheek beckons his fingertips to where he had felt it, almost in a gesture of disbelief — as if his mother's playful streak is a new discovery to him. It is not, and so the surprise of her challenge is lessened; brushed aside by the swell of his competitiveness. A grin now adorns his face and he moves to find a suitable spot along the bark not far from her. Just where the trunk bends out of her view, he spots the notches and the bumps he needs to get to the first branch overhead; something that should give him just enough purchase to get that far, at least. ❛ We will not upset the Galadhrim, now, will we? Or will your silver tongue disarm them should it come to a disagreement with them over climbing the trees beyond the telain? ❜
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒. long before that which had been built into something so homely and full of life. a mothers love glows brighter than golden leaves adorning ancient mallorns, she leads @mindsmade along the same winding path she'd often run wild upon. ❛ there is a tree as old as me. ❜ she points to that which had been planted the day she was born. roots which grew with her in lorien, the same as those placed into the hearty loam of imaldris for each of her children. ❛ i climbed the tree to see the world. ❜ or escape from it, a varied mood anointed by youth. suffice it to say, not all elladan's spirit could be blamed entirely on his father.
TO BUILD A HOME // patrick watson 𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐂 // 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠
The joy in his mother's eyes is unmistakeable: she takes pride in her roots, and Elladan would not have it any other way. It is this example he, too, follows — this and that set by his father, west of the mountains they traversed to get here. His gaze would venture that way and he would wonder if his father would know it did, if not for his mother's pointed finger pinning his attention here, onto that tree. His eyes climb it instead, until the silvery canopy comes into view. ❛ Ah. So that is why you would turn a blind eye when Elrohir and I would climb the trees when still young ... ❜ A knowing smirk finds his face, touching upon his eyes as he looks towards his mother again. ❛ And how much of all the world did you see from up there? Enough to feed a sense of wanderlust? ❜
@peredhellen
𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐗 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 ( ... ) unyielding in his beliefs, her fixer had ofttimes exclaimed that one can truly be in power only once they have absolutely control over life and death at the same time, in equal measure. but this is different, whispers her now thunderous heart against her ears, for the life of this man has meaning and she would rather eat her own bone - marrow rather than accidentally condemning him to an unfortunate fate.
beneath beauteous lineaments, now pulled taut in pursuance of hiding any sentiment from his attentive eyes, her anxiety bubbles venomous. she welcomes him into her personal space, dares to run a blood - stained hand across his thigh in a tender and mayhap desperate attempt at soothing the nerves that have dug deep creases on his visage. her gaze, until then stubbornly anchored to the knife and the wound beneath it, finally returns to him ; thin eyebrows furrow above the bridge of her petite nose, an unspoken apology for the pain that she is about to cause. ❝ i promise that i will be quick ... it will be fine. ❞ a reassurance that is feather - light and almost quivering, barren of true convinction.
lithe fingers coil around the handle of the knife, holding it as tight as possible whilst the muscles across the entirety of her arm tense. painfully. the assassin focuses on the task at hand, erasing the entirety of the world from the periphery of her vision and forcing her augments to activate and thus work for this one purpose alone ( ... ) a warning is not properly given before she swiftly pulls the weapon out of his body. the knife falls on the concrete below with a hollow sound, thump, whilst she hurries to press the palm of her hand against the bleeding gush ; his blood is hot against her skin, almost bewitchingly so. ❝ did it hurt ? are you okay ? ❞
Maybe the omission of a warning is for the better. Something about bracing for pain at a pin-pricked moment never sat well with him. The piercings he's had done always hurt less when the needle went through before the count-down was finished; before he'd exhaled the last of the breath he was told to release after holding it for a moment. This goes exactly the same way: he inhales sharply, holds it, begins to release it in a slow, controlled manner — and then forces it out until he has no air left in him.
All in all, though, it goes too quickly for him to even need to bite into the arm on which he'd leaned his mouth. His biceps will come out of this unscathed, at least. His ego, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether. It takes him a moment to lift his head somewhat; enough to be able to enunciate, at least.
❛ Yeah, I'm fine; 's fine, ❜ he mumbles, leaning still into the pressure of her palm. This bloody mess is hardly a display befitting a literal diva like herself — or maybe he's just mistaken about her. It wouldn't be the first time he's misread a person. So far, she's handling the unsavoury repercussions of the scuffle surprisingly well.
In fact, she handled herself pretty damned well back there, too. That thought actually has him raise his head properly, straightening himself opposite to her ( while making a point of holding her hand against his chest; it feels good there, somehow ... stinging aside ).
❛ I'm glad you got out unscathed. I didn't ... see a flash of a blade from you, did I? Like, that was someone else's, right? ❜
A sharpshooting Buffalo Bill Wild Westers performer seated right next to her on a bench in Hyde Park. What are the chances? As her brows lift, she can feel the confines of her reserved expression being pushed to the limits. “You don’t say?” Posh voice drawls, further unraveling her surprise.
“Well, perhaps you can tell me whether or not the bullets are real.” A debate she recalls on theatrics; so much can fool the eye these days — as did the gentleman upon first impression (even if she didn’t get past “American”). "Has England enchanted you enough to linger here a little longer, Mister Chandler?”
“...You mean other than enjoying a brisk mid-morning sit to people-watch in the park?” Hands refold on her lap as her chin lifts to drift her gaze across the peaceful promenade. “Generally, I help manage my father’s household.” Not a husband’s. Not her own. The age creeping into the corners of her eyes matches the subdued garb that no longer beams the youthful sense of what is fashionable. She has long been off the shelf and prefers not to elaborate. "And some charity work, of course."
Ethan permits himself a chuckle — to lift the tip of the veil, or not? ❛ Now, ❜ he himself draws in return, his grin persistent and the gleam in his eye mischievous, ❛ I can't just go 'round spillin' the secrets of the trade. What would Buffalo Bill think if word got out to him? ❜ The feigned nature of his concern should be obvious by now, but he continues to ride the wave a moment longer. Leaning in ever so slightly, his voice lowers itself to a hush. ❛ All right. My bullets were real, at least. ❜
They were, and are — loaded into the very pistols suspended from his hips now, concealed by his trench coat. Miss Bellecourt doesn't need to know that, however.
❛ Hm, ❜ her question stabilizes his inclination towards cheek, his demeanour levelling out some. A pensiveness takes him and, for a moment, his mind is with Brona and Miss Ives. ❛ I think you could consider me ... swayed, more than enchanted. ❜ England will have its piece of his heart in one way or another. ❛ So I'll be here a while longer, yes. ❜
With her answer to his single question asked, he knows enough: that he shouldn't further pry. Why her father's estate? Whether by choice or tragedy, the answer seems straightforward to him — even if assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. Ruffling feathers doesn't seem worth whatever knowledge she might be willing to part with. ❛ Charity, huh? Soup kitchens and the like? ❜ He pauses to nod. ❛ Admirable. Think they got space for another wayward soul to help out? ❜
