CECIL CROSS has arrived in Albion. While they may seem FAMILIAR, they are connected to the WESTERLY FOOTHILLS CROSSES. Their passport was stamped at Falls Inn and shows that they are THIRTY, SIX FOOT THREE INCHES, with DUSTY CHESTNUT HAIR and GRAY GREEN EYES. Mrs. Kuiper at the Inn said that they seemed FORGIVING and METHODICAL, though they were seen SMOKING A STRANGE SMELLING HERB FROM A THICKLY PACKED CIGAR as they departed St. Catharine’s Depot. Be wary, and report any sightings to Madame Lange’s Tea Room.
Full Name; Cecil Cross. Just Cecil, just Cross, no middle-names, no nicknames.
Birthdate; January 11th, 1893 at 3:18am - A Capricorn.
The Cross Family; They supplied Flory’s Bakery with grains from the wheat fields, Leo Grocer’s with the beans & rice & rich fruits from the low-hanging branches of orchard tree… but Cecil supplied Madame Lange with unique teas, exotic dates & figs, and the tavern with bright, almost glowing flowers in the window. Or, at least… he did.
Siblings; None.
Parents; Both deceased.
Time Spent Away From Albion; Ten Years.
He was hopeful, once, gazing up at the stars under a full moon with a twinkle in his eye and dirt staining long, unkempt fingernails. No longer is there a certain type of whimsy held in his pale gaze, reflecting the shimmer of moonlight, though he does still often let his eyes wander skywards. Cecil likes what has an order to it, what follows a specific pattern, and what he can understand. No surprises, no games; he is tender, under the shades of grays and dark greens he pulls close around his faint frame. He likes to know the world he lives in intimately, to see the ladybugs crawl beneath a stone for coverage from the sun, and to know what time the morning paper will appear on his stoop.
He is kind, but he is quiet - words fail him, more often than not, spending too much time to deliver them as he searches his mind for the best things to say. Cecil was told through his formative years, as he grew and developed from child to man, that he was to choose his words carefully and not spend time fumbling with his thoughts. A strong mind produces strong speech - but strong was never a descriptor for Cecil, not in the traditional way. He avoids conflict, bows his head for evening prayer, and would give the shirt off his back to someone in need if it were asked of him.
A gentle man, but a reserved one, a careful one. One who proceeds with every bit of caution as a dove approaching a storm. Magic, Cecil believes, exists everywhere, despite if you’d like it to or not. For this reason, he chooses his intention before doing anything, and it is all calculated and measured by the way of fates. For each tomato he harvests, he mutters gratitude to the soil, knowing far too well how quick the Earth can strip away the blessings it had bestowed upon you. Raised a Catholic man, he is that of the cloth & the moon, promised to no God or belief, but instead living simply & quietly in a path of his own.
Regret is worn into his wrinkles, far too many etched into his still-young face, and gray hairs frame a long jawbone from years of hunching over soil & trellis. He speaks little of the past or future, and instead, chooses to exist solely in the now.
🌚 to run into my character walking home from either event
@tabithateivel
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Despite the crisp air, Cecil had removed the suffocating suit jacket & tie that had been in a noose ‘round his neck, flinging them haphazardly over an arm as he strode down the side-street back towards the way he’d came, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up & the carefully hidden scratches from rose thorns now visible in a map of twisting, faint lines across his forearms. Upon taking a look at him, one wouldn’t be able to guess he’d be leaving the cheery ceremony of a wedding between lovers, an event for all the town to celebrate & enjoy. Cecil wore an expression of perpetual concern, wrinkles etched along his eyes and streaks of moonlight in his hair that gave way to an older age than the man truly carried. Even Whit Gatlin’s contagious smile hadn’t managed to do much for the frown lines tugging at the corners of his lips, and it was only when coming across a plant almost near it’s deathbed that Cecil seemed to blink out of a trance of deep thought.
Stooping, he cupped the leaves, browning along the edges and furling sickly inwards, and studied the poor little thing; lack of water, too harsh of sunlight, shallow roots... it’s ailments seemed to be endless for the unlucky hydrangea. Cecil wondered why it chosen there, just adjacent the beaten little path, to spring from the Earth and turn it’s pretty petals skywards. He could cure her, he know - a whisper of a wish, a lick to his fingers, and viola. But where was the fun in that? Instead, he plunged his hands to the ground, scraping carefully to get the full bunch of malnourished roots, and lifted the plant & all into his cupped hands, caring not for the spewing dirt that now fell on his Sunday best dress, staining the white iron-pressed blouse & speckling across his suit blazer. It was then, and only then, did he notice another figure along the otherwise forgotten little path, and he blinked towards her as if caught red-handed in a suspicious moment. “Good evening,” He finally greeted, the words coming out halted, as if he weren’t sure it was right to say anything at all, stood there off the road now dripping the Earth with roots hanging half-lifeless between fingers and his tie slipping from his grip, threatening to brush the grass below.
🔔 to sit next to my character at the Gatlin-Flory ceremony
Hattie hadn’t been to a wedding since her own. It hadn’t even really been a wedding, just a priest signing papers while Thierry’s friend stood witness for them. It hadn’t seemed to matter then. He was going to France and wanted to be sure she’d still be there when he came back. She’d teased him that he’d be more likely to run off with some Parisian fancy dancer, what with all the men going overseas anyway. He’d had black hair, like shoe-polish, that curled in a way that had made her toes wiggle a little. So she’d said yes and then the next day she’d been a wife. And a year later she’d been a widow. She’d had barely two months’ time with Thierry their whole marriage before she’d buried him. And most of that had been weekend passes while he’d been in training. It felt strange to sit in a church and watch the whole town celebrate a wedding. Like the war had never touched Albion at all.
Cec Cross was sitting next to her. He was only a little younger than her, and she remembered him as a bit of a strange boy who hadn’t known that several girls had mooned over his large eyes and cupid-bow mouth. Hattie supposed that was part of the appeal. She knew his family had died, and it seemed to have pulled him even farther away from the rest of the town, though perhaps that was just her imagination, trying to make up for her own distance. “How’ve you been, Cec?”
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An event such as a wedding was one so far from Cecil’s mind as he returned to his hometown in the valley, doing his best to keep a low profile and send as few waves as possible spreading through the sea of gossipers in Albion. He was well aware of the eager wagging tongues that peered from behind shutters and ruffled curtains, and was more than content to stay behind closed panes of his own for a few days. Just his luck an old family friend had to go and get hitched mere days after stepping from the train to the rickety platform leading to the Valley... and to further his poor fortune, Cecil noticed, more than half of Albion had come to witness the merry ceremony. He felt out of place, with subtle patching along his left elbow of the old suit, wrinkled on the pant cuffs and looking dull in the sunshine glow. Aside from the splash of yellow Yarrow sprigs sticking from the loose button hole in his blazer, Cecil was awash in shades of pale gray and brown.
So uncomfortable in his own skin, Cecil hadn’t even remembered to take note of the woman sat beside him as his finger picked at the loose skin next to his thumbnail, flecks of dirt caught beneath the keratin and stains of green against his prints. Thoughts awry in his mind, the nickname almost went under his radar, until blinking, Cecil looked up and finally turned his mind to Hattie, quickly placing the face & name in his thoughts. He wouldn’t even correct her, this time. “Well enough, I suppose,” came the subtle reply, having been taught better manners than to dwell on subjects of a negative nature at a gathering so cheerful. The smile Cecil painted on his features was askew, slightly, as if he’d almost forgotten how to wear one. “How about yourself, and the rest of the Webb’s & Ramsay’s? I must admit, I am terribly out of the loop of any recent happenings. I only came back to town days ago.”
October brings two key events to Albion: the funeral of Hartmut Wolgemuth, curmudgeonly uncle of the Wolgemuth family, and the wedding of Whitacre Gatlin and Opal Flory. For most, these are expected (if disparately tragic and delightful) events. For newcomers, they are a little jarring.
Send a symbol to get a starter from my character!
🧥 to find my character trying on an outfit for their event
🧆 to run across my character tucking in for a bite at Spaden & Speck’s right before they close for the Wolgemuth funeral
☕️ to duck behind my character in an attempt to hide from a blind date (or the setup!)
🔔 to sit next to my character at the Gatlin-Flory ceremony
✨ to come across my character spying on three women preparing a celestial ritual in a clearing beyond the funeral rites
🌚 to run into my character walking home from either event
🤝 to be introduced to a member of my character’s family
😳 to trip and fall against my character on the stairs of Wolgemuth Hall
🥂 to find my character at the bar of Pegamon Pub in the middle of the afternoon
🫖 for our characters to happen upon Albey’s Traveling Café at the same time
