the (scandal) stirrer

about.

[ruthiesalenger]

THE MARVELOUS STORY OF RUTH MILLICENT SALENGER (FLORY)

While the Flory family tree has many twists, Ruthie Salenger’s own is a small one, tucked under a mighty branch. Some notable stops along the way include:

🌻 HILDA FLORY Ruthie’s mother, stubborn and flighty and a witch with a spoon (literally). Married young and left the valley young, too, abandoning her daughter and her second husband. Hilda is not often mentioned, and certainly not kindly. Ruthie inherited her wickedness.

🌾 PRUNE FLORY-DASCOMB Trailing along a branch, adjoining her own but split, and bearing a different sort of flower, reveals the name Prune -- Ruthie’s cousin, and very nearly her birthday twin. Born the day before, Prune and Ruthie have always lived in strict competition (and one that Ruthie is notably losing) -- especially as Prune is now married, has her own farm, and may well be a viable candidate to take on the Flory seat on the Council.

🌹 DELANEY FLORY One of the most prolific roses on the main branch represents Delaney Flory, the current family head and owner of Flory’s bakery. Though her rose has begun to darken on the edges, fading into the sepia that has swept the lower branches of the tree (those departed, though always with us), Delaney is smart, sensible, and scant for patience.

🌳 CHRISTOPHER FLORY Swinging to the other side of the tree, Christopher Flory’s branch has only grown stronger over time. Where it used to be a junior branch to the main line, the Lower Midland Flory’s have made a name for themselves in fire-kits. They own several dozen acres in the southwest of the valley, harvesting trees, logging for sale, and casting magic into firelight sparks that fade into the summer night.

🌷 ANNABELLE FLORY “The most annoying of us by far,” says Ruthie, though she is alone in her opinion. Annabelle remains one of the friendliest, most glowing young women in the valley. While she studies to obtain her teaching certificate, her chocolate oat cookies are developing a reputation all of their own. It is no small secret that Delaney hopes she’ll take the leap, abandon teaching, and pick up the family trade.

[ruthiesalenger]

tabithateivel​:

“Cinnamon huh?” Tabitha mused, a little surprised by the suggestion. Not that she had any doubt it would taste good. It was just that, well… “I wouldn’t dare add it unless I wanted every taster falling into some stupor of half madness due to love or lust. It only needs the slightest hint of intent.” It might be funny for a minute or two, but Tabitha had never seen a ‘love’ charm or incantation play out favorably.

She tried to stick to  Aunt Judith’s magic rules. Away from the heart and away from the dead. Stay settled in your head.

Ruthie at least seemed determined for distractions with no desire to share the reason why. Tabitha refilled her glass before she could even be prompted, setting the bottle down with a clink on the table. She flipped three ace of hearts cards in a row out in front them.

Cheeky buggers.

“Sure. You want to find me a date? You know between the two of us, we can dance circles around these townies.”

Ruthie chortled, but said nothing. It was strange to hear Tabitha talk about ingredients and their affectations. A rise of bile -- territorial -- caught in her throat. She swallowed it back with another juniper sip. Ruthie didn’t bake, anymore. It didn’t work in the same way, anymore.

“Ned’s got friends,” Ruthie murmured. “Adam Howell’s wife died winter last.” A brow cocked, her chin lifted. She leaned in, conspiratorially. “He’s got a cottage up in Poe’s.”

She sat back with a creak in her chair, her legs kicking beneath the table -- to the air, not to her companion.

“Say -- you and Jimmie are getting close.” Ruthie raised her brows. “He’s something to look at, hm?”

[ruthiesalenger]

maxwellbymoonlight​:

ruthiesalenger​:

The unimpressed look in Ruthie’s eye did not escape him - he practically felt the look before he even saw it. He thought he would wilt, but instead his back seemed to grow imaginary ice crystals of its own, and any shame or sting of judgment stopped short of penetrating him, chipping off in flakes.

“Maxwell Fletcher,” he said, trying to stiffen. No matter how many of them he had to fend off, words dug deeper than looks - and he couldn’t even predict what she might say once she heard the name. “We were…in school around the same time.”

And for a brief moment, he pondered which of them truly knew more about the other. Between their school time and certain mutual acquaintances, Maxwell knew more about her than someone of his demeanor probably cared to. Nothing too deeply personal or intimate, mind you, but the way one carries themself through the day can often tell you a great deal more than a favorite food or a birthday.

For example, Ruthie seemed the type to keep her finger on the pulse of things - whether through keen observation or this mythical thing called charisma he’d heard tell of, he couldn’t say. But she always seemed to know things before anyone else. He had nothing against her specifically, but for his own reasons he simply preferred not to put himself in her direct path.

Usually.

His stomach growled, and all thought deflated from his mind for a moment. The imaginary ice shield sloughed off.

“If you rather I’d go, I’ll go.”

In school around the same time.

Ruthie couldn’t have hidden the flinch if she wanted to -- and she did. Drawing a breath, she watched him for a long moment. As a schoolgirl, Ruthie was smart enough -- but mostly meddlesome. Troublesome. Distasteful. She held her breath for a moment, green eyes tracking even the smallest movement on his features. 

But there was nothing. No disgust. No disappointment. Not even delight, irritatingly, at the familiarity. Above all else, there was the sizzling sound of sausages.

“Huh.”

Subconsciously, Ruthie stepped aside, motioning him in.

“How do you like your eggs?”

---

The kitchen yawned wide to the dining room, not nearly as expansive as some, but a proper room unto itself. Separated by gingerbread-like mouldings, Ruthie stood at the cast iron stove, dutifully tucking and turning eggs until they were fluffy piles of warmth. She placed two on his plate, along with the same amount of sausages. Pastries - warmed, not freshly-baked -- appeared alongside. 

“Can you grab the coffee?”

A plate in either hand, Ruthie carried them over to the table and sat.

“Tuck in.” She nodded to the plate, and then began to cut her first sausage in half. A bite, a chew, longer than it needed to be, but just long enough to give her time to think.

“When did you get to town?”

[ruthiesalenger]

tabithateivel​:

“Nice. But nothing special?” Tabitha asked, wondering if her enchantments had gone terribly wrong somehow. It’s not like she made a living out of infusing drinks with magic. Well…not yet anyways.

She was relieved that at least the gin was tasty enough to want more. She generously poured Ruthie another helping, smiling with a toothy grin as she did so. Tabitha still sat with her empty glass quickly shuffling a regular deck of playing cards.

“Company?” She repeated curiously, glancing up quickly to her friend on the other side of the small table. “Well…Jimmie Leong, seeing as we’re business partners and in-laws.” Suddenly the calico cat meowed loudly with a twinge of annoyance from across the room, “And Andromeda, of course.” Tabitha amended “You would be impressed Ruthie; I’ve been reintroducing myself to practically the whole town. Not much has changed.”

She let out a small sigh, “I’m more inclined to solitude though. Say, did anything ever happen between you and Ned?”

“It’s -- good.” Ruthie remembered her manners not a second too soon. “Bit high on the fir but that’s always a hit on winter. Did you try a cinnamon stick? Should’ve.”

There it was again, that prickling over her shoulders, tense and crawling. Who was she to talk? She couldn’t even make a crumb cake. Couldn’t-- wouldn’t. And now Flory’s was closing, because Great Aunt Delaney had asked Ruthie if she wanted the spot, and Ruthie didn’t know how to be grateful any more than she knew how to breathe underwater.

Another pour, heavier this time. She sipped it -- half of it in a gulp, in any case.

“We went dancing. He’s got good hands.”

Ruthie grinned. For a moment, she was dancing -- not with Ned, but better. Slow dancing beneath the fairy lights, pine needles at her feet, her favorite plum cobbler on the rough-hewn table at her back.

She had always loved Lammas.

“Wanna go doubles next time?”

[ruthiesalenger]

jimmie-leo​:

He’d left looking for the pictures, but they’d never wanted him, or ‘least, not the people claiming they could get him in, yeah? It’d been one merry-go-round of one confidence man talking up another, and his gift only got him so far when all he was charming were dead ends.

Back when his gift was still working properly anyway. 

“Hey,” he protested, hand over his heart and eyes big and wounded, “I was born to be on the screen. Dontcha remember the annual school plays? Them agents were lucky if I was available.”

The on-screen Jimmie looked anything but lucky. He winced preemptively, remembering – there it was, the sucker punch. “Probably should complain to my agent, yeah? Face like this ain’t made to take blows like that, not even for film.”

Stars, it was hard to watch. So he looked away, this time not bothering to pretend before giving up and getting to his feet altogether, looking first at the still-playing scene and tracing it back to any possible source.

“‘Specially this face. This face, it was made for talking, and talking outta trouble like that, you follow?” 

Still. Trouble still somehow managed to catch up, refusing to be shaken off. Hounded him right back to the Valley, even.

Point A to point B, and if he could figure out radio wires, he could figure out where the projector was, even if he had to risk a wrinkle or two squinting upwards in the dark. He was still looking upwards, tongue sticking out, face screwed up in faux concentration (’cause true professionals always assumed an audience), deliberately not looking at the blonde-turned-platinum under the dust-sparkle light. 

“Hey. You said something at the wedding, something ‘bout baking being why you came back?”

Wasn’t working, lately, or something like that. (Look, he’d had a bit of punch by then, yeah? And it took effort to concentrate on conversation not about himself.)

“You try making anything since?”

Face was meant for something, Ruthie thought, though as a personal sign of growth, she didn’t say it. Her expression did. Ruthie’s lips flinched into a grin, and she reached for a handful of peanuts -- distraction.

“Nope.”

It was resolute and plain, the utterance of a decision that she had long-since made. Ruthie didn’t want to try. She didn’t want to know.

If she couldn’t bake, she was just a busybody like Sarah Price or Mrs. Quinn, and Ruthie didn’t like either of them.

“Come on, Jimmie.” She could be sweet-faced when she wanted to be, and she did it then, looking up with a wide, soft face.

“Let’s watch the movie.”

---

Hours later.

Gray light poured in through the barn window, unobstructed by boxes (like some) or thick red curtains (like others). It blinded her before she opened her eyes, which she did after pressing the heels of her hands into them. Ruthie tried to sit up and groaned as pain cascaded from the crick of her neck to her middle back to a newfound sore spot on her hip -- dug into by the armrest.

“Ugh.”

Fighting her way upright, Ruthie trailed to the window, peering out. White upon drift of white greeted her, the lane dissolved into a soft slope. But the air was clear straight to the orchard, and she could see the spindly trees a quarter mile out.

Over her shoulder, Jimmie slept peacefully.

Ruthie returned to the door and put on her coat, her boots. With tiny, incremental movements, she moved back to the theater, tucking a scrap of paper into his jacket before slipping out into the snow.

Thanks for the date. - R

[end]

[ruthiesalenger]

tabithateivel​:

“Well, that’s only fair.” Tabitha nodded, taking the glasses as they were handed over to her. She balanced them on the table as she uncorked the bottle and poured out the clear liquid. At a quick glance, it didn’t seem like anything significant, but once it was sipped on hopefully Sinnerman’s Gin would make some sort of impact.

She laughed, raising the glass to prompt a toast, but not yet tilting it back. “Not entirely. But then I suppose, there is a lot less to furnish in the carriage house than this multi-room paradise.” Tabitha supposed she would feel a bit overwhelmed with so much space if it landed in her lap.

“Cheers.” Her brows raised on something like a silent dare, and Tabitha took a large sip, letting the gin heat up her belly and flood her nose with the scent of juniper and cloves. “Let me know what you think.” She urged, snatching a shortbread to hold between her teeth and nibble on while turning back to her bag and pulling out a various kinds of card decks.

And then there were two glasses, poured, and two friends, seated, and it was as natural as anything except Ruthie felt distinctly unnatural, caught at ends. It wasn’t Tabitha, or gin, or even the four-room apartment. It was the valley, and the way it seemed to do naught but watch her.

“Alright then.” Ruthie gave a crooked smile, lifting her glass.

Clink.

“Huh. It’s nice.” Letting the flavors settle on her tongue for a moment, her tastebuds sparked at green herbs and citrus, the sharp spike of juniper. With a shrug, Ruthie finished the fingerful glass and tapped it back to the tabletop. Pushing the tips of her fingers, she returned it to the middle. Another?

“Who’s been keeping you company then, Tabitha?”

[ruthiesalenger]

jimmie-leo​:

Cold dread clenched ‘round his insides (we gotta go gotta go now, he remembered screaming, eyes unable to see anything but the blaze of hostile attention coming over the ridge that no one else could see), his heart thudding faster and faster as if it could beat out of that dead grip. 

Death coming from just over the ridge, except then he blinked. 

And it was a different ridge, softer, in muted colors sure, but in color. Next to him, the blonde had frozen, deer caught in the beam of a lantern.

“Different definitions of hell, yeah?” His glance cut between the screen and its stilled audience. “Hey. Hey, I don’t think I’ve seen this movie. You know it?”

Ruthie Salenger weren’t the type to get all prissy at death, ‘specially not for what looked like simple old age; weren’t the type to get spooked easily period, which made it real tempting for him to dig, and dig deeper. 

But. 

He made the mistake of looking closer, trying to see if he could figure out who this old bird breathing her last was. 

Click-whirr. Scene change: still full color, but in the dark now of an alley squeezed between two tall buildings, murky reflections of the struggling figures in the oily-looking puddles on the street. Hands, rough and grimy, fisted up in the viewer’s collar (his third-best, the one with the light blue striping, and he remembered thinking, aw shucks, that stain ain’t ever coming out now). 

“A mob shakedown scene, now that’s more like it! Still the wrong movie though. Nerts, maybe we should go looking to make sure the old film ain’t acting up, I’m getting all confused myself watching.”

He turned, casually, as if to look over at his companion, when really he was straining to look for the projector and whoever might be operating it. 

“Wonder if anyone else might be looking for shelter from this here storm this way. Albion’s full of all sorts, maybe we ain’t the only ones foolish enough to wander all the way out to the orchards.”

There was only the one light of human attention as far as he could tell, and it was sitting right next to him.

She didn’t like the scene that played before her. Didn’t like that she knew it from another angle -- from the doorway, scalloped plate in hand, looking in. Didn’t like that she knew the addition of fennel hadn’t helped, but likely hurried things along. Didn’t like that the memory had been taken from her and put on a screen.

That was where Ruthie differed from Jimmie. Though the thought of their similarities gave her a shiver (unpleasant, mostly), it was difficult to deny that they had an uncanny knack for nosing into and away from situations as the mood fitted them. That they could be charming -- not identically, but equally -- when they wanted to be. But where Jimmie loved an audience, adored a stage, Ruthie preferred to deal quietly, half in the shadows.

“Huh?”

The screen materialized before her just long enough for Ruthie to recognize it.

“Wait.”

Ruthie turned, looking at Jimmie -- and caught him twisting, and then looking at her. The ripple in her brow softened.

“There’s no one out there, Jimmie.”

He had warm eyes, like a fire on a winter’s night.

Or the flames of hell, depending.

Ruthie’s gaze flickered to the screen, and back at him.

“When did you start acting in the pictures, hmm?”

[ruthiesalenger]

maxwellbymoonlight​:

Maxwell had watched the snow come down the night before. A night he couldn’t even pretend to entertain the possibility of letting his head touch the pillow. So he’d pulled his ferns and amaryllis underneath the window, tending their soil and softly serenading on his violin as the sprinklings of white turned into patches, and then into a blanket.

Now the sun (or at least what could be seen of it behind the gray winter clouds) floated in the sky again and his hooded eyes still refused to close completely. He’d been wandering, as was usual. Focusing on little more than the motion of putting one boot in front of the other. He couldn’t tell you how long he walked, but the cold had prickled most of the feeling out of his legs.

When the floating aroma of a hot meal touched his nose - sausage and butter and all the good things designed to be eaten before noon - he realized just how starving he was, and followed the trail up the stairs like a dog. Though at least one of his senses came to the surface once he’d actually reached the door, for it took him two whole minutes of pacing and contemplation before his hand finally shot out to knock.

“I–” He swallowed, lips chapped. “Don’t let me bother…but I was wondering if it could…” A hand lifted in what he assumed was the general direction of the kitchen. “I could smell it from the street, and I’ve been walking for a while. If it’s not too much trouble–”

The sheer embarrassment washed over him. He sunk against the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. This…um.”

“Huh.”

Ruthie gave him as polite of a once-over as she could manage, which was not all that polite at all. She hadn’t a good poker face, and her green eyes often slanted toward shrewdness, rather than remaining soft, like a sage leaf. Had she held a spatula, she could have placed one hand on her hip and been a caricature. 

Instead, she considered while the sausage babbled merrily behind her.

“That depends, I guess.”

He looked a fright, pale and lean, with snow still packed on his shoes. And familiar, she thought, though that probably meant they were some sort of related. Ruthie frowned, drawing lines across her forehead. Surely not, she thought, though she tried not to think it too hard in case he was the type to read thoughts. An annoying talent, if ever.

Her opinion changed rapidly, then, question transforming from do I know you to an answer: she did. At least in glimpses, around the edges. The sort of face that had been in her periphery rather than her focus. Someone she watched in stray glances. Someone--

“How do I know you?”

[ruthiesalenger]

🥓 to open the door and find my character just about to knock – whatever you’re cooking smells so tempting. @maxwellbymoonlight​

December 05, 1923 55 Green Street Mid-morning

Ruthie stared at the skillet as the pork edges began to brown. She had never been gifted at listening for the sizzle-crackle-pop of cookery, the volatility of an open flame, trusting her instinct rather than her intuition for when a dish was properly cooked. The whisk stilled in her hands, whipping batter. It was the first time in nearly an hour that she could feel her fingertips.

Snow whipped the scene outside the windows of 55 Green Street -- which were wide, and polished, and unvarnished by curtains -- white. As far as Ruthie could see, the rooftops of Albion were dusted in confectioner’s sugar-snow, lofty and thick. Smoke rose from chimneys in tendrils. In her apartment, still mostly unfurnished, Violet curled in a ball on the ottoman nearest the fireplace.

Ruthie flung three droplets of batter into the skillet. Sizzle. Crackle.

Knock.

She gave the door a glare, and then paused.

Whisk exchanged for wooden spoon, she turned the sausages over and then left the gingerbread kitchen to cross the vacant parlor, entering the hallway. White light filled the transom window over the apartment door, and she hesitated -- hand over the gold doorknob, seeking intentions -- before opening it.

“Hi.”

A beat. A hesitant familiarity took her -- not for the first time since she had returned, though there was a difference between being familiar on the corner of Green and Front Street -- and on her front door. Ruthie cocked her head.

“What’re you doing here?”

[ruthiesalenger]

devilallthethyme​:

-

He wasn’t sure he trusted Ruthie Salenger with his secret, but his grandmother had trusted her enough to keep her around, and “I hear… voices.” Thoughts. Your thoughts, everyone’s thoughts. “Not in a cuckoo way.”

Eddie slowed to a stop, looking ahead as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Since I arrived, it’s all been louder, but less clear.”

It stopped working.

His frown mirrored hers, as did his stance, still facing ahead. The rose appeared in his periphery as she held it out to him, and he turned to look at her. His smile returned.

“All right.” Leaning in, he looked down at the rose. “What does Ruthie think of me?”

“Mm,” she said, deep in thought -- giving credence to the idea that it was a very good question. Petals pulled, one after the next.

Yes, no, yes, no Right, left, right, left

He thought he was clever, and the smugness rode along like a bee on a blossom, as happy as anything to meddle. Even the cool night air couldn’t shake the heat that crossed her at the thought -- blithe irritation, or envy.

Ruthie ripped a petal halfway and dropped it to the ground, tugging too hard on a stem that was too green. Silence fell for a long moment, before she picked it up again beneath a lamppost.

Yes, no, yes, no

The last flower. Tug. Yes.

A voice echoed in her head. No.

Ruthie turned to face him, pausing outside a house with arching columns.

"You have to ask a yes or no question, Eddie.”

And if you can hear voices-- her own thoughts lifted, trailing in the night air. Shouldn’t you know?

Ruthie stepped onto the porch, backlit by a candle burning in the window.

“Goodnight.”

[end]

[ruthiesalenger]

jimmie-leo​:

“Style, Ruthie, c’mon.” He clutched his chest as if mortally wounded by her practical job. “If you’re gonna do something, do it in style and with style, yeah?” 

Pearls appropriately clutched, he reached for the peanuts, shelling and popping one in. It wasn’t often Albion was so obliging, but he’d take what he could get. He glanced around and thought real hard that a drink or two would be real nice. 

The sideboard stayed dusty and empty. He shrugged and turned back to the screen. 

“Sh-sh-sh, this is gonna be a good part, ready? Marmaduke’s gonna do this flourish, and then… hey.”

The screen flickered, then turned the scene into black and white, then flickered again into a very different scene.

“Hey.” 

Trees, black and skeletal against the gray slush and expanse over equally gray lumps, lumps that moved and resolved into huddled men in faded uniforms.  There were columns of smoke in the near distance, and a tangle of wires in the foreground, someone’s mouth moving (Jimbo, any signal?), and familiar fingers scrambling, in time and tune to the sudden thudding of his heartbeat in his ribcage.

“This ain’t part of the movie,” he said, peanut shells dropping from suddenly limp fingers.

“Uh huh.” said Ruthie, though the quirk of her smile said more. She steadfastly watched the screen as Jimmie’s attention flitted about, though she hardly noticed the figures, instead her thoughts taking her outside of herself, away. The first snow was always bitter in the valley -- hit with a resolute blanket of snow well after the ground had frozen. Peanuts were better than hoarfrost apples -- for now.

Morning would be forgiving. It usually was, all crisp white and downy fluff. Ruthie could race in it, were she younger, or complain about it, were she older. She shifted in her seat, her gaze slipping from the screen to the red velvet curtain behind the screen. Overhead, the eaves of the barn creaked in time with her own thoughts.

Hey.

Ruthie’s attention snapped before it could fixate, vivid green eyes looking at Jimmie -- who, for once, was not looking at her. Peculiar.

Slowly, her gaze drifted to the screen, the ripples across her brow as deep as the wires in the foreground.

“Then what is it?” said Ruthie, opening a peanut. She looked down to split the shell, and when she glanced up again, they had moved ahead.

It was a valley, or the ridgeline of one. A town built on a plateau overlooking vast evergreen, red-tile clock tower breaking the trees in the distance. The camera panned to a large house, the front door, and through the front window where an old woman gasped her final, resolved breaths.

Ruthie forgot to swallow. “Hell on earth.”

[ruthiesalenger]

tabithateivel​:

Ruthie’s apartment was…underwhelming to say the least. “What happened?” Tabitha asked, approaching the available table to set down her bag. “You know, if you need help, you only have to ask.” Moving was a pain, but going through items that didn’t belong to you at least kept it interesting.

“You got the swankiest lodging in town Ruthie, can’t let that go to waste.” Tabitha motioned around them, leaning back on the ottoman but not yet sitting. She opened her bookbag and dug around until she got a hold of the glass bottle, pulling it out and watching the warm candle light illuminate it differently. “Still, that doesn’t mean there’s no reason to celebrate. Winning apartments in the lodging lottery, new found independence in town.” As much as a small town like Albion would allow anyway.

She tapped the bottle with a fingernail, “Any glass will do. Homemade gin distilled by yours truly…and Jimmie Leong.” Tabitha rolled her eyes at the tacked-on credit. “ You’ll try it won’t you?  I want to work out any uh…magical kinks.”

What happened?

“I moved in.”

Ruthie gave her a blank look, stepping into the space. Perhaps some lettings came ready-made, but that wasn’t the Wolgemuth way.

A bottle caught her attention and raised her brows. Violet had no interest -- in Tabitha, or the gin. She continued snoozing on the tufted ottoman as Ruthie made her way into the kitchen. Beneath gingerbread-style mouldings, Ruthie fished open the cabinets and extracted two glasses, passing them to Tabitha.

“Sure.” she said, with a canine grin. “As long as you test it with me.”

Quick at hand was a plate of shortbread cookies from Flory’s -- not her own, though she had minded them while they baked. Ruthie pulled them forward and carried them to the table, nudging Violet off her perch. With a swish of her tail, she crossed to the windowseat on the other side of the empty room. Ruthie motioned for Tabitha to sit.

“Did yours come furnished, then?”

[spookylittletownhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at Spooky Little Town! Each Friday (usually), we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy! 💚

Send a symbol and I’ll start a thread for us after the first snow in the valley. As a note – my character refers to the sender of the meme. So, if Annie were to send Clara the first one, it would be Sallie finding Ruthie slipping on the ice. 

🧊 to find my character slipping on the ice. 🚪 to help my character shovel open their front door. ☕️ to meet my character as the only one on the street at Albey’s Traveling Café. ☃️ to catch my character (delightedly?) making a snow angel. 🤕 to discover my character was injured (sprained their ankle, broke their arm, etc – please specify!) getting home in the storm. 🥓 to open the door and find my character just about to knock – whatever you’re cooking smells so tempting. 💥 to catch my character about to confront Mrs. Quince for her gossip… and distract them. 🍁 to bring an extra pair of snow-shoes and bring my muse to check the maple syrup taps (and escape their family/neighbors/persistent cat).

[ruthiesalenger]

jimmie-leo​:

ruthiesalenger​:

The thunk behind him had him jump, just a little, only for him realize it was just the satchel, which, “Jeepers, Ruthie. Packed for a journey, didya?”

Six miles, seven. Nerts, even if he were half as prepared, he wouldn’t make it half a mile, not in this snow, no sirree. 

“And hey. Hey. Trees are friends, better than some folks out… there… hey now.”

Whirr-click-click and a beam of silvery light cut through the gloom, turning the specks of dust in its path into temporary stars, lazily mimicking the flurry of flakes in the storm outside. 

He met her look with a tilt of his head before looking around. The usual barn implements, lumpy sacks and, “Aha!” With a dramatic flourish he whisked the dust cloth off, revealing two rickety but otherwise serviceable-looking chairs wreathed in a plume of dust turned sparks. 

“Front-row seats to the show.” His turn to raise a brow. “Ladies first, yeah? It’s not like we’re headed anywhere soon, not in this storm. And ‘sides, this one’s a good one. Rags to Riches, yeah, have you seen it? Rich boy tries to make it in a gang, pretty dames, undercover agents, good stuff.”

Behind him the black and white figures started their silent pantomime, and if the scenes occasionally flickered into color (or something else altogether), he was too busy looking at Miss Ruthie to notice.

Jimmie was a flurry of motion and hands, even as Ruthie continued to drip snow onto the floor. She watched with a mix of fascination, abject horror, and delight.

The warmth from the projector light glowed in stark contrast to the howl of the wind as it whipped fiercely around the corner of the barn. Ruthie took a step back from it, instinctively. The weather had always been thicker in the valley -- quicker to settle, slower to rise. There was never a thing like a light dusting.

“Fine.” said Ruthie, though her tone wasn’t nearly as crisp. Taking the clasp off her coat, she set it on an old trunk near the door before crossing -- first the room, and then past Jimmie -- to sit in the front row.

---

“Oh now that--”

Peanuts had appeared in her hand, a bowl balanced on the armrests between them. Ruthie didn’t question it.

Instead, she gestured at the screen, the figures in vivid color as they skittered in hot pursuit around a palisade.

“That wouldn’t happen. Why wouldn’t you just trip him and be done with it?”

[ruthiesalenger]

TASK | HOME

55 Green Street has new windows and waxed wood floors, a fireplace with an iron grate, and intricate woodwork. What it does not have, it seems, is furniture. Ruthie's evasive about this -- too busy or haven’t decided. Perhaps she likes the spaciousness of it -- four rooms, all her own -- and doesn’t want to clutter it with things. Perhaps she likes the way the light reflects from the firebox and the candles in the window, and that’s enough for her. Or perhaps it’s something more sinister.

---

PRIMARY ELEMENT: FIRE Fires have the natural ability to pull other elements out of stubbornness, darkness, depression, boredom, and worry into the land of the living. Their energy, laughter and high spirits are contagious. They laugh easily and seem to be bubbling over with excitement even if others don’t see anything about which to get excited. 

Ruthie’s own fire may be more muted and contemplative, though it’s an ever-present undercurrent. Her mind is constantly alight with schemes (or plans, as she calls them), eager and ready to jump at the next. She attempts to coach herself into temperance at times, wanting to be as prim and demure as the Valley demands. But she isn’t. But -- she hasn’t picked up a stirring spoon yet.

SECONDARY ELEMENT: WOOD Woods are fearless. They are like the sudden expansive growth of spring after a long, slow winter, and like the power of tree roots that push through solid concrete. Woods lead with a determination and will that surpasses all limits. At the same time, Wood people see the bigger picture, find solutions, seek out the best in things, and make changes. They are strong, sturdy, stable, fearless, logical, reasonable, bold, independent, and unapologetic. They are also very fair-minded, and nothing upsets them more than injustices. This makes them powerful.

One of the longest-burning fires in Ruthie is the injustice that was done to her when she left the valley -- and in this way, her secondary element is at its best. She is a bit lost right now, struggling to find her place, and feels disconnected (or uprooted 🥁) from a lot of the better qualities of her secondary element. Still, she cherishes the wood mouldings in her new home, often running her hands along a doorframe as she passes by.

[ruthiesalenger]

tabithateivel​:

for @ruthiesalenger​

Evening, 55 Green Street

December 1923

It was amazing what living in a different location could do when it came to returning to the valley. Being well situated in Albion Proper made everything that was worth anything of use closer and more accessible. Even better, although she and Ruthie hadn’t ended up being roommates, they were as good as neighbors.

Tabitha slipped behind Wolgemuth’s with Andromeda and her bookbag in tow. Ascending the steps to the private second story lodgings, the redhead rapped on the door as her feline companion teetered on the nearby railing.

“Special delivery for Ruthie Salenger.” Tabitha called out, readjusting the bag on her shoulder just slightly, wondering if Ruthie would be well-curious over the purple tinted bottle that was still obscured from sight. She added, waiting to be let inside, “After a proper tour of course.”

“It’s fine.” Ruthie insisted. Violet didn’t believe her, looking up from her nap only long enough to stare blankly before resting the soft point of her chin on her paw.

Alone with her thoughts, Ruthie looked around at the empty space. A single bed sat in the back bedroom, a scattering of blankets and her coat hanging off the bedpost -- an oil lamp on the floor, off.

There was little furniture, which was to say that there was next to no furniture, beyond that. A small table with a chair and an ottoman for the other chair, which Violet was happily snoozing upon. Two candlesticks -- one on the table, the other on the ornate mantle. A towel hung in the white porcelain kitchen.

Knocking startled Ruthie and irked Violet, though the voice put both to tease.

She swung the door open and let Andromeda pass by her ankles, halting.

“A tour, is it?”

Ruthie stepped aside, revealing a hallway. The flat was large -- larger than she needed. Larger than she’d wanted, really, except to irk Eddie and make a point.

Large, and empty.

She shrugged.

“Haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet, you know?”

[ruthiesalenger]

jimmie-leo​:

Now Jimmie, he knew attention. Knew it when he had it: the warm glow of admiration turned towards him like sunflowers in a field, or the prickly feel of an almost-burn of suspicion.

Knew it too when the attention was not quite human, and whatever that was out there? Was a chill static buzz settling deep in his bones.

The doors closed and he rubbed his hands together, trying to get some feeling back in them fingers, yeah? before giving up and tucking them under armpits instead.

“What was I doing, I was looking for a traveling band that got themselves turned about, obviously.”

She looked like a right doll, all wind-mussed flyaway blonde hair and cheeks stung a rose no blush could mimic. The glow from her regard wasn’t bad either.

Then he took in her get-up, backpack and sturdy shoes and all, and remembered that Ruthie Salenger had known exactly what was what when Dame Kuiper’s had gone wandering in the foggy neverwhere.

Beauty and brains, deadly combination, yeah? Not so great in a date, but a stars-granted blessing in a pinch.

“Hey. Hey,” he started, shuffling a bit closer, “You wouldn’t happen to know how close the Ramsey orchards are to the town border, wouldya?”

Whatever the thing was, it had to stop once out of Albion, right?

The hoarfrost apples were nearly forgotten amidst the snow, the whiteout pushing Ruthie to transcend space and gravity. In the cinema -- in the barn masquerading as a cinema -- with the snow melting off of her boots and her hair growing limp, the apples reappeared in her periphery. She shrugged off the overstuffed satchel with some effort, pressing her fingertips into the ache at the small of her back.

“Six miles? Seven?” Or two, possibly, one and a half, maybe twelve. Ruthie did not know, had not measured it, and -- as a rivulet of water ran to the tip of her nose, the thought coalesced -- did not care.

Outside, the wind howled against the corner of the barn as the film feed began to tick on behind her, humming merrily, utterly unaffected. At least the wind was a howl, thought Ruthie, and not Abigail’s wheedly voice.

“You’re not going out there,” It took a moment to parse her thoughts -- but when she did, her gaze refocused green and sharp upon him. “It’s--”

Through the four-pane glass, she looked outside.

Ruthie sighed, disrupted.

“You’ll get lost and think a tree is a friend and wind up frozen to it by tomorrow morning.”

The screen flickered to life over her shoulder -- and began to play.

Ruthie arced a brow. Hm?