forgot how to fly

@sage-lancaster

SAGE ; 18 | WitchNecromancy + Telekinesisequally pure and corrupted: 2,095"...no one ever said you have to be dead and buried to be a ghost."

188 posts

Clayton had expected the girl to be pleased with his applause. He remembered how his classmates in highschool had always glowed happily on stage when the audience clapped for them. Wasn’t that why ordinary young people played music? On the contrary, the cellist before him looked completely taken aback, as if he (or she) was doing something bad or out of place. He stopped immediately, feeling rather wrong-footed. He hadn’t wanted to upset her.

She was shy for a performer, he thought. It took guts to play as confidently as she had in the middle of the street. But he could understand the sudden change in expression. He himself had often gotten lost in the ebbs and flows of a grand piece of music, only coming to his senses once the tune faded away. He offered the blonde a small shake of the head. “You played well,” he said, watching as she knelt by her case, packing up. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

He wanted to say he was a musician too, but he hadn’t touched a keyboard in months. It wouldn’t be a lie to say it, but it didn’t feel right either. “How long have you been playing?”

Avoid eye contact. Let hair fall down. Curtain of hair. Focus on packing up. Those were the thoughts that ran through her hair. She wasn't really good at meeting strangers----in fact, she was downright horrible at it and while she had hoped she had gotten better, it turned out to be futile because someone seeing her caused her to close up. Maybe it was silly, Sage not liking the attention and the applause given the fact that she had just performed for everyone, but music shouldn't be about praise. That's what her aunt had told her. Music was for yourself. It was only for Sage and nobody else. The music that she played was an extension of who she was, just like the art she created was an extension of who she was. Art and music was all she had in life. She didn't have friends; all she had was her aunt Olivia; in reality, Sage was mostly alone in the world. And she had gotten by. "I--" I'm not ashamed, Sage wanted to say. But the words didn't come out. She wouldn't be able to explain it. He wouldn't understand. He would think of her as being silly. I'm not ashamed I'm just playing for me. For me and I don't need to be applauded for what I'm feeling. "A-about four years, now? Maybe five."

#my poor baby sage #c: clayton #convo #CLAYGE

Zachary watched as Sage studied his appearance. He hadn’t exactly taken the time to make sure he looked like a model or movie actor. His hair was longer and he hadn’t shaven in a while either. He definitely looked older than twenty three. It made him wonder how old Sage was exactly. She couldn’t be older than seventee, maybe even eighteen. A voice in his mind wondered if he could get into trouble for talking to an eighteen year old. He stood up, ordering a coffee for Sage, then brought it back. He set it down in front of her and watched as she ran her fingers along the sketchpad. It had been too long since he did anything with his photography or graphic design. That was one thing that he missed when he was in the wild. “Have you traveled anywhere this summer?”

When he disappeared to go get her drink, Sage felt her heart seize up in her chest. Zachary had been her only friend a few months back--and then he had disappeared. And Sage was in the midst of trying to figure out whether she should feel hurt and betrayed or not. Did she have that right? They had barely known each other, but Sage--at least--felt as if they had been friends. He brought her coffee back and her finger twitched, itching to use her telekinesis to grab the spoon to stir her coffee, but she knew that she couldn't. Not in front of Zach. What if he was human? "I'm not allowed to travel," she said quietly, staring down at her coffee. Why did things have to change? Before those few months, they had had conversations easily. Now it felt like having to endure the slow pull of taking a bandaid off. "But what about you? Go any place exciting?" She brought the mug to her lips, inhaling the rich aroma of the coffee beans, before taking a slowly, tantalizing sip.

#who is the worst RP partner in the world?#moi.#c: zachary #convo

onetrxenemesis-deactivated20141

Some tremendous weight had just been lifted off his shoulders, and from outward appearances, it looked as though it was the same for her. Or, at the very least, he had managed to pass through this phase and into the next. A shudder filled him, one that caused his fingers to tremble; in consequence, he smacked them against his hips and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. It wasn’t as though her name came as some great surprise to him. If he were to rack his memories, he could recall newspaper clippings with the name S A G E L A N C A S T E R printed in their bodies like some sort of trophy. Glorified because of what had happened to her. ( The thought sickened him. If there was someone in the world who understood being used for fame and the glorification of tragedy, it was Fredrick - and his brother. ) For a selfish moment, he wondered if she had read about him. If she was to be made aware of his last name, if she would have flashbacks to where he and Cameron had been written about in scores of articles. Another tragedy to strike the small town. Another list of casualties on a casual piece of paper. As though the people were nothing more than names with numbers assigned to them. And people wondered - - — “Why is Freddie so bitter?” What a ( stupid f u c k i n g ) question. All they had to do was look the fuck around. And to think he had been around the block a couple of times, perhaps more than that. Most times, had been mindless. Most times, had been without thinking. Most times, he had smoked something and made himself forget. Most of the situations, he didn’t bother to remember. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think about his first loss in the bathroom of a sorority. It had been because of a dare. And that dare had ended in his life being ruined. Because ( everyone ) thinks boys are invincible. Not at that age. - — Not when they’re attempting to forget about the howls of the wolves. - — Not when their night terrors keep them upright in bed all hours of the night. - — — Not when people pretended to understand the trauma, and didn’t. He was tired of being surrounded by liars ( and Sage Lancaster was not a liar. She was the most genuine. ) And now, she was one of his (beloved) muses. Even if he didn’t want to value her ( and such an assumption was stupid to make ) He had no choice in the matter now. And he had drawn her after that first night. That drawing weighed down in his sketchbook, left behind in a coat, disguised in the woods. Because he hadn’t gone home in another three days. Not since the last little m e e t i n g. But the best part of it all - - — He had made her S M I L E. And she continued to do so as she gazed at him ( in a completely new light ) and a flush settled upon his cheeks, stained them crimson. He was a walking sunset. Yet he had made her — cry?

"Oh, f u c k. Sage, I’m sorry.” ( He never apologises to anyone, but it was like second nature in this instant. ) (It’s because he just u n d e r s t a n d s so clearly.) "I didn’t mean to -" But then, she returned to him. ( She came b a c k. ) ”Everyone’s got a history.” He blinked, pursing his lips into that telltale straight line. She had told him her last name, and so, he would grace her with his own. Taking two steps towards her, he kept his hands firmly in his belt loops (as he remembered the reluctance and refusal to shake his hand) and he lowered his voice. ( Just because he wanted her to know doesn’t mean he wanted to rest of the world to know.) "Sage Lancaster." S A G E. C L E M E N T I N E. She had been more than willing to throw herself out there, possibly underneath the wheels of the carriage. But she was about to have a reveal given to her as well. Because that was how he worked. He functioned on his own time, at his own pace, and what he wanted to reveal, he did; otherwise, he kept things secret. Depending on how she received this news, how she reacted, whether she knew or him or not, how she wanted to go about the rest of this ( whatever t h i s could be the start of ) would determine whether or not he would continue as he did. As he w a n t e d to. Slowly - then all at once. "Noteworthy belongs to my brother. Cameron.” He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and plunged ahead. "And I’m Fredrick, or Freddie. Freddie C a n n o n.”

He didn't make her cry. Not really. It was more the relief that rushed through her body. The relief that she wouldn't have to worry about pity filling his eyes. Without having to worry about him running to friends and telling them of what happened. She could be Sage, but she could also be Clementine. She could be someone she had always wanted to be without truly losing herself in the process. That was the problem when she met knew people. It always came down to the inevitable realization of who she was or the inevitable knowledge being known. Everybody found out at some point.

So the fact that she had told him--the fact that she had made it clear, had made it

k n o w n

who she was. The person that she was. The name that had been a taint to everything she touched and every person she ran into----

S A G E L A N C A S T E R .

The fact that he knew all these things and knew of her past... And he was still there? It made her feel really good. It made her feel so happy that the smile pulling at her cheeks would never go away. Her cheeks would hurt and her grin would get tired but it would never go away. Because he didn't care. Not really. He had just said so. If that was her attempt to make him walk away, she had failed--and he was still here. Still standing across from her. If she had the strength, she would have jumped up and down or hugged him or done something. But all she could do was smile. The tears had brimmed in her eyes--tears of relief and happiness--and they were all gone now. It was just her, Clementine, and Fredrick, her Henry.

H E R Henry.

Did she really just think that? But Fredrick continued to talk. He continued to explain. And Sage could feel that something was coming. He was probably an axe murderer of sorts. He was probably some psychopath because that's all Sage seemed to do----attract psychopaths. She prayed on the inside that he wasn't, but when has God ever answered her prayers, let alone heard them? No. There was no God in her life. God had left her abandoned since she was four. She had been all alone in life and if she had made it this far----if she had made it to eighteen----and she was still here, still kicking, still breathing, then she didn't need a God. Sage was a survivor. Even if at most times she didn't feel that way.

Cameron... Why did that name sound so familiar?

C A N N O N .

Sage knew that name. She knew it very well. It was a last name that, just like hers. A name that had been in the media for a couple of years. Sage hadn't been around when the incident occurred--or, at least, she had just been born. A baby at most. But a couple years after the incident--after the accident--the media decided to dig up the skeletons of the car crash yet again. This was before Sage's whole world change. When her mother still loved her and her father still cherished her. When there was a blimp of hope in the baby's eye that she might have a normal life. A beautiful life. So yes. Sage knew the last name.

She knew of the horrible things that the Cannon's went through. How the brothers lost both of their parents. How the oldest had protected his baby brother from a wolf who wanted to eat him--attack him--and do other horrible things. She held his gaze, never daring to look away. This was them. This was them now. And yes, they had their last names. And yes, Sage was a Lancaster and Fredrick was a Cannon. And yes, she was still somewhat socially inept and awkward when it came to others. And yes, he was the brooding artist type who could come off as a real jerk. And yes, they were only kids--kids who had gone through so much in their damn life. But they were them. And apparently, the fucked up ones found each other. So that they could be them as long as they wanted together.

"A wise man once told me that I wasn't the only one with a history. That there were other people too. His name was Henry."

Sage looked down, a flush in her cheeks, and she noticed how white her knuckles had become from holding onto her case so tightly. Who knew that there was a person out there that was okay with it? That knew of her situation, who knew of who she was, and they were okay with it? He seemed okay with it. She was okay with his. Although, his was considerably less fucked up than hers was. But that didn't matter. Because he was still there. Still standing right in front of her, towering over her at his six-foot-something height----so tall that Sage had to crane her neck just to meet those deep brown eyes----and that was all that really mattered. Maybe she truly did make a friend. Maybe she finally had someone.

"So--how about those scones?"

#i am the worst rp partner in the world #c: fredrick #convo #and this is so much shorter IDK HOW TO DO LENGTH

The Dark I Know Well

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spring awakening // the dark i know well

#music #this. is. sage.#as sad as that is :(

Clayton didn’t allow himself to indulge in music. It was something of another life, something he no longer had the right to enjoy. He wouldn’t be able to properly appreciate the emotions and memories brought about by music, and he honestly believed that if he couldn’t pour his heart and soul into something, he shouldn’t continue to pursue it. But when he walked down the street and caught the sound of a cello floating in the air, he couldn’t help but stop a few paces from the performer and watch. It was a girl, young, with tame blond hair and skilled fingers. There weren’t many people hanging around, and he thought that was a shame, for she really was playing with a natural flair the old him would have admired. He waited until she finished the piece before clapping quietly, a thin smile on his face.

She never liked the clapping. Not really. Whether it was a small trickle or a thunderous applause, there was just something about the clapping that Sage didn't like. Maybe it was because she didn't want to be acknowledged for what she did. But performing out on the street to get money for a couple of cupcakes, one for her and her aunt, or for new art supplies? The clapping came with it. There was no escaping it, as bad and strange as that sounded. She just didn't like the clapping. So when she heard it, coming from one man alone, Sage could feel herself wanting to sink in on herself. "You really don't have to do that," she told him quietly as she stood, cello in hand to put it away. "It's okay." She didn't need the applause. She didn't want the applause. He was the only one truly listening, if that wasn't embarrassing enough, but somehow she had managed to at least make a few dollars. Sage knelt beside her case, placing the cello in there as she tried to avoid eye contact with the stranger. "I kept...messing up." Please don't praise me. I don't want to be praised. I don't want to be seen. But she already was. And that was her own damn fault.

#c: clayton #convo

dylan-thedamned-blog-deactivate

Dylan watched, holding on to the pendent around her neck as she usually did when she was starting to get emotional. She didn’t know whether to laugh in amazement or cry from the story she was playing. Something was being moved in her, and as she tore her gaze away to take a moment to look at the other spectators she saw that it was happening to them too.

When it came to an end, the little group that gathered broke into a thunderous applause, Dylan included, before they carried on with their day to day lives, but the girl didn’t seem satisfied. She looked as though something were missing.

I’m not quite finished.

Dylan tilted her head slightly, offer the girl a small smile. “Then keep going. Believe me, know is going to complain.”

Applause. That's right. Sometimes Sage forgot where she was when she played. But sometimes that helped. She needed the money desperately and despite her fears of being in the spotlight, a lot of the time those that came and listened to her play were those coming out of the woodwork as well. Or perhaps they simply didn't recognize Sage in all her glory when she sitting behind an instrument as beautiful as the cello. A blush spread to her cheeks and she kept her eyes downcast, watching the feet as some people bean to leave.

They could leave. Yes, please leave. Sage watched their feet as they left, trying to figure it all out. She listened carefully to the sounds around her. The sounds--the music--and tried to find what was missing. What had made her piece not right? Aside from the fact that she rushed the middle part of the harmony and her fingers slipped at the end, she hadn't messed up too bad. But there was still something missing.

And there was still someone standing in front of her. The pretty girl.

Raising her head, Sage allowed her eyes to connect with hers yet again, a nervous feeling rushing up and down her spine when the brunette smiled at her. Did she smile back? She could try. "I haven't found it yet, so I can't keep playing. Maybe once I find it," she said, her voice quiet, though she wasn't sure if the brunette would understand. She wasn't sure if the stranger would know what it is. Holding onto the neck of the cello, Sage stood up and placed the cello back into her case, covering up the money. "B-but...thank you."

#c: dylan #convo #yessss i'm excited for that #i am excited to see if my baby girl dylan can break my sourpuss rhine

Her smile widened. “They offered me those when I went in for my job interview—and they definitely are delicious!”

Already, there was a connection between the two of them. That was good. A little scary, but Ethan had always told her she needed friends her age anyways. Not to say this girl was her friend. But she could h o p e.

She nodded in answer, chirping, “Yep, I’m new. My brother and I, plus a good friend, moved here recently.” The smaller the group she said was close to her, the easier the cover. It was the fact of life.

Extending a hand, she said, “My name is Margaret Fray.”

Sage's smile grew when the stranger's smile grew. Did this mean that she was finally doing something right for once? "They are really good. Especially when you heat them up," Sage added, allowing herself to feel more comfortable around the stranger.

So, Sage had trust issues. Both in the sense that she trusted people way to easily as well not trusting them at all. It was a weird juxtaposition, one that couldn't possibly be true, but ti was something that Sage felt. But the happiness that was currently surging through her was causing her magic to crackle within her, itching to get out, but Sage knew that she had to keep it down. Keep it calm. She must.

But there was h o p e . And there was h a p p i n e s s . Could this girl possibly be her f r i e n d ?

Yes. Possibly. And she was new. New. That meant that she didn't know. She didn't know about Sage and her past. There was a possibility she could find out, but for now she could still be Sage without having to worry about that pity appearing in the girl's eyes. "Well--welcome! I--I've lived here my entire life and the town has its faults but I promise it's still a great place. If...um. I know a lot of little places if you want to be alone or places, like the pier, if you want to go do something. So, you can always ask if you and your brother and friend need something to do."

Sage smiled, attempting to keep it from wavering when she saw Margaret extend her hand forward. To shake. She couldn't. Sage couldn't. "My name's Sage--Lancaster. Sage Lancaster." Her arms remained folded across her chest, a small blip of fear appearing in her eye. How do you expect to integrate into society if you can't even shake a hand, Sage? Don't you want to be normal? It was terrifying, but somehow--somewhere deep inside of her a strength appeared--and she reached forward timidly, grabbing Margaret's hand and giving it a quick and soft shake before taking her hand back. "It's nice to meet you."

#:)#let margy and sage be friends #although sage will probably be the most awkward friend ever #c: margaret #convo

The throbbing was starting to become a hindrance, and the more the other girl talked about it, the more Margaret focused on it.

A hunter had to ignore the pain, always ignore——-

But at the mention of Kaffeine, she perked up. Narrowed eyes from squinting opened to glisten, and she replied, “I was heading there, actually! Snatched a job as a barista, so—they’ll give me ice, sure.”

She paused before adding, “You can join me if you want.” She hated to leave behind someone who took the time to ask if she was okay.

This was how she wanted to be all the time. Without cruelty. Reaching out to others. But as a hunter, she had to wonder: how much distance did she need between this person and herself down the road?

There was a pause. Did that mean uncertainty? Sage wasn't sure. She knew most of the people in this town so she could tell that this girl was new. She didn't know. That means she didn't know.

So why the pause?

Maybe Sage was just thinking too much of it. Maybe she was just overthinking because of the way she had grown up. That had to be it. This girl was being nice... She was. There was still nice people in the world, Sage had to remind herself of that. She had to.

"I was heading in that direction anyway," she said, though more for herself than for the girl in front of her. "Their lemon blueberry scones are kind of my favorite thing in the world..." Not that she needs to know that information.

"O-oh! You work there? I--I don't mean to be nosy, honest, but is it...um, is it safe to assume that you're new?"

#tis the truth :)#c: margaret #convo

onetrxenemesis-deactivated20141

His blink following her proclamation was slow and cunning. So he wasn’t just a barista, was he? Well, could’ve fooled him. He worked two jobs, and was still a starving artist, and did his best to support a brother who wasn’t around as much as he should be, and in the meantime, he also tried to forget about the potent memories of death,

the taste of a s h e s on his tongue - which roiled about in his head. ( “I saw it that night on the pier.” She sees you. ) "Did you, now?" — His voice held a little bit of skepticism, but he couldn’t dismiss any observations she had to make. Not ever since he realised she was an artist in and of herself. Whatever opinions she had were now beyond validated - not to mention he had made her one of his ( muses ) which further made him value her. When he took in a breath, and ran his hand across the gelled spikes of his hair, as he was prone to do, he smelled them, too. He smelled the lemons and the raspberries. It held no sway for him, though. It just reminded him of summertimes when a parent’s hand could hold his own. And he was about to comment on that: ( “Yes, I know your name is Sage, but I call you C l e m e n t i n e, too.” ) But then, she continued. L A N C A S T E R. He had lived here all of his life. He would’ve been blind or stupid to not have heard of the family. Looking down at the ground, he attempted to gather his thoughts; they’d started to race. So then, that meant she was the girl who escaped attempted murder. The one in the newspapers. She lived with her aunt now, was it? He’d heard rumours here and there, mostly about the atrocities of Mr. Lancaster and his t r o p h y wife. Made a name for themselves in all the wrong ways. But - — What did that matter? He could take a look at her right now and realise she wasn’t like that. ( Though it did explain her wariness. He now understood. ) "Lancaster, huh." It bit down on the tip of his tongue, and he rested his hands low on his hips. But then, he peeked up at her through his lashes - and he was smirking. ”So - if that information’s supposed to chase me away, you’re gonna have to t r y a g a i n." And with that, he shrugged. ”You’re not the only one who has some history.” ( His was nothing like hers — but he digresses. )

Her chest stung.

It was the ultimate test.

He had said that he had lived here his entire life. So had she. That meant that he knew. Everybody knew. It had been the talk of the town for a year--maybe more. Even national news station broadcasted news of the attempted murder; the abuse Sage had undergone; the horrible things that her father and her mother had done to her. Everyone was down her throat. Everyone pitied her. She was Sage Lancaster. Forever labelled. Forever stuck in one spot without moving forward. The only reason she was still protected from the outside world was because of her aunt Olivia. Always there.

Her very own s u p e r h e r o .

But her chest still stung. The waiting was excruciating. The way he was looking at her... Oh Sage could just tell. She could see the realization dawning in his eyes. The way her name seeped into his brain, unlocking memories and knowledge that he possessed. It was impossible to have lived in Bindlebrim Hallows without knowing exactly who everyone was, what their story was, and what they offered. It was impossible to not at least know of the people you were surrounded by because of how small the town was. It was impossible for Sage to go anywhere to escape... Impossible. Everywhere she went she was Sage. Sage Lancaster. The girl that everybody knew of, but claimed they knew personally. The girl whose life story was apparently knowledge of everyone in town because she had been subject to being the center of attention in the media for a long time.

Because her traumas and struggles were put out there for other people's entertainment.

But when she had met Fredrick, she hadn't been Sage Lancaster. She had been just Sage. And better yet? She hadn't only been just Sage. She had also been C l e m e n t i n e .

Fredrick had given her an escape. An escape from everything that her past had put her through. But she had ruined that now because of her confession. But he needed to know who he was dealing with. He needed to know because the whispers would forever follow her. She would forever be afraid to touch someone else; she would forever be looking over her shoulder; she would forever be haunted in her dreams of the things she had gone through.

What if Fredrick l i k e d her?

What if he wanted to d a t e her?

What if he wanted to k i s s her?

Sage had already had her first kiss--but not of her choice. Sage had already lost her virginity. Sage had already gone through all the motions that came with a first relationship. Just not in the way that most did.

So, she held her breath. She watched him, knuckles turning white as they clutched onto the case of the cello tightly. He was still staring at her. Looking at her. S e e i n g her . Every second was ticking down and she was starting to grow afraid; starting to kick herself for saying what she did; for revealing her identity. She had gone, messing everything up. So close... She had been so close.

The wind whipped. A rush of cool air against her porcelain skin which had been so hot.

And a s m i l e . A g r i n . Pure, unadulterated joy bursting from her irises. The pressure was released and her cheeks were beginning to hurt, her smile having grown so large, so pure, so...innocent that it took everything in her to keep it together. Tears appeared in her eyes, rimming her lashes, and it took everything within her to blink them away.

"So - if that information’s supposed to chase me away, you’re gonna have to t r y a g a i n."

The words sounded so beautiful and she felt absolutely foolish for how happy she seemed; for the tears that had appeared in her eyes and had now gone away. Sage turned away, her back to the boy, and she quickly rubbed her eyes, wiping away the rush of emotions, wiping away any tears that may have fallen, and she took in a shaky breath.

Stop it, Sage. You're being foolish. You're humiliating yourself.

But the smile was still there. It wasn't leaving. The tears had disappeared; the blooming flower in her chest was gone; but the smile remained. And she turned around, facing Fredrick again, an apology on the tip of her tongue.

"Everybody's got a history," she said and then cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing. Nervousness, happiness, relief... All of it flooded through her. Yes. Everybody does.

"Thank God for that."

#c: fredrick #convo #this took long too jesus iM SORRY #i was buying music #tw: reference to abuse

onetrxenemesis-deactivated20141

So she was withdrawn. Resourceful. A little bit shy, but willing to take a risk if she wanted to. Majorly an enigma. Completely drawable. It was just ( f a s c i n a t i n g ) to say the least. He looked at the instrument when she propped it up, noting the care taken to preserve it, as though it was a treasure. He liked when things were taken care of, not thrown about, with little damage to their lids. It reminded him of how Cameron babied his guitars, polished them, sometimes even spoke to them. When he thought no one was listening, of course. But Freddie always heard after a while. He watched as the others dispersed, waiting with those hands in his pockets and that curious perusal in his gaze until the two of them had been left alone. ( If he could change some things, he’d wish he wasn’t so tall, or confident, or intimidating, because really, he just wanted her to be comfortable. But that would have to be built over time - and these days, he had plenty of time. He did things at his own pace after all; no one could rush him. And once he’d decided he’d wanted something - - — no matter to (what) degree he wanted it - he stuck around until it decided to stick around, too. ( He could be very persuasive. ) "It’s a talent to someone who can’t hope to ever do it." ( He was admitting a weakness. Throw him a bone, C l e m e n t i n e. ) "Besides, you didn’t squeak. That’s what I label as good when it comes to these things. Or flutes. Or anything else in an orchestra. If it doesn’t squeak - you’re a pro to me.” ( To m e. ) "Kudos, though, doing something like this. It’s what you love and it brings in money." He sighed and looked out towards the street, where a car had just screeched to a stop at the red light. ”I’m just a barista.”

It was those damn eyes.

Looking at her like they could see every single part of her. Every molecule, every pore, every damn piece of her heart and soul. It was an artist's gaze--and Sage wasn't entirely sure whether she liked being on the receiving end of it.

Her fingers trailed against the smooth wood of the instrument. So clean, so polished--it smelled of lemons. Sometimes on a windy day, Sage was attacked by the scents of fruit. Her hair smelled of raspberries and her instrument of lemons; when the wind blew, both of the scents hit her in the face and she was overwhelmed. Her tongue started to water and she would eventually find herself at Kaffeine, wasting all her bus fare money on those lemon-blueberry scones they sold.

After she gathered up the money, Sage effectively making sure she didn't hold eye contact long--Fredrick couldn't know... Or maybe he should. it would be better that way.

It would be much better that way, Sage. What's the point in making friends if they're going to leave soon after--once they know. It's better now. Better this way. Do it.

"I didn't squeak, no... Thank God. I would have been so embarrassed." The cello was put away now, the wind had picked up blowing her golden hair in her face. There it was again. Raspberries and lemons. The hunger for those scones. Like clockwork.

"You're not just a barista." The words fell from her tongue earnestly. Her eyes locked with him. Evergreen and whiskey. The tales of a forest and the tales of a bar, mixing together. Nature and manmade things. Clashing. Two people, coming together. "You're more than that--I saw it that night on the pier." You're an artist.

"My name is Sage," she said again, stuffing the money into her back pocket as she got up from the bench. Confidence was radiating through her because this was a test. This was a test and she didn't even know it. This was a test to see how he would react. Because she needed to know. She needed to know if anything would change. She was Sage Clementine--but what would happen when he knew that she wasn't really Clementine? That she was a mask for who Sage really was? "Sage Lancaster."

There it was. That last name. The last name that haunted her around town, the whispers inside every home. The name that people spoke whenever they wanted to gossip about something and all the current events had been boring them. Sage bent over, grabbing the handle of the cello case and grasping it tightly. She wanted to go get those scones. Sage sucked on her bottom lip, biting it as the nerves exploded in her stomach. Her eyes never left his. Holding.

Please, she wanted to implore. Don't let that change anything.

"I just thought you should know."

#sorry this took so long!!#there's so many distractions in my house right now jfc #c: fredrick #convo #woops look what i did #IGNORE THE TEXT #THE GIF FIT

Zach let out a small breath, smiling at Sage. Everything was going to be fine. He found a friend, he had some coffee, he was off the map once more. He was going to be okay. Zach waited for the employee to finish cleaning up before he took a seat across from Sage. He glanced over at her sketch pad to see what she had been working on. “You look busy,” Zach said. He scratched the back of his neck, leaning back in the seat. Just relax, Zach, relax. It was difficult for him to relax after spending so much time in the wild, but maybe spending some time with a friend would help that. “How have you been the last couple of months?” he asked her. He raised his cup to his lips, then realized that Sage didn’t have anymore coffee. “I’ll buy you another cup. What do you want?” He smiled at her. After being so rude, he felt like that was the least he could do.

Nerves fluttered throughout her system as Zachary took a seat across from her, the smile still on her face as she looked at him. The last couple months had been good to him--maybe it had been bad to him. She wasn't sure. He had more of a scraggly beard going on and he looked far older than she could have remembered. Before they had looked close in age. Now... Well, he could have been in his mid to late twenties for all she knew. How old was he for sure? She wasn't sure. "I've been...myself," she answered honestly, her eyes and fingers running over the sketchpad in front of her. Then he offered to buy her a coffee. And then her cheeks flushed crimson and she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. She wanted to protest, but she knew that wouldn't go over well with the blonde. "Um...just a black coffee's fine," she answered quietly, tucking a golden lock behind her ear. "Not so much busy as I am bored."

#I MISSED THIS IM SO SORRY #c: zachary #convo

Looking over her shoulder at the squeak, she squinted. Her vision was—-a little blurry, but she experienced worse. This was nothing.

Nothing except for her being an idiot. A freak. And now this person would think that of her. GREAT.

”I’m fine, I’m fine!” she managed to chirp. “If it swells, then—I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Sage swallowed the lump in her throat, a hesitant smile on her face. "Are you sure you don't want to go get some ice?" The blonde looked at the other, two girls of similar heights and similar features looking at each other.

O w. It was already starting to turn r e d . Sage wanted to hiss. That has got to hurt. M A J O R L Y .

"Kaffeine is right around the corner. We can go an--and get you some. O-or you can go and...get some."

#no IM SERIOUS IT WAS SO GOOD OKAY #IT WAS REALLY GOOD #YOUR PARA SAMPLE WAS ON POINT #c: margaret #convo

dylan-thedamned-blog-deactivate

Dylan didn’t quite know how long she’d been in the store for. Must have been past an hour or so, it was always hard to tell. Time seemed to zip past when she let her self drift into different places and states of mind while listening to practically every music sample she could get her hands on. She listened to everything, held no bias’s whatsoever— hell she’d even listen to the most estranged music band out there, but that didn’t mean she’d like it, just give it a chance otherwise she’d never know what she might be missing out on. So the process of sorting through every album in the store was a lengthy one that she’d been committing to over the course of a few years. It was an odd pass time, but whenever she found herself with some time to kill or a need to get away from the stress of her everyday life, she’d come surround herself with some good vibes.

She always admired the power of music, how it could touch the soul, mesmerize you, make you laugh, make you cry, make you miss someone, make you hate someone. Those who possessed the gift of music had a powerful thing at their disposal, a great ability to influence people in different ways with the same song. It was something Dylan always wished she could’ve been born with because she clearly couldn’t learn no matter how many times she belted out her favorite songs in the shower or substituted an air guitar for a real one, so when she stepped out of the store to find a young girl barely out of high school playing the cello with almost heavenly expertise, Dylan couldn’t bring it within herself to walk away. She stood there with a stupid smile on her face, watching the way the girl moved and put her whole soul into what she was playing. It was a struggle to keep herself from blurting out all her praises, but Dylan held herself together, finding that it was more important to not interrupt an artist on the verge of creating a master piece.

Olivia had taught Sage how to find salvation in music. She had been... eight at the time. Maybe ten. But it was around that time period--the time period in which her father grew worse during the nights--and it was a time when Sage was desperately seeking some sort of solace. She had her sketchpad and her drawings, pastels and charcoals staining her fingers but it was very rare that she could bring them out. If her parents caught her with it... She had lost many of sketchpads and pastels in the process. But one Saturday night her parents had called her father's sister--Olivia--to babysit Sage. And it was then that Sage learned that there was hope for her and her genetics. Apparently, Olivia and Sage's father never spoke. They were on bad terms. But when Sage was born, Olivia got back into their lives--maybe for the child. And Sage was thankful for that. Thankful for Olivia. And it was that night where she had introduced Sage to the sounds of the piano and the violin and the saxophone. The sounds of freedom. Sage had found her body with art; and with music? She had found her soul.

Her finger tips ran along the neck of the instrument, plucking at the strings with as much expertise as she could muster. The music was flowing freely from her--one of the first songs her aunt had introduced her to--and she couldn't stop. Well, she could, the song was coming to an end, but there was something pent up inside her. Something she had been wanting to get out and no matter how many portraits she drew, it just wasn't enough. The dead were beginning to take her art away from her. Maybe she could have her music. The song came to an end, the vibrations still running through her, and she looked up--not having noticed her eyes were closed--and found herself looking at a pretty girl. One who probably had a lot of friends and was popular in high school. Just standing there. Looking at her. "I--I'm not quite finished..." she spluttered out, though she didn't know why.

#omg paula you're fine #i know what it's like #AND IM SO HAPPY SAGE ISN'T RHINE #BECAUSE I CAN RP WITH YOU LONGER #c: dylan #convo

onetrxenemesis-deactivated20141

There she went again. As though his simple gaze froze her to the core. Usually, he’d try and consider this a good thing, but he couldn’t shake this sensation it was nothing but b a d to the bone. ( And that was one of his favourite songs; he almost drowned in the irony of the unfolding situation. ) The first impression had been made with art; and now, the second was with music. Outside of his brother’s store.

(Blame it on fate, Freddie.) - — Unnecessary comment from the peanut gallery. The last notes hung in the air, and she looked right back at him. If he was a betting man, he’d bet that she was - s e e i n g him. Payback’s a bitch. "Well, well, Clementine." The nickname spilled from his lips before he could retrain them to her real name. "You seem to be a woman of multiple talents." With that exaggerated walk, he pushed himself from the pillar and made his way toward her, a couple of paces at a time. "First a fellow starving artist, and now a m u s i c i a n. How long have you been honing this particular craft, hm?” ( It was just part of his nature. )

A few people were clapping, though it was scattered, and she watched as one man placed a five dollar bill into her case. And then they started to disperse when they noticed the girl wasn't going to continue playing. She wasn't a prodigy. She wasn't fantastic. That was the truth. She was average. While to those who didn't play any sort of instrument would see it as beautiful, anybody who knew music could tell you that she was okay. But she still had a lot of progressing to do.

Sage forced a smile to those who clapped and placed money in her case, but her eyes kept going back to Fredrick. How was it that she had run into him again? After their last encounter... Sage wasn't sure what to think. It was both awkward and humiliating on her front... Who knew what he was currently thinking?

Clementine.

He was calling her that again. Was that a good thing? Or a bad thing? The way he sauntered over toward her... It made her stomach flip. Was she...nervous? This wasn't fear. Not, this was definitely nerves. As if something was fluttering within her.

"It's not that much of a talent," she claimed, moving the cello out from between her legs and setting it up against the bench on which she sat. "I've only been playing for four years." She wasn't looking for praise. It was true. Honest to God.

Though... There it was. That ghost of a smile on her lips. Permanent, it seemed, in his presence.

"It helps pay the bills." The admission slipped out--it was so personal, but it had just happened. She had been bent over, gathering the money from the case--twenty seven dollars and fifty-three cents--and it had come out. He didn't need to know that. But she had said it.

#c: fredrick #convo

onetrxenemesis-deactivated20141

He almost slammed the door shut when he exited from that damned music store. (You should’ve known seeking out your brother like that wouldn’t end well, Freddie.) Yeah, okay, the last thing he fucking needs right now is ( i n p u t. ) The bell jangled as he jostled the door back and forth, attempting to repair the small amount of damage to the front door. Again, he wondered why he fucking bothered sometimes. Why he even went out of his way to repair relationships, familial or otherwise. Why he thought his first impressions were good ones. Why, Why, Why. Music approached his ears, gave him pause. He blinked a couple of times; a cello. His brother was into the guitar; though he’d at least heard of these stringed instruments. He was a visual artist, not a musical one, but he appreciated talent when he saw it. And he was about to see it. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he flounced down the stairs - - — and stopped ( d e a d ) in his tracks. Sage. Clementine. Second impression would be .. — better? One way to find out. He moved forward and into her line of sight. Though he just leaned against the pillar. He could draw this, too. And he could draw it well.

She wasn't the greatest cellist in the world. It wasn't as if she was some prodigy because she wasn't. She had only been playing for about four years now, although she had been interested in classical music well before then because of her aunt. So, if you asked her, she would probably claim that her art was far better than her music. But she could escape in her music in a different way than her art. It was her s a l v a t i o n . Both art and music. And she didn't have a job--not a sound one anyway--because her aunt was worried about what would trigger her. So she babysat; and she played her cello occasionally in public for money. It wasn't a lot--maybe twenty bucks each time--but it was definitely something.

Calloused were the hands that plucked on the strings; her eyelashes flushed against the apples of her cheeks, darkness clouding her vision; her ears were alert, listening to the roar of the traffic and the music in the wind; listening to the sounds of the music store behind her; she drew in from her surroundings. Her fear floated into her music. It was easier to hide her pain that way.

The song was coming to an end. How sad. She heard coins clinking into her case.

Was that a g h o s t of a s m i l e on her lips?

Or was it of fabricated mind?

The last note, a low C, reverberated into the air and as her fingers held onto the note, allowing it to fill the street, Sage opened her eyes, letting out the breath that she didn't know she had been holding for so long. Only to see him.

Henry. F r e d r i c k .

Leaning against a pillar, looking right at her. Her fingers flattened against the four strings, the perfect fifths instantly stopping the air. What was she supposed to say? She didn't know. She was paralyzed and she didn't know why. As if he caught her in some scandalous act. So...

She held his gaze.

#val you're crazy #c: fredrick #convo

burningroseshale

"Honestly, father, I don’t want to discuss this again with you. It is pointless, indeed. No— I won’t discuss, see you a dinner." It took her a few deep breaths to not throw the phone on the other side of the room — it would be the third of the month. Rose continued her work, doing her research as if nothing had happened.

The phone shattered the moment in connected with the wall. It caused her to jump, a memory triggering and it took everything within Sage not to break down in front of everybody in the library. The memory of her mother throwing the vase at her head; the memory of how Sage got the scar on her face. The blonde spun around, eyes widened, as she stared at the girl sitting at the desk. "R-Rosemarie?" she squeaked out. "Is everything...well, is everything alright?"

#c: rosemarie #convo

“Please Mia,” he implores. “Don’t make me write a song.”

#sage #sOOOOO this makes no sense because sage is the last person to be romantic with someone #BUUUUT THESE ARE SO CUTE #and one day she'll have this. oNE DAY.

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