i've started writing something for someone who is now very dear to me and this is the one platform i have disconnected from them so i really wanted to share what i've been working on. It's in scraps so far but I really like the style that it's in despite missing some transitions to the next character i promise ill fix it skljlakj
Warning!~~ TWD Dead City Spoilers!
"Oh.. Negan. Look at you." The Dama soothed as he stared out over the full street of Manhatten. Her hands settled over his shoulders as he let out a deep sigh and felt the rush of power go through his veins. Remembering the way that he was empowered during his ruling of the Sanctuary. He listened to her soft chuckle as she let her touches linger before taking a step beside him, her small hands gripping the railing in front of them as she looked out over the followers. The Croat lingered on the sidelines, watching Negan as if he was a scolded dog that was told to keep quiet. He winced as he listened to the chatter of the followers begin to erupt in the air, excited murmurs about the legacy that Negan had picked up. He was their leader now.. a strong leader that was rumored to be cold but fair. The Dama knew full and well that Negan would fall into old habits once she was able to give him a little nudge, it was only a matter of time until she got to see the full extent of his power. Or so the Croat had described, she of course had her doubts about the man... but his stunt at the bank with the Burazi was just enough of evidence that she needed to bring him in. She studied the way his eyes flickered over the crowd... but in reality he was putting on a show that he knew she enjoyed. He had to find a way to stop this... wanted to know the chain of command and what would happen to him if he decided to pull on the right strings that would set him free along with Maggie and her son. He sucked on his teeth and turned his head slightly to look at her. "I'm ready." he finally agreed, taking a deep breath and looking back over their followers. "Let's do this."
(transition should go here, but i didn't write one just yet so shh)
Maggie stared through the foggy unclean glass of the bedroom she shared with Hershel, his sketches scattered across the walls partly due to the craze she had after his kidnapping. She had always told him she adored the drawings, and in his absence she took the time to look over each delicately created piece. None of the smudged shadows going unrecognized as she studied the faces. Headshots of people around The Bricks that she faintly recognized, but also a collection of those she didn't, perhaps made up characters that Hershel created. One of a man that looked faintly like the husband she once knew. When Hershel was younger he recalled the portrait on his homes wall of his father.. but he did the drawing out of pure memory..
Her hand gently ran across the cool metal of the doorknob before she turned it and entered their small candle lit room. Her gaze ran across her sons back, who was half asleep leaning on his hand. Fingers dusted with lead from his pencil. She softly grasped his shoulders and shook, leaning down to whisper into his ear. "Go lay down. It'll be alright. I want to talk in the morning." He obliged almost instantly, letting the pencil in his right hand drop onto the desk quietly. He shuffled around and managed to pick himself up and carry himself to bed, laying down face first into the neatly made arrangement of pillows and bedding. Maggie watched him with a sense of guilt, moving towards him and pushing him to roll over so that she could tuck him in, hesitating a moment and brushing his soft hair off of his forehead to kiss it. She drew back to watch his sleeping figure.. hands finding their way to tuck into her pockets, breathing out. "You were right.. and I'm going to make it right, Hershel. I'm going to find him.. and I'm going to fix this." she said quietly to herself, turning and taking a seat back at the desk, straightening up the papers and blowing the remains of eraser off of them. As she gathered the papers and put them into a straightened pile she paused at the sight of one of them loosely hanging out of his schooling notebook. She curiously reached and pulled at the corner of the page, her eyebrows drawing together as she glanced over her shoulder to Hershel.. then committed and picked up the book, opening it to the disheveled page full of scribbles and a clear drawing of a womans face. Maggie was no artist but she knew that something this clear had to have taken some time.. but yet she had no idea whos face she was peering at. In the mess of scribbles merely two words were legible. Madame Dama