#main 2.

[isafell]

    America is a place that Isabelle has always treated with some level of derision despite never going for longer than a few days. It stemmed not from her own xenophobia but from others'; any time she'd encountered someone from the States in her homeland, they'd been nothing but rude. Haughty.

    Still, she'd rather be stranded here, far away from Madame Genet and her men, than back on the ship that had been taking them on what she was certain was their last voyage.

    "Issa." She turns her head to heed the boy, though no sooner does she do so does she instantly see what he's about to point out. In the near distance looms a large gate of some kind. Though she's wary about the idea of walking headfirst into the crosshairs of unfamiliar people, if they don't leave this forest they'll be deep within it by nightfall. Not ideal. "We should go. There could be people there. We can ask them for help."

    "Laurent…" His insistent belief in the inherent goodness of the human race stuns her, but it's also a source of deep pain. She wants more than anything for her son to be able to trust others— to invite them into his kind open arms, but strangers have proven time and time again that their desire to survive outweighs their shame. "It's—"

    Before she can get another word out, a nearby rustle of the trees steals their collective attention. There in the brush stands an oddly kempt man, hard blue eyes focused on them almost as keenly as his gun. Without even thinking about it, Isabelle throws herself in front of Laurent, shielding him from the open barrel with arms outstretched and fear evident.

    "Don't." It's uttered quietly, but in the quiet of the woods it echoes like a scream. "...we were just leaving. Please don't."

@paralyziingfears / plotted starter!

[isafell]

       The first thing Laurent becomes aware of upon waking is the unpleasant sensation of sand between his teeth. With a quiet moan of disgruntlement, the boy picks his head up from the shore and shifts— slowly— to all fours. 

       His clothes are sodden. His mouth is overwhelmingly dry. He has very little energy to swivel his head and take in his surroundings. He thinks he might hear voices in the distance.

       ❛ Issa… ❜  Muttered hoarsely as he turns and sees her laying a couple of feet away from him on the beach, the rising tide crawling up her bare shins. She'd been forced out of her robes from the abbey the moment Madame Genet had escorted her and Laurent onto the ship bound for America, the faith she so desperately clung to being disparaged in the process; dressed in rags "befitting of her true status", or so she'd put it. It's strange to see her in anything other than the off-white garb of the Sisterhood.  ❛ Issa, wake up… ❜

       But she doesn't. She doesn't so much as stir. Laurent's heart begins to thud, pulse thundering in his ears as he drags himself to his feet. Having lived a sheltered life in the arms of the convent, he knows nothing about surviving on his own. The only thing he can do is stumble his way along the beach and try not to cry, praying to God that he'll find somebody who can help the woman he's come to view as his mother.

       ❛ Help…!  Help! ❜  he calls out into the vast unknown, his path zigzagged and unsteady, his usual mild temperament exchanged for the childish need to blubber like a baby. Laurent has never been alone in his life; he won't know what to do if Isabelle doesn't wake up.

semi-plotted starter | @urbxnlegxnd!