he glances at her face before returning to focus on his graffiti at the back of the school compound. with zero inkling to what she’s referring to, he shrugs, finishing his last colour before dropping the can haphazardly on the ground.
“needs to know about what, your sanity?” seth deadpans without looking at her expression. “or the fact that you’re here running around with an isle kid?”
↳ “ GOT A PISTOL FOR A MOUTH, MY OL’ MAMA GAVE ME THAT / AND IF I HAVE TO FALL IT WON’T BE IN YOUR LINE / I’M A BAD WOMAN TO KEEP / MAKE ME MAD, I’M NOT HERE TO PLEASE ”
♕ — Please follow and welcome Nox Hightopp to Escoria ! Nox is the Eighteen year old descendant of Mad Hatter attending La Cours De Merveilles ! Residing in Hesperides #501 the Fencing Team member strives to achieve excellence in order to make their parents proud and carry out their legacy!
↳ CLASS SCHEDULE
SHAKESPEAREAN STUDIES
CERAMICS
ABNORMAL PSYCHOLOGY
FENCING
ACADEMIC WRITING AND READING
↳ CLUBS & SPORTS
FENCING TEAM
↳ TRAITS OF THE PARENT
long legs, awe-stonishing red hair, pale face ; ( god awful fashion sense to match ) an abundance of teeth that never once failed to rise on occasion ; nox had always been a striking resemblance to her good ol’ pappy, though if sanity was declared hereditary than perhaps, in more ways than one, after all, blood was far thicker with insanity surging through their veins, an added little spice to a devilishly toxic concoction. eloquence had always been just a small little crooked smile away, a gift from her ol’ pops – he, himself, the master of trickery and words that left much more to be understood, had embedded, necessarily influenced his children of the art – the definitive reason that life itself had come to be as it has: communication, alone, the greatest link and beautifully-tempting game he’s play since the first of what nox could remember. glamour and riches were a bore, in turn – her father played the game of the trade, words and divisions of minds – confusion, the sparkling little race of the heart at watching someone’s expression sink under the guise of misunderstanding – now, that was her type of fun.
↳ TRAITS OF THE HEART
soft-spoken, dark-heart, complex imagery was nox. she’s all heavy lungs and red hair, a suddenness of the moment and the dark of the night. a flicker of an idea and the consequences of trying. too many questions and open-ended answers. more ‘maybes’ rather than ‘nos’; a complexity of a indecisive gal with a more than decisive yearning for a game of the mind than of her heart – dark and blue as it was.
fun, to her was a manipulation of the mind rather than the heart. hearts can be torn but the mind, if dissected properly, oh – the fun she’d have. beware, love, your mama told you to protect your heart but she didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout your mind …
stripes and polka dots, a rashness of the mind and the disaster of too much all at once. that was nox hightopp, suicidal heart and almost a little too deranged intentions. head easily nestled in books, knowledge was often a friend too near to her. sighing too frequently, boring laughter is a given, eyes too round, voice a little too deep; she’s the epiphany of who you’d never expect : but what was one to expect from one who had insanity as a bloodline.
she speaks in poems and riddles, a little too whimsical; timbre soft and nearly hummed – dreamy, some would say. smoke fills her half the time, intoxicated by the smell, set off by the influence of a little too helpful blue caterpillar. black nails, bitten and wrought; a disaster on the scenes, and she doesn’t even know it. light-headed and almost a little too risky to beware. she does for the benefit of her heart, and that, alone, marks a fiend of her own agenda.
↳ ‘ TELL EVERYBODY I’M ON MY WAY— ’
she dresses as if jackson pollock, himself, had used her as his very own canvas – a disaster cleverly disguised as a masterpiece. red hair and all, jarring appearance and opulent persona as one would expect a hightopp to be. mismatched and unintentional, stripes and checkers – fabrics that clash, nails bitten and black.
nox hightopp kicked in glee at the morning sky, blue and dawning – a swirl of the sun dazes across feathered white clouds, stomping at the canvas that swooned beneath black combats and undone laces. she sits, perched at the edge of the balcony’s handrail, white stone the only thing saving her from falling to her death. it’s been ages that she’s sure that her buttox had to have made a mark by now but the thought of moving doesn’t appear – instead she sits, continues to gaze at the sky and hum to herself. a one, two, – seven and eight beat later does she toss her head back, the sighs of the day flooding her thin lips, red from dread, tongue dampening flesh before she picks at one of the several ashes that lay at her side, the distinguished white stick still fresh and smoking in between slender appendages.
“day, oh day, what are you to say.” she mumbles to herself, lips parting only to entertain the intrusion of dusty white and chalky aftertaste. the fire that dances across green eyes keep her sane, stilled for the slightest of seconds – minimal in contact, disheveling the context of her mind and easily pouring thought among thought into a vortex of black that she’ll never quite see again.
“we shan’t delay, what a good start to the day.”
eyes grow tired and weary, heavily lidded as she pulls herself, one deliriously long leg after another until dust flies from dark leather and feet are safely ( god thank the queen! ) placed on the ground. shoelaces are left untied, feet mobilize and they snap with every little notion she makes against the marble. her own variation of an the sounds form on her lips, the shadows of the vowels make each little slap of her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“nck! nck, nck!” it goes.
she makes a turn, the slam of the door and the warning bell for her first class drowns her out.
