#outoftime.

[clockwandering-blog]

( promo made by @narcisisto ❤ )

                dreams are like whispers in the dark, fireflies floating gently and innocently through the dark while the world lays still. dreams are like memories, something she remembers from a life that feels unlike her, fluttering from her grasp and just out of reach. they’re proof that she was someone else once, that she was something else. 

                she dreams, although she never sleeps. 

[accelxration-blog]

     I just wanna put it out there that I am so happy I came back here, and even happier @homra-no-artemis and @euphorithe are here. I AM SO EXCITED @ BOTH OF YOU AND I MISSED YOU BOTH A LOT. ;O; <3

[clockwandering-blog]

some miscelanious thoughts for now. 

orianna’s ability to mimic / express emotions is a little inhibited by her general mechanical existence. most of her gestures are relearned by observation and repeating the motion by herself over and over until she can somewhat perform it. she cannot cry. though, the light of her eyes flickering can be understood as her crying. it is a response her mechanical body makes in response to sadness / memories of crying.

i don’t know how old or young orianna is. reasonably she could be somewhat older in terms of existence and she became entirely mechanical long before. however, the stories and plays she grew up watching also featured taric who’s ascension as an aspect is somewhat recent. also going by her general youthful curiosity, her sense of wonder, and dreams of exploration, i am leaning towards her generally being younger mentally and emotionally ( somewhere in her 20′s ). 

orianna doesn’t need to sleep or eat. she’s a little cryptic, and almost cryptid-like without intending to be. she became a machine with a soul before she even matured as a human so she’s very... lost in understanding them or interacting with anyone. she spends a lot of time purely observing people which can be almost uncanny or creepy given the blue light of her eyes never really wavers.

she seems to move throughout both zaun and piltover, though likely in back alleyways or in the darker hours when there are less people. she dreams of seeing the rest of the world, too. ionia would likely be the one to enthrall her most, and given her necessity for magic, she’d be able to sustain herself there. mount targon would, too, though i don’t know if she could ever really see it much. she can’t survive in demacia. noxus is as interesting as any other but it’s likely her naivety could be taken advantage of at least briefly. 

[clockwandering-blog]

the only person orianna likely trusts enough to make repairs on her is viktor. a majority of the time she is definitely capable of doing it herself, especially with the assistance of the ball— but if there ever were an instance she really could not, viktor is who orianna would go to.

[idealiism-x]

ooc.

Idk what I'm doing back here, I just missed it... please excuse the mess while I get set up!

[clockwandering-blog]

the reason i add hyphens in orianna’s speech patterns is to signify the really robotic, almost fractured way of speaking she has, though if i figure out a better way of writing it i might change that later on 

[clockwandering-blog]

                orianna still has a present day passion for making toys. she finds a particular joy in gifting them to children or just simply creating something so lovely and innocent. these toys are most often given to zaunite children; she will, however, make or sell toys in piltover if she requires money to replace her own bodily parts should they need it. 

                it is a leftover memory she had of a fondness for automaton toys she had as a child that her own father made. those that she had made for corin before leaving him were her most advanced toys; many of which could speak and walk on their own. her favorites to make are music boxes, however. 

[clockwandering-blog]

                Rhythm could be understood mathematically.

                It was universal, understood and felt in all creatures for echoed the very source of the body’s function. The heartbeat was a rhythm, one she remembered, one that her own mechanical heart echoed in a continual series of ticks. The swing of a clock’s pendulum was like the heart, too, and that comparison comforts her in a way. It makes her feel a little less lost. 

                The number of beats heard throughout a length of time could be signified using numbers, and those, too, were understood by virtue of their symbol alone. Language became irrelevant, so long as you could understand it. Rhythm could be heard in the ticking of a clock, it could be seen as gears turned and each notch fell into place against one another. Rhythm spoke to her. She understood it. She felt it.

                Music was comforting to her.