#theladysaint

[contra-mundi]

The street wa bustling and busy. People hustled to and fro, moving about on their business as they milled through the veins of the city. They paid little mind to the other people they passed, so invested in their own doings that they hardly even noticed other people existed.

A tall shape bounced through the crowd, tan and white popping momentarily out of the sea of people like a fish, before it was just visible darting through the crowd. The shape wound through the bustle of people, dancing around them as it headed on for an unknown destination.

Until, it crashed directly into a streetlamp, giving a startled yelp as it leapt back. The figure clutched at its nose, pulling a hand away to reveal a spot of blood. It pouted, before laughing at itself with a peculiar lilt.

“Aawww... hahaha...”

@theladysaint

[indeliictus]

✍ : What is your muse’s handwriting like? Is it neat? Sloppy? Fancy?

Random headcanon meme!

I’ve already answered this one before here but here’s a general picture of how she writes her name:

Her handwriting is childish but it’s neat and she writes her letters in a more elegant style (hence the “complicated” G instead of a regular one) in an attempt to be more ‘ladylike’ and grown up. She also might have been looking at Virgil’s handwriting too much...

[kreznik02archive]

Esther has died

"…..has died." finish it in my ask.

     † ....Esther?                       his Star.        "No. That can't be true." His tone was shaky, silvery tone laced with doubt as dread curled an icy hand around his heart. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. No, Esther was still alive, bright and smiling. Any moment now he would hear her clear, affectionate voice calling out 'Father' and he would turn to see a bouncing mop of fiery red hair.        But the moment never came, and Abel grew more agitated and terrified. She couldn't be dead. Not her. But doubt seeped its way in, infecting his thoughts and whispering darkly Of course she's dead, Abel. You didn't protect her. No, he wanted to say in return, it wasn't my fault. But he had brought her to the Vatican. He had put her in harms way. You could say that she voluntarily followed him, that she wanted to be here, but it would do nothing to assuage the guilt and sorrow that took hold of the crusnik.        She was gone. There was nothing he could do about it.                                              And it was all his fault.        Abel blinked, suddenly aware of the stream of tears running down his face. And with that realization the dam was broken as shock gave way to anger and desolation and regret and why couldn't it have been me instead? There was no one here to see the man so openly weep, and for that small favor the priest was grateful for. So he buried his face in his hands as silent sobs wracked his body, shoulders quivering and breath heaving with agony.                              O Lord, why did you have to take his Star away?