#xartefactual

[whole-armies-turn-and-run]

@xartefactual

     Under normal circumstances, at about this stage of the process- he’d be near glowing. And not in a figurative sense. In a literal one. The energy from the time vortex would have been swirling all around him, eating it’s way into his head- The mad hatter was mad for a reasons, but here- wherever it was they had landed- he couldn’t feel it. There was nothing eating at him, no glowing. Only a clear blue sky and tree branches staring down at him from where he lay on the ground.      Everything felt too solid and to real. Where was the magic? The reality of this world weighed heavy on his shoulders, almost suffocating. If it felt a bit oppressive to him, he could only imagine how River might feel. But at least they were out of prison. A new forest, a new hideaway, had to be better than sitting in a cell waiting to lose their heads, even if it felt off.      “River? Are you alright?” With a quick huff he was sitting up to find her, only to let out a relieved breath when he spotted her a mere few feet away.                                                “Your hair. I think- I think the journey here frightened it.”      Or was it that big and curly before they had left? He couldn’t be sure. But he could start scooting over towards her and checking out this new world.      “Where’s my hat? You didn’t hurt anything did you? Is your arm alright? Your seams didn’t rip apart did they?” 

[ediopologiist]

&xartefactual;;

May 16, 1812.

It was her birthday. But, of course, nobody cared. Who really cared about a back-alley whore dressed in an outfit far above her station? Brooke wasn’t even sure she cared that it was her birthday. She’d never celebrated it before. And, probably, she never would.

She ran her fingers nervously over the dress that had been given her. The dress was blue-- a blue satin with pretty bows all up the front and a gauzy neckline. Her curls were pinned back in swooping lines from her face, and she kept pinching her cheeks, trying to coax color into them that her too-thin frame simply didn’t really have to give. Her lips were red enough, but paint was magical like that. Her hands flew to the string of pearls. It felt confining, like a collar, like something meant to choke: a reminder that this mere thing around her throat was worth more in gold than her entire person.

It’ll be the best job you ever had, bluebirdee, Michael had said as he pinched her cheek just a month prior. Just a bit’o actin’ required, see? Jus’ gotta act like a lady, a proper lil’ lady from the West Side o’London. See tha’s what she’s payin’ me for. A lady to keep ‘er company. You’ll be good company. Won’t you? Earn me twelve guineas a month? You’ll ‘ave pretty dresses n’shoes n’no men breathin’ down your neck n’stickin’ their fingers under your skirts no more. 

He was right. If she could just play the part, it would be easy. And maybe she’d be out of those alleys for years... maybe forever, if he let her go. If she made enough money. The only trouble was, Brooke had never slept with a woman before. But then, Michael had assured her that it wouldn’t be a problem. It was probably what this wealthy widow was looking for, anyway. Someone she could shape into the perfect companion. And who would think to be suspicious of a lonely widow choosing to take on a little bit of company? No one. It was the perfect arrangement.

It was perfect, and Brooke was terrified. She was terrified of mucking it up.

So she waited, she didn’t go exploring, no matter how curious she might be about the house. She sat there like a well-bred young lady, shaking hands folded in her lap. She expected the widow would be some old dowager, or some too-tall woman with a face like a hatchet and a droning voice. Maybe she was little and dumpy, fat and spoke like she had a bunch of marbles in her mouth. Brooke didn’t know which she would prefer. So she waited, holding her breath, eyes tracing the books on the shelf across from her with little comprehension, fingers lacing and unlacing in her lap. 

[the-lady-oneill]

She’s very grateful she’s learned to cry  in silence. Ultana imagines that if she hadn’t,  she would’ve woken up everyone in the prison. She’s been in tears ever since she got here. 

Ultana’s sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She’s just hoping that she’s not being loud enough for the woman in the next cell to hear her. 

xartefactual

[impcssiblyarchive-blog]

☆| ‣ xartefactual​. liked for a thing.

            ❛ LET ME GUESS, he’s in prison or somethin’, isn’t he? ❜

[pxtienceisavirtue]

                                           xartefactual

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t touch that! Are you mad?”

[the-lady-oneill]

"Do you need me to kill someone for you?"

“What?” 

She looks up from where she’s beenintently leaning against a mirror so shecan see what she’s doing to apply a bandage to her forehead. 

             “Not unless you plan on killing my horse.”

[ediopologiist]

Something felt strange the moment Brooke fizzled into existence next to her mother, finger still POISED on the vortex manipulator.  There was a churning in her stomach, a lighthead- edness and a taste of time energy on the tip of her tongue, a bit like drinking on an empty stomach-- and yet so much worse.

She reached for Emmaline strapped to her hip, feeling the reassuring press of cool metal against her fingers. Brooke didn’t take the gun out of its holster just yet, though, unsure of her surroundings.

She glanced toward River with a little smile-- then at the living room they’ve landed themselves in. Something still seemed off. 

“Looks like we were both wrong about the calculations,”  she harrumphed, “This certainly isn’t Pella Satyrnis.” 

She wants to toss her curls in triumph and  rework the coordinates herself, positive that it was her mother who had made the error.  But something captivated her about this  insignificant room, something she can’t name. Fingertips brush the fabric of the sofa, just for a moment.