Need help with a voice test or want to play anything at all with me? Just consult my muselist and put the name of the character you want to play with in the subject line. If there's a particular scenario you want to play out, feel free to stick that in the comment as well and I'll see what I can do. Picture prompts highly encouraged! This also works as a way to hit me up OOC-ly for any plotting. If you prefer that I make an individual entry (private or not) for our interaction, please feel free to say so here as well. I'm open to most things so come at me. :) For smutty stuff, I also have an open smut post.
[So the girl doesn't favor grace on her feet, does she? Perhaps mud between her toes would suit her better. Dressing and sitting all nice and proper does take a toll. The school makes a point of training its girls to "emanate a nurturing presence." Like hens being taught how to nest. Still, as "nurturing" as hens might be, they still strut and peck when it counts. Some even find it in themselves to crow though flight will always be beyond them.
This girl aspires to be something more, doesn't she? A bird of a different feather. Maybe one of those strange chickens from the Orient, covered in downy white fluff with flesh as black as soot. The gamekeeper kept a few curiosities to amuse the headmistress and Margaery often talked her way into the menagerie. Those birds were the shy sort. One of the chicks died of fright from being handled with a rough hand. Such is the fate of creatures made for a gentler world than this one.]
It is, indeed, a sight to behold. Courgette flowers in full bloom.
[Reaching out, she takes a strand of Colette's golden hair between her fingers, thumbing the strands.]
Close to this shade at sunset. Fitting since they're only a few letters off from being your namesake. Once summer draws closer, I'll need butterflies and bees to help them along. The cook will be swimming in courgettes. You should come see when you can spare the time.
[ She perks up almost instantly, a far more real look stretching across her features, making her seem more animated and less like the sullen painted faces on the tile (evidently, they don't approve). Yet they remain silent as they always do, offering no guidance, only disapproving looks, and she's managed those her entire life.
It's so rare for another girl to invite her to anything. ]
Really? I would love that!
[ Courgette flowers… probably nothing like roses, but, well, didn't that suit her just fine? Colette had never considered herself like a rose. A daisy, maybe, but thinking on it… those were still too dainty for a girl like her. ]
I usually have plenty of time during free hours, so… so, I think that shouldn't be a problem. If you really don't mind!
[Letting Colette's hair slip through her fingers, Margaery moves her hand to perch on the girl's shoulder. Such a sad thing. Margaery had loved and lost a fragile young woman much like this pious little maid. That sun was a darker shade with hair that brought to mind the blood and rust painting the sky before dusk. Not this pale yellow of noon, no.
But once again, she's face to face with that selfsame blue stare flecked with a deep sort of misery. Her hand pulls back to toy with the pearls at her throat, fingers fiddling with the strand as she stares off to the side for a bit. Sweet Sansa was long gone, shipped off to some settlement in the East. The punishment should have been mine. She indulged my proclivities. The girl knew not— She thought I meant to teach her how to pucker up for the boys. If ever there was a damnable harlot between us two, it was me.
Perhaps she's adventuring in some camp. Staring down tigers and riding elephants in the Indian heat. That's what Margaery would like to think. It's far more likely that malaria had taken her by now. Or worse. Better it be some malady than a man without mercy.
Taking a deep breath, she lets her smile fall back into place before facing Colette once more.]
Why should I mind? It's not right to extend an invitation without meaning it.
[ Colette waits patiently as Margaery goes quiet, fingers fiddling with pearls much prettier than anything Colette owned period, being a child of the faith and all that in entailed, even the giving up of material things for the sake of closeness to God. The young woman's eyes fall toward the glass window but Colette's not sure if she's actually looking out of them or not -- it would be overstepping herself to ask what she was thinking, wouldn't it? So she remains silent, eyes gentle and features soft, politely tilting her head when Margaery offers her a second look.
But… she couldn't help but to feel that Margaery was sad about something. What? Oh, she hadn't a clue, yet… for what reason did the woman visit the chapel this evening? She was a fair dancer herself. Maybe she also needed guidance. Guidance that Colette could never deign to give, never as mighty as their Lord, nor as forgiving, or just. ]
I suppose it isn't.
[ That's said with a touch of a sigh, despite her best efforts to keep it in. Even if it wasn't right, passive aggression ran rampant among girls, especially when it came to the matter of men, one that Colette was scarcely interested in to begin with outside of the childhood friends she'd made in the woods. Those two boys had kept her sane in her hardest years; beyond that, she felt no special feelings for men, or the way they looked at her when she was out at town. ]
But some will offer even a kind lie to those who seem like they need it.
[Smooth pearls roll between the softness of Margaery's fingertips as she turns her gaze back to Colette. At one point in time, Margaery's father had made her wear a cross around her neck as if it was some miracle cure for her... affliction. Only then did Margaery see how right her grandmother was to call the man an oaf. Though her father made sure Margaery wanted for nothing, he shattered her heart as eagerly as a bull stumbling through a china shop. Her father knew nothing of the kindness a lie could offer.]
Are you a liar, sweetling?
[Sansa once called herself a liar. A terrible liar but a liar nonetheless.]
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idek why i looked up shit on zucchini and chickens at 4am good mornight
This girl aspires to be something more, doesn't she? A bird of a different feather. Maybe one of those strange chickens from the Orient, covered in downy white fluff with flesh as black as soot. The gamekeeper kept a few curiosities to amuse the headmistress and Margaery often talked her way into the menagerie. Those birds were the shy sort. One of the chicks died of fright from being handled with a rough hand. Such is the fate of creatures made for a gentler world than this one.]
It is, indeed, a sight to behold. Courgette flowers in full bloom.
[Reaching out, she takes a strand of Colette's golden hair between her fingers, thumbing the strands.]
Close to this shade at sunset. Fitting since they're only a few letters off from being your namesake. Once summer draws closer, I'll need butterflies and bees to help them along. The cook will be swimming in courgettes. You should come see when you can spare the time.
because ur nuts
[ She perks up almost instantly, a far more real look stretching across her features, making her seem more animated and less like the sullen painted faces on the tile (evidently, they don't approve). Yet they remain silent as they always do, offering no guidance, only disapproving looks, and she's managed those her entire life.
It's so rare for another girl to invite her to anything. ]
Really? I would love that!
[ Courgette flowers… probably nothing like roses, but, well, didn't that suit her just fine? Colette had never considered herself like a rose. A daisy, maybe, but thinking on it… those were still too dainty for a girl like her. ]
I usually have plenty of time during free hours, so… so, I think that shouldn't be a problem. If you really don't mind!
accurate
But once again, she's face to face with that selfsame blue stare flecked with a deep sort of misery. Her hand pulls back to toy with the pearls at her throat, fingers fiddling with the strand as she stares off to the side for a bit. Sweet Sansa was long gone, shipped off to some settlement in the East. The punishment should have been mine. She indulged my proclivities. The girl knew not— She thought I meant to teach her how to pucker up for the boys. If ever there was a damnable harlot between us two, it was me.
Perhaps she's adventuring in some camp. Staring down tigers and riding elephants in the Indian heat. That's what Margaery would like to think. It's far more likely that malaria had taken her by now. Or worse. Better it be some malady than a man without mercy.
Taking a deep breath, she lets her smile fall back into place before facing Colette once more.]
Why should I mind? It's not right to extend an invitation without meaning it.
no subject
But… she couldn't help but to feel that Margaery was sad about something. What? Oh, she hadn't a clue, yet… for what reason did the woman visit the chapel this evening? She was a fair dancer herself. Maybe she also needed guidance. Guidance that Colette could never deign to give, never as mighty as their Lord, nor as forgiving, or just. ]
I suppose it isn't.
[ That's said with a touch of a sigh, despite her best efforts to keep it in. Even if it wasn't right, passive aggression ran rampant among girls, especially when it came to the matter of men, one that Colette was scarcely interested in to begin with outside of the childhood friends she'd made in the woods. Those two boys had kept her sane in her hardest years; beyond that, she felt no special feelings for men, or the way they looked at her when she was out at town. ]
But some will offer even a kind lie to those who seem like they need it.
ugh late ;A; my net is still down
[Smooth pearls roll between the softness of Margaery's fingertips as she turns her gaze back to Colette. At one point in time, Margaery's father had made her wear a cross around her neck as if it was some miracle cure for her... affliction. Only then did Margaery see how right her grandmother was to call the man an oaf. Though her father made sure Margaery wanted for nothing, he shattered her heart as eagerly as a bull stumbling through a china shop. Her father knew nothing of the kindness a lie could offer.]
Are you a liar, sweetling?
[Sansa once called herself a liar. A terrible liar but a liar nonetheless.]