[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/zthAnvf.jpeg[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=#A8516E][b]#A8516E[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=9b9b9b][b]Rosalia’s Cabin[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [color=gray][h3][sup][sup]This whole place was weird. Really weird. Some of the people were nice. Didn’t make them any less weird though. Yeah. Blink and you’d miss it. Azariah here was living the nonbinary dream. Blink and she—he—damnit, she hadn’t known to ask if Azariah wanted ‘[i]they[/i],’ was transforming to indicate pronouns, or what. Next time. Practically all she did was blink, and it was like a whole different person was right there. Rosalia chuckled to herself. Magic. She had been staring magic in the face, and her biggest takeaway was that she didn’t know what to call the person using it. One of these days, she’d wake up and be home again, and spend the day remembering that incredible dream where she was a homeowner. And the child of a god. But mostly a homeowner. There wasn’t a lock on the door. Rosalia told herself there didn’t need to be, but [i]didn’t[/i] there need to be one? Surely not everyone responded to being a demigod by developing a healthy respect for other people’s space. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Now was the time to take a look around said space and ensure everything was in order. If it was anything like her trip over, there was no telling what nonsense the divine had put together instead of bearing with her. She set down her luggage by the door and removed her boots. She’d need to put out a pad and a shoe rack if this was going to be the weather—how could they—? There was a shoe rack, and a doormat. This one was on her; she hadn’t anticipated there would be snow. Snow hadn’t even occurred to her. The absence of a rubber mat to catch the snow was her oversight, not theirs. Rosalia shook her head as she removed her outerwear. She reached into her backpack and pulled out the printed-out list she’d made for her messenger. Right there, in the section marked [b]Living Room[/b], were the items [i]Shoe Rack[/i] and [i]Doormat[/i]. She’d hyperlinked them with examples in the original document, but the items themselves looked about like what she’d had in mind. Though, she wouldn’t have chosen white for the rack; it would probably never again look so clean. Her fault for not specifying. So many things were needlessly colored white, it was important to specify if something [i]should not[/i] be white. She slipped the list back into her backpack and set it aside. Plenty of time for that once she’d returned to personhood. That meant a hot shower. Maybe even a bath. On second thought, there was a party tonight. She’d work up a sweat unpacking, doing chores, and getting everything set up. With a nod, she beelined to the bathroom and turned on the sink. The water was cold at first, but slowly began to warm. She splashed her face when it felt right, shut the water off, and wiped her face with the hand towel. The water heater was tankless, and the hand towel was right on point—a nice light brown, fitting within her parameters for the bathroom linens: “[i]Pecan Brown (#A67459) is ideal. Please no lighter than Sand (#c2b280), and no darker than Coffee (#6F4E37).[/i]” Feeling warmer already, she looked for the thermostat. When she found it, a smile flashed across her face. A Pro t701—exactly what she’d asked for. Apparently there must have been no power bill for Camp Athens though; who thought 72° was reasonable for heat? 65° was—oh, why not? If it had been set to 72° this whole time, 68° would be fine. She returned to the front of the house and got her list back out of her backpack, then dug into one of her duffles and produced a clipboard. First, the living/dining room. With a mechanical pencil, she went through her list and checked off items as she found them. The cedar chest coffee table had board games, extra blankets, and everything else she’d indicated should go in. The loveseat was against the front wall, the actual couch against the side, and the recliner was in the corner between. None were made with leather, pleather, or anything else sweat-inducing. And whatever they’d spent on it, the oriental rug on the floor looked and felt to her hand like the real thing—at least well made enough that it wouldn’t get ugly on her. It even had a good rug pad underneath it, so the hardwood floor wouldn’t be scuffed up. The short bookshelf cordoned the area off, and the TV sat on its cabinet against the far wall. Perfect for a movie night. With a satisfied, slightly surprised smile, she flipped to the floor plan she’d sketched up and crossed the living room. Looking to the right side of the room for the dining portion, she inspected the table, chairs, and dining cabinet, and ticked each item off. Just as planned, the dining cabinet had plenty of space next to it on the kitchen wall for a china cabinet—in case she ever did get some good silver and china that needed housing. Everything was good, solid wood, and the chairs even had upholstered cushions rather than just being plain solid wood. As she went through the door into the kitchen, the furniture there was similarly on the nicer end of what she’d requested. Every nonperishable she’d indicated interest in was in its ordained cabinet or drawer. Even the things she’d brought from home, having expected they would have been too much trouble to get, were there. Now she had duplicate Tony Chachere’s! There were plenty of plates, bowls, and cutlery. The pots and pans looked to be good quality. Then she looked in the freezer. There were three half-gallons of ice cream. Both were Blue Bell. Cherry Vanilla was impressive enough. And then there was Groom’s Cake—a flavour only seasonally available. But the third? Rosalia had never even [i]heard[/i] of Cherry Amaretto Cordial before she’d looked it up, seen it was discontinued, and added it to the list just because. And there it was. Rosalia closed the freezer door slowly. The magic was hard to stomach. Everything was hard to stomach. The presence of a discontinued ice cream flavor shouldn’t have been what got her. She knew that. As she continued on, checking under the sink to see cleaning supplies in their ordained positions, pristine and unopened, then in the walk-in pantry in the very back, where the same story unfolded. There were even extra perishables she hadn’t requested, with expiry dates that suggested they’d been bought very recently. She checked the bathroom, the closet with the washer and dryer between her bedroom and the bathroom, and then her bedroom and its closet. Every last thing she’d asked, down to precise maximal projection she’d asked for the length extension of her custom king-size mattress, was in place and ready for her. It should have been relaxing. Rosalia [i]knew[/i] it should have been relaxing to know for incontrovertible fact that everything she’d wanted done was done, precisely as she’d requested it be done. But as she began to unpack, revisiting the different parts of the house she’d so thoroughly inspected, this knowledge haunted, rather than comforted. A bath was just going to make those feelings into a stew. So Rosalia showered. As the air began to steam, she began to breathe. In. Out. In. And out. This is what she signed up for. Who is man to know the workings of the divine? Even doubting Thomas believed when he saw. Surely it was all enough. It all was enough to believe. But to accept? Understand? Old questions, long wrestled into the pit of her stomach, began to needle again. Why her mother? Why her? Why invite her? Why return? Why would they want her? Why the patience? Why listen? Why the vagaries? She kept mentally wandering in circles for some time. She had the whole day ahead of her, and yet had nothing else to do but await a party, due to start in the evening. It was hours away. Hours of down time. Hours of nothing to do. … Hadn’t she already washed her face, shampooed her hair, conditioned, and done it all before? Her legs and arms were smooth, yet it felt like she’d just gotten in. She needed to wash her face again. She needed to wash her hair and her body again. But there was no hair to shave as the shampoo sat. She could only imagine the water bill. … Freshly rejuvenated by the hot shower and with her hair in a bonnet, Rosalia stood at the threshold, staring at her bed. Did she dare nap? When was the last time she’d done such a thing? She racked her brain for a memory of a nap. It [i]sounded[/i] nice, but it also felt like an insane idea to even be considering. Food. She wanted food first. She hadn’t eaten since well before sunrise. Food would fix it. But what to eat? Grits sounded good, especially with how cold it was outside. But that would take a while. Rosalia bobbed her head indecisively as she mulled it over. Actually, taking up time would be a good thing. Grits it was. She pulled out a little pot, spooned in the grits, added water, and popped it on the stove. Looking at the fire when she lit the stove reminded her. She turned on the vent, cracked a window, and went to her bedroom to grab a cigarette. She checked the time on the phone, saw the lack of signal on her phone, and it all clicked. If she was to be cut off from the wider world, then why not lean into it and pretend it was the old days? She looked through her downloaded music, and found Louis Prima. That’d be nice to get moving to. And this was a new start, wasn’t it? Breakfast to start the day and a new life. Damn! She’d seen bacon in that fridge. Bacon, eggs, grits—get that coffee percolator ready to go and put it on the stove! Rosalia lit her cigarette from the burner and started to work. She got everything laid out, started grabbing spices, and then snapped her finger. She had time to make it really nice for herself. There was nobody fussing at her being all impatient about the bacon. She could have everything ready at once, and there was nobody telling her how and when to do it. Potatoes! She could have hash browns, eggs, bacon, and grits together. Bringing a potato from the pantry to the sink, she remembered the green onions in the fridge. She’d have fresh green onions, fresh garlic, and fresh onions cooking in her food today. This was the way to start fresh. With music playing, nothing but good food to cook, a cigarette in her mouth and nobody to catch her with it—the questions and worries melted away like butter in a skillet. She skinned, then shredded the potato. She rinsed the shreddings, then squeezed them dry. She pulled out a cutting board and diced a small onion. She chucked most of it in with the potato shreddings and half in another bowl, then crushed and diced some garlic, and divided it the same way. She washed her hands again. Returning to the potato, she added flour to the same bowl, then cracked an egg into a glass measuring cup. She whipped it up with a fork and dumped half into the bowl, added the remaining onion and garlic to the cup, then cracked a second egg in and scrambled the onion, garlic, and egg-and-a-half together. The fork and cup went to the side. She washed her hands a third time, set the grits on a back burner, and then reached for the skillets before hesitating. No. She needed to redo their seasoning first. Today, the nonstick pans got love. She put two pans on the stove, each with a touch of oil, then gave the grits a quick stir. She mixed the potato thoroughly with her hand, finishing right as the pans started sizzling. She made two patties and plopped them in one pan. Another hand-wash. She pressed the patties down with a spatula, and then set the bacon in the other pan. Another stir of the grits. She next grabbed a plate, put some paper towels on it, and set it near the pan with the bacon. Back to the cutting board, she diced some green onion, then checked the things on the stove. She returned to her eggs and sprinkled salt, pepper, and a bit of red pepper in their cup. She added some salt and pepper to the grits, stirred, then sprinkled some of the trio onto the hashbrowns. A quick breather gave her the time to grab another cigarette from her bathroom. Everything was moving, and there was music and the smell of breakfast filling the kitchen—yet with no expectation of more day to come. It was strange, entrancing, and delightful. Her fresh cigarette’s smoke danced up into the vent with the beautiful breakfast scents. Her hands hopped from spatula to whisk, between bacon, grits, and hash browns. When two rounds of bacon had graduated to the plate, the eggs went into the pan. Rosalia took her coffee off, then peeled away to return everything else to its place and get a plate for the food and a bowl for the grits. She ran her second cigarette butt under the sink’s stream, as she’d done with the first, and chucked it in the trash. She checked on her food, stirred the grits, then fixed her coffee. A spoonful of sugar and a dash of creamer and it was good to go. Everything was beautiful. One by one, the remaining pieces of the meal came together. The hashbrowns flipped onto her plate. Her scrambled eggs bounced next to them. Into the bowl with a pat of butter and some heavy cream went her grits, garnished with freshly cut green onions. She slipped the bacon onto the plate. She turned to bring it all to the little table, and clicked her tongue. Placemats! She snapped her finger and drew air in through her lips, thinking of where they were meant to be. Bottom drawer of the dining cabinet. She stepped out of the kitchen, crouched down, and grabbed a mat. The wood of the kitchen table now protected, she could arrange her food just so. She set the plate in the middle and the bowl off to one corner. On her second trip, she brought two paper towels, her coffee, and the utensils. She popped the spoon from the coffee into her mouth, then put it in the grits and stirred. Perfect. It was just perfect.[/sup][/sup][center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=9b9b9b][b]Rosalia’s Cabin > Party (Bar)[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center][sup][sup]After enjoying her breakfast, the cleanup got Rosalia thinking about the skillets. She had time; why not strip and season them now? She set right to work. Before she knew it, she’d gone from skillets to giving the kitchen a sweep and the counters a once-over, then she turned her attention to the rest of the house. A little sweep and mop never hurt, did it? She kept it easy, going slowly, doing her best to avoid working up a sweat. She wiped down every inch of wood with furniture polish, wiped the windows, and soon gave up on the proposition of not working up a sweat by the time she interrupted her house-cleaning adventure to check in with the cast-iron. … Her bed was already made. The bathroom was clean—now doubly-cleaned, in fact. She’d already sorted her clothes and everything else that could be sorted when she’d unpacked. And it was still well over three hours till the party. Rosalia ran through the shower again as she formulated a new plan to pass the time. She’d need to get dressed eventually. Why not take her time on it? Be thorough? [i]She[/i] wasn’t enlisted for the preparation or cleanup; there was no reason not to! And a better first impression than she’d risked making in her first arrival? It was sounding like a better idea by the minute. So she dug in her toiletries and found her nail polish. The three bottles that were opened were long-expired. Had it been that long since she’d done her nails? Sure had. Holding the little bottle of ivory nail polish in her hand, she remembered the day she’d bought it. She’d aspirationally spent the last few dollars on a soon-to-expire gift card a few months before graduation, thinking she’d give herself a nice coat for the big day. Didn’t end up happening, but everything happened for a reason, didn’t it? With more time than she knew how to fill on her hands, Rosalia set right to it. The end product wasn’t perfect, but remover and a q-tip helped tidy it up enough that it looked competently done. She reminded herself to let it sit before she decided if it was alright as she did her toes. Nope. She had to redo it. It needed to be better than “competent.” Doing so without a base or top coat was a tall order, but that meant nothing. On her third try, she stuck the landing. The first and second coats looked good. That would do. On to the next thing. What to wear for a New Years’ party for demigods? In that respect, the choice of outfit was really a high-stakes kind of thing. So what to wear? There were so many factors to consider. Half of them couldn’t be put to rest. She didn’t know anyone, and thus couldn’t guess what they’d be wearing. There were no guidelines given. She didn’t know the mood. And the known factors were plenty of trouble on their own—what went over was affected by what went under. And the weather! What was the weather like now? Were they still having it outside? Looking out the window, it was still snowing. Yet the heating was off. And stepping out on her back porch, the air felt mild—almost warm! … Rosalia scoured her wardrobe several times over, as if trying to find new contenders out of nowhere. She didn’t have a great many clothes—even fewer when she only looked at what felt nice enough for the occasion—and yet what she did have still made for an agonizing choice. And another factor came back around every time she looked at hemlines! This place seemed to [i]only[/i] have people in their 20s. They were from all over the world. Did hemlines even matter? [i]Of course they did.[/i] Rosalia promptly folded two skirts and hung a dress back up for their hemlines. A few tops and another dress got nailed on their necklines. That cleared things up a touch, but there remained a few options. … The winner arose by attrition. Ironically, it was something that had gotten her fussed at a number of years ago. Sitting over shapewear and her one really nice bra—incidentally the only one with removable straps and no scent accumulated from wear in the kitchen—was a lovely emerald-green dress. It bore an off-the-shoulder neckline and an A-line silhouette, with a hemline right below her knee. Around the waist was a faux ribbon which drew some visual interest. Now on to the hair and makeup. First, her hair. After a thorough brushing and drying, she took a flat iron in hand and set to work. Piece by piece, the curls fell into place. She debated attempting a few sorts of half-up half-down styles before determining that, having gone to the trouble of curling, she’d rather not risk it. She carefully teased her hair back, pinned a few longer strands that were falling too far forward, and then touched up the short curls near her ears and tinkered with her bangs, until remembering she’d likely have to return to her bangs after her makeup. She donned a towel like a shawl, and got to work. After several false-starts, where she was again reminded how long it had been since she’d really done much, she rejected the notion of pursuing a full face with contour and moved on to the dressings. She gave herself emerald eyeshadow—bought, in fact, for the very same wedding—and then managed to negotiate her eyeliner into letting her have some wings. The mascara was getting a bit clumpy, but a rough shake of the bottle managed to see her do her lashes with only a bit of trouble. She gave her eyebrows a once-over with her tweezers as she debated blush, and resolved to decide once she’d settled on what to do about her lips. In the choice between colors, the debate was won by which lipstick was actually still usable. The lighter shade was older, and really was in no state to go on her lips at all. So the darker red it was. Stepping back from the mirror, she inspected her face in full and in portions, holding a makeup-removal wipe like her makeup was a hostage and the wipe was a gun. Eventually satisfied, she brushed her eyebrows, nudged her bangs back into position, and made sure the cap was firmly on the lipstick before she tucked it into her bra. She glanced over to the window. When had the sun gone and set? She reached for her phone. Her heart skipped a beat. She looked back at the mirror. Now she wanted to put some hair up. Maybe she’d regret not doing it, but it was time to go—if she’d wanted to give it a shot that bad, she’d have already tried. She returned to her bedroom, grabbed gold hoops for earrings and gave the lipstick company with cigarettes and a lighter, then gave herself a quick top-up on deodorant, a few puffs of cherry blossom perfume for luck, and slipped on some black heeled ankle boots before she left for the party. After a false start on her porch for having neglected to replace her towel-shawl with the actual matching lace shawl she’d meant to wear with the dress, of course. She took another cigarette with her. For the road. With a little cloud in her wake, she set off for good, making special effort to finish her smoke a ways before her arrival. Best not to come with a cloud. As she walked and puffed, that familiar anxiety returned. It was a party for children of deities, and she was running late. Mortifying. By the time she arrived, the party was definitely already swinging. For how long, she couldn’t have said. But she was sure of one thing: She’d clean overshot it on the formality of the event. They had a fire. They had cornhole. There were cans of all sorts of stuff. It was a little party; not a soirée! She put out the cigarette butt on the sole of her shoe and clutched it in her hand. Best to just slip in and avoid making a show of lateness either way. She drifted around the outer rim of the party area, and slipped in right near the bar. Without a word, she got herself a cup and put a splash of water in it. She dipped her cigarette butt into it and flicked the butt into the trash. Then, she dumped the water and went straight for the cooled drinks. Then it occurred to her. May as well play into her fancy dress. She swapped her cup for a glass with a stem, and went for the rosé. Tonight was going to be alright. [/sup][/sup][/h3][/color] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]Interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] None [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]Mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] None [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]Collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] None[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]