Roman
Sadie
Sapphic Pigeon
Nallore
The Savant
Phase
Fetzen
Skai
FulgrimLives________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Beach - Pacific Royal Campus
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Welcome Home #1.004: Tides of Responsibility:Harper’s Campus Stand
Interaction(s):Open to Everyone
Previously: Nil
Harper sat on the soft sand of the beach, her toes sinking into the fine grains like a gentle embrace. The sun, a warm golden orb, painted her skin with a delicate glow. Around her, the world blurred—the waves, the seagulls, the distant laughter—all merging into a canvas of inspiration. This was rare for her. This kind of serene quiet.
Her sketchbook, slightly worn at the edges, lay open before her. Its pages held the promise of creation, each blank sheet inviting her pencil to dance. She traced her fingers over the graphite smudges—the remnants of past sketches. Each mark told a story—a seagull in flight, a sun-kissed horizon, a familiar face emerging from the void.
If only.
The scent of salt and seaweed hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of sunscreen. Perhaps she’d put on a bit too much, but the last thing she wanted right before school began was a massive sunburn. Besides, it was a fragrance she associated with freedom—the kind that came from being lost in lines and shadows instead of fear and regret.
Harper glanced toward a distant sailboat, its white canvas billowing against the azure backdrop. Where was it headed? What adventures awaited its crew? She wondered if her sketch could capture that sense of wanderlust—the longing for uncharted waters and distant shores. Perhaps…another time, she thought, her focus returning to the sketch in progress in front of her.
Yet still, she found herself once again distracted. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries both raucous and melodic. Their wings dipped and soared, tracing invisible patterns against the sky. Harper imagined their conversations—the secrets they shared as they rode the wind. Perhaps they spoke of forgotten shipwrecks or whispered tales of lost sailors. Or a winged girl. That particular thought brought a smile to her face.
Focus.
Her eyes glued themselves back to the pages of the sketchbook. They were slightly curled, and as she resumed her sketching, the world narrowed between their borders to the character before her—a fierce, vulnerable protagonist. The lines blurred—their stories intertwined.
Art was a sanctuary she’d thankfully picked up after everything had changed. It often pulled her into a place where time lost its grip on her mind. The crashing waves seemed to fade away, leaving only Harper and the character she was bringing to life. Here, she explored the depths of her soul without fear or judgment. With each mark on the paper, she unburdened herself—releasing troubles, fears, and memories.
The Protagonist- yet to be named after many depictions.
Her eyes held the weight of worlds—the kind of gaze that saw through illusions and touched the core of existence. In the graphite lines, Harper captured her essence—a blend of strength and vulnerability, determination, and quiet longing.
1. Eyes: The character’s eyes were always the focal point of the piece. It was the part of a person that Harper knew best. They weren’t merely drawn either; they were etched—a continuous dialogue between artist and paper. Within those irises, secrets swirled—a map of scars, dreams, and broken promises. Harper hesitated as she shaded the corners, where shadows hinted at untold stories. Were they always that distant?
2. Expression: The protagonist’s lips curved—a half-smile, a hint of defiance. She wasn’t a damsel awaiting rescue; she was the architect of her fate. Her jawline bore the memory of battles fought—against both external foes and inner demons. Harper wondered if her own jaw clenched in the same way during sleepless nights.
3. Hair: The wind played with her hair—a wild cascade of ink strokes. It framed her face, a curtain shielding vulnerability. Harper imagined the saltwater tang in those strands—the sea woven into her very being. Perhaps the character, too, sought solace in the waves and whispered her secrets to the tides. Wait no, you’re supposed to be done with that.
4. Posture: The protagonist sits on an invisible shore, legs crossed, spine straight. Her shoulders carried burdens—responsibilities, regrets, unspoken farewells. Harper’s pencil traced the curve of her back, the hollows where wings might sprout. Was she anchored or yearning for flight?
5. Clothing: The character wore simplicity—a loose dress, with her back exposed as if to say, “I fear nothing”. If only.
6. Hands: The hands—oh, the hands! Harper lingered here. They weren’t mere appendages; they were conduits. One hand rested on her knee—the weight of existence. The other could not be seen—an unbreakable connection to something beyond the page, perhaps? Was it hope? Regret? Love?
7. Background: The sea, always the sea. Harper’s pencil blurred the horizon, merging character and ocean. The waves whispered to her—of beginnings and endings, of cyclical tides. Harper wondered if the character yearned for distant shores or found solace in the familiar like her.
8. Vulnerability: Beneath the ink, vulnerability seeped. The character’s chest rose unseen with each breath—a fragile equilibrium. Harper’s own heartbeat appeared to echo in the lines—the rhythm of creation, the pulse of shared existence.
And so, as Harper shaded the final contours, she knew she’d birthed more than a sketch. She’d conjured a mirror—a reflection of her battles, her longing. The character stared back as if saying, “We’re both stories waiting to unfold, aren’t we?”
See, we’re not so different after all, Sisi.
A sharp frown etched its way across Harper’s lips, slicing through the tranquil bubble she’d woven around herself. The laughter—the raucous, heedless kind—finally reached her ears, jolting her back to the present. Of course, it never lasted, did it? But surely…surely, they couldn’t be doing that?
Reaching over to her side, Harper’s hand found the megaphone lying there. Its plastic surface was cool against her palm, a stark contrast to the heat simmering within her. She lifted it, the weight familiar—a tool of authority, a conduit for her voice. The character she’d sketched earlier seemed to watch from the paper, eyes questioning. And then, with a clearing of her throat, Harper shouted into the megaphone, her words amplified by the salt-laden breeze:
“No littering, maggots!”
The laughter faltered, replaced by startled glances. The young and obviously new faces froze—a tableau of guilt and surprise. Harper’s frown deepened. She wasn’t a stickler for rules—okay, who was she kidding, yes, she was—but this was her sanctuary—the private cove meant for Pacific Royal’s students and faculty. Not some uninitiated miscreants. The pristine sands deserved respect, not discarded wrappers, and carelessly tossed cans.
With the megaphone still warm from her grip, Harper watched as those caught in the shameful act—the litterers—scrambled like startled crabs. Their laughter dissolved into nervous glances, and they hurriedly picked up their discarded wrappers and half-empty soda cans. Some muttered apologies, while others shot Harper resentful glares. They hadn’t expected a sentinel on this private beach, and her shout had shattered their carefree bubble. One even muttered, “Who the hell made her the beach police?” to which Harper responded, “I heard that!”
Her sketchbook, slightly worn at the edges, lay open before her. Its pages held the promise of creation, each blank sheet inviting her pencil to dance. She traced her fingers over the graphite smudges—the remnants of past sketches. Each mark told a story—a seagull in flight, a sun-kissed horizon, a familiar face emerging from the void.
If only.
The scent of salt and seaweed hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of sunscreen. Perhaps she’d put on a bit too much, but the last thing she wanted right before school began was a massive sunburn. Besides, it was a fragrance she associated with freedom—the kind that came from being lost in lines and shadows instead of fear and regret.
Harper glanced toward a distant sailboat, its white canvas billowing against the azure backdrop. Where was it headed? What adventures awaited its crew? She wondered if her sketch could capture that sense of wanderlust—the longing for uncharted waters and distant shores. Perhaps…another time, she thought, her focus returning to the sketch in progress in front of her.
Yet still, she found herself once again distracted. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries both raucous and melodic. Their wings dipped and soared, tracing invisible patterns against the sky. Harper imagined their conversations—the secrets they shared as they rode the wind. Perhaps they spoke of forgotten shipwrecks or whispered tales of lost sailors. Or a winged girl. That particular thought brought a smile to her face.
Focus.
Her eyes glued themselves back to the pages of the sketchbook. They were slightly curled, and as she resumed her sketching, the world narrowed between their borders to the character before her—a fierce, vulnerable protagonist. The lines blurred—their stories intertwined.
Art was a sanctuary she’d thankfully picked up after everything had changed. It often pulled her into a place where time lost its grip on her mind. The crashing waves seemed to fade away, leaving only Harper and the character she was bringing to life. Here, she explored the depths of her soul without fear or judgment. With each mark on the paper, she unburdened herself—releasing troubles, fears, and memories.
The Protagonist- yet to be named after many depictions.
Her eyes held the weight of worlds—the kind of gaze that saw through illusions and touched the core of existence. In the graphite lines, Harper captured her essence—a blend of strength and vulnerability, determination, and quiet longing.
1. Eyes: The character’s eyes were always the focal point of the piece. It was the part of a person that Harper knew best. They weren’t merely drawn either; they were etched—a continuous dialogue between artist and paper. Within those irises, secrets swirled—a map of scars, dreams, and broken promises. Harper hesitated as she shaded the corners, where shadows hinted at untold stories. Were they always that distant?
2. Expression: The protagonist’s lips curved—a half-smile, a hint of defiance. She wasn’t a damsel awaiting rescue; she was the architect of her fate. Her jawline bore the memory of battles fought—against both external foes and inner demons. Harper wondered if her own jaw clenched in the same way during sleepless nights.
3. Hair: The wind played with her hair—a wild cascade of ink strokes. It framed her face, a curtain shielding vulnerability. Harper imagined the saltwater tang in those strands—the sea woven into her very being. Perhaps the character, too, sought solace in the waves and whispered her secrets to the tides. Wait no, you’re supposed to be done with that.
4. Posture: The protagonist sits on an invisible shore, legs crossed, spine straight. Her shoulders carried burdens—responsibilities, regrets, unspoken farewells. Harper’s pencil traced the curve of her back, the hollows where wings might sprout. Was she anchored or yearning for flight?
5. Clothing: The character wore simplicity—a loose dress, with her back exposed as if to say, “I fear nothing”. If only.
6. Hands: The hands—oh, the hands! Harper lingered here. They weren’t mere appendages; they were conduits. One hand rested on her knee—the weight of existence. The other could not be seen—an unbreakable connection to something beyond the page, perhaps? Was it hope? Regret? Love?
7. Background: The sea, always the sea. Harper’s pencil blurred the horizon, merging character and ocean. The waves whispered to her—of beginnings and endings, of cyclical tides. Harper wondered if the character yearned for distant shores or found solace in the familiar like her.
8. Vulnerability: Beneath the ink, vulnerability seeped. The character’s chest rose unseen with each breath—a fragile equilibrium. Harper’s own heartbeat appeared to echo in the lines—the rhythm of creation, the pulse of shared existence.
And so, as Harper shaded the final contours, she knew she’d birthed more than a sketch. She’d conjured a mirror—a reflection of her battles, her longing. The character stared back as if saying, “We’re both stories waiting to unfold, aren’t we?”
See, we’re not so different after all, Sisi.
A sharp frown etched its way across Harper’s lips, slicing through the tranquil bubble she’d woven around herself. The laughter—the raucous, heedless kind—finally reached her ears, jolting her back to the present. Of course, it never lasted, did it? But surely…surely, they couldn’t be doing that?
Reaching over to her side, Harper’s hand found the megaphone lying there. Its plastic surface was cool against her palm, a stark contrast to the heat simmering within her. She lifted it, the weight familiar—a tool of authority, a conduit for her voice. The character she’d sketched earlier seemed to watch from the paper, eyes questioning. And then, with a clearing of her throat, Harper shouted into the megaphone, her words amplified by the salt-laden breeze:
“No littering, maggots!”
The laughter faltered, replaced by startled glances. The young and obviously new faces froze—a tableau of guilt and surprise. Harper’s frown deepened. She wasn’t a stickler for rules—okay, who was she kidding, yes, she was—but this was her sanctuary—the private cove meant for Pacific Royal’s students and faculty. Not some uninitiated miscreants. The pristine sands deserved respect, not discarded wrappers, and carelessly tossed cans.
With the megaphone still warm from her grip, Harper watched as those caught in the shameful act—the litterers—scrambled like startled crabs. Their laughter dissolved into nervous glances, and they hurriedly picked up their discarded wrappers and half-empty soda cans. Some muttered apologies, while others shot Harper resentful glares. They hadn’t expected a sentinel on this private beach, and her shout had shattered their carefree bubble. One even muttered, “Who the hell made her the beach police?” to which Harper responded, “I heard that!”
