Rockette

Zodiac High

officially home kittens.
Samuel will be completed tomorrow, just fleshing out that character history.

&&𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒑.

^{[ i am alpha. ]
-- promo for potential narrative.}

Zodiac High

So after some thought I've decided on a Scorpio character. Was originally thinking Scorpio and a Libra, but I might bank the Libra and save such for a potential secondary character.

Anyways, I'm home officially by early Tuesday or a late Monday at least.

Zodiac High

I'm out of town for this week, but I've got a character synopsis going.
Stay tuned.

&&𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒑.

^{[ l a n t e r n s a n d p a p e r f l o w e r s . ]}

Zodiac High

This seems rather refreshing.
I'm in.

&& a brief check.

^{updated -- 11/9/18.}

&&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

two weeks later........

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃....
^{&& the snow has begun to fall . . .}

___________________________________________________________________________________

The chill had come with an offset of rain.

The deluge was heavier than normal in the morning light and gradually waned towards the thick and humid airs of a struggling afternoon where only the smallest rays of the sun were permitted to peek through the perpetual grey curtain of The Badlands. The warranting season had come as it always did: with little warning and sharp winds that whistled through spires and howled low betwixt alley ways and rattled panes of glass and steel. The river was beginning to recede into the bubbling waves of a winter brook, where polar fog churned lazily along the slopes. The city was thus an artist's induction of a grey-mapped photograph framed in black glass and painted with only the smallest touches of deadened blue.

A week prior, the skies had been awash in flurries that brushed soft against skin and clung to the streets before the warmth of the asphalt and rubber would wash them away into the gutters. It was a prelude of the season to come that would descend upon the city in the frigid breath of Winter and encapsulate the city in the wonders of ice and snow. But even on the most peaceful landscapes of snow-capped spires, the sky would eternally be eclipsed by the grey and black of the skies of the wintertime. Only one night and day would they impart, briefly, to reveal crystalline blue wherein the air was slight and crisp, unburdened by taint of smog and metallic residue. Such had not occurred in years, but The Badlands continued to celebrate festivities of the later years nearly every month, and even carried on those traditions into the warmth of Spring.

Rain falls eternally here, but the locale refused to allow their lives to be convinced to be done otherwise. And whilst hearts here weigh heavy and souls are burdened by the soot of ashen pain and woe, they still found and discovered endeavors to keep eyes alight in wonder and joy.

The following week had been stricken in a fever by the preceding of The Badland's most coveted affair. What once had been a whispered event by newsletter and rumor had now become the social necessity since the College had expanded the doors to teaching histories by the sanction of The United Mythos' teachings and manuscripts written and delegated by the seemingly most eligible bachelor within city now -- Patrick Montreyu.

Since the highlighting of the gala, the Paramorlian Histories Museum had received a phalanx of curious investors and those desiring to reap the benefits of the fundraiser and the private collections of many artifact aficionados that had, for a moment, allowed interviews and slight guesses to their donations. Most of all, the solicitation had been beneficial to the curious eyes and minds of particular individuals daily scouring the papers for these documented revelations and the most important and focal of family names that had been privy to the press. Two weeks had flown by in immediate and careful preparation, execution done swiftly and efficiently with little trail to pin point their motives.

It was all playing well into hand, and that, of course was almost too good to be true.

Upon the fall of an early and spiteful season, something had shifted, just so, upon the ambiance of the alighted soiree. Upon an axis, tilted, smudged just so in a color of red that prompted the host of the event to nearly double his security upon the currently renovated floor that was being prepared for the newest exhibit. The Atis was being the lauded center piece of the entire gala and upon further translation of the pages, the winds seemed that much colder, and flames all the more brighter, and the coming winter suddenly reaped in a ominous telling that afflicted the most prominent players at hand.

Carefully, one man looked yonder upon the glass of his office and panned his gaze low, the light of a text searing his eyes and bringing with it, a pained smile.

Across the city, a woman worked peacefully among her blooming greenhouse, dirt smudged adoringly upon her cheek and brow; hair tucked high and loose. The rain fell heavily, as it always does, but the grey and black of the storm did nothing to darken the glimmering blue of her eyes and the book to her left that was a glow in warming tones where the pages seemed, suddenly, very much alive.

___________________________________________________________________________________

&&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

^{[ 𝐝 𝐨 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐞 𝐚 𝐥 𝐢 𝐳 𝐞 ? ]}

&&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

She leaves with promises and whispered farewells, her eyes flitting and lashes swooped low whilst they embrace in a swift good bye, his arms around her small shoulders and her fingers scooped against his back. It's brief, but telling, and within Ana feels only the slightest burdens of guilt. Their meeting may of been performed on a means to an end, but their friendship is genuine in warmth and understanding, though currently under forgery. Ana is the first to break away and she glances up -- she then realizes just how much taller he is than her -- and smiles. If such is perhaps pinched around those delicate edges, he doesn't say, but then she doesn't question why he seems perhaps a bit too hesitant to let her go.

But, he does. Eventually.

Patrick watches as she leaves the park enclosure in front of the museum -- his museum -- to cross the main road where citizens of The Badlands gather in troupes and part around her briefly before closing entirely around her. To him she stands out like a brightly coloured bird, adorned in paradise and dressed in splendor, appealing to the curious notions of rarity that crowns her as something beloved. She would loathe that comparison he knew and would tell him she was otherwise and simply just a normal person, however she was anything but. A shadow descended across his eyes as the sun fell yonder clouds swollen all grey and dark, heralding to the Fall weather slowly embarking across the later noon with the promise of the evening chill. He knew she was after something, though his knowledge ended there as to what she was searching for. But, there was no mistaking the glimmer in those ethereal blues alight in success, pride, and intelligence so keen and well wielded, that he was powerless -- no, hopeless -- to do anything else but acquiesce to her very whims and wishes. However Patrick was not without his own merit and with this distinction in hand he quickly retrieved his mobile -- ignored the message there with her name attached -- and dialed a number from memory.

"It's me."

Nights within The Badlands came upon a near winter breath, frigid winds following down the mountain at the farewell of the sun beyond the peaks looming within the clouds. Punctuated to the skies, the evenings fell swiftly and the cold more so in the later years, thus the days shorter and the nights longer that did little to wane the actively of the locale. People flocked to dimmer settings with amber essences and ambiances dulled to golden dusk and husky browns like whiskey in honeyed glass. Cafes were traded for bars alive in smoke and whispers and here Ana paused, glancing to one such establishment that only opened doors at this hour of dusk. Those initial patrons spilled out onto the patio adorned in bare bulbs and maroon drapes; heavy velvet embellishments pulled taut away from tinted glass that cast her reflection back upon herself.

Once, maybe some odd years ago, Ana would indulge in such luxuries with former associates much like Patrick. Lost to whimsical music in the shadows of twilight with perspiring tumblers held cold within slight gestures, such dalliances now seemed like an age ago, almost another life time lost to fate of life and all the destines lain therein. An adopted birth rite had been her sanction and on the eve of coming to terms with her bequeathed purpose, Anastasia came to accept that initial of role of maintaining facades built upon facades and fortifying those with simpers laced with false mirth. She remembers accepting the key that would dedicate her justification to thievery of legendary artifacts and priceless objects from the highly coveted vaults and coffers of many would-be millions of those wealthy patrons that sired The Badland's herald. Anastasia had taken the mantle of the harbinger of forgotten rouges and in exchange, she had come to thrive in the shadows cast by these very buildings she had known so well. In small ways, her identity too had been stolen, buried somewhere among the roots of her family's legacy, liken to a rose among thousands of thorn bushes.

Quietly, she smiled to herself and tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear before abandoning her reflection within the amber tinted glass, and continued her way home to the Herlion building where a rich Greenhouse awaited her and where a forsaken tome of dead poems and lost serpentine dragons suddenly became a glow.

Now the real games would soon begin.

^{. 𝒆 𝒕 𝒅 𝒓 𝒂 𝒄 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒂 𝒄 𝒊 𝒆 𝒊 .}