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Post by Charlotte Blackwell on Feb 9, 2013 0:15:46 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #333333; padding: 5px; width: 210px, bTable]RANSOM NOTES KEEP FALLING OUT YOUR MOUTH It was just past noon, with the sun hovering like some overprotective soccer-mom in the pale blue sky. A few wispy clouds clung to the horizon, not daring to cross into the sun’s dominion. Despite the sun, though, it wasn’t as hot as it could be. The higher elevation of the region kept it from receiving the monstrous hundred-degree heat of the southerly Sonoran desert near Phoenix and its surround. Charlotte, for her part, knew that climate all too well. Having grown up in one of the many gated communities that made up Chandler, Arizona exposed her to the realities of living in the sunniest state of them all. Odd-even watering bans, front lawns made of artificial turf or rock instead of grass, and cacti instead of trees. Trees - that was the biggest thing that Char found odd about Flagstaff, Sedona, and Smithfield. They weren’t the spindly-looking ones that dotted landscaping around Phoenix; these were big, vibrant, beautiful bastards. From blue-green conifers to the obligingly shady box elder she sat beneath now, the young woman couldn’t help but stare at most trees as she passed for at least a few seconds. She knew the novelty would wear off eventually, but for now she was more than happy to lean up against the proffered trunk for a respite from the sun. Enough light filtered through the branches to let her read easily, a battered paperback balanced on her knees as her hands were occupied with an older-model mp3 player. Char was pretty enough, by average standards. Shoulder-length hair kept to its natural dark brown shade fought gamely from the sloppy bun gathered at the nape of her neck, tendrils spilling across a lightly-tanned neck that wore a smattering of freckles. Despite the sun, she wore a careworn periwinkle cable-knit sweater; it hung comfortably from her shoulders in saggy glory to reveal the black camisole and bra straps beneath. Next to no jewelry could be spotted on the girl’s neck or wrists, apart from one antique-looking, oversized ring on one finger and the plain silver studs set in the lobe of each ear. Creased and faded jeans paired with low-heeled paddock boots rounded out her “look,” and made it effectively clear that on a day off, Charlotte Blackwell was not one to trifle with the formalities of composing a fashion symphony from her wardrobe. Apparently finding a song that was to her liking, the brunette picked up her novel once more. A subtle hint of a smile was curling at the corners of her mouth like an untold secret, and it was obvious that this particular activity was one that she knew - and liked - very well. Moments dragged by without notice from the engrossed girl; a boldly-marked bay overo wandered closer at a casual pace. Both eyes - one pale blue, the other chocolate - drifted occasionally towards Charlotte, the only other soul in this particular pasture. For her part in the play, however, the owner of the mare called War Games - or simply “Chess” in casual context - was oblivious to the movement of her companion. It took the comparably dramatic action of the mare’s nose reaching down to let her lip Char’s sweater to divert any ounce of attention from book to horse. “Hey Chess,” the woman murmured with a small smile, “how you doin’, girl?” One hand abandoned the book to scratch absently at the paint’s chin, though her hazel-green eyes never parted ways with the page. “Wanna come read with me, then?”Chuckling out loud and glancing toward her horse for the first time, Charlotte turned the page and cleared her throat. “‘Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth,’” her speech was pitched quietly enough that only her equine companion may hear, but the clear alto tone of her speech was well-represented. “‘Though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm, at her lively, sportive-’ Oh, so you don’t like Austen, hm?” This laugh was genuine, as Charlotte watched the bay-and-white mare turn idly away and fall to grazing once more. “Suit yourself, then. I’d take Mr. Darcy over any old patch of grass, any day.” Still chuckling softly to herself, she returned to her book, slipping back into that trancelike state that carried her through space and time on the ink and paper of old stories. words ; 738
notes ; wooooww, great muse tonight! *w*
music ; The Secret Life of Daydreams & Liz On Top of the World - Pride & Prejudice OST (2005)
tagged ; Sebastian//Elise
'MID SWEET-TALK NEWSPAPER WORD CUTOUTS. |
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Post by sebastian nikkos gryphon on Feb 9, 2013 2:28:45 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 350px; padding: 10px; background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/w6MZf.png);] Let me love you when you come undone The day was hot, though to anyone else it would seem normal or average, but not to Sebastian. He was used to the wind swept moors of Scotland and the random, nearly flood worthy bouts of rain that came tearing from the heavens at a moment’s notice. However, this was not Scotland, this was Arizona, where the heat sweltered and boiled even in the mildest of seasons. It didn’t help that his hair was long and dark and he seemed to have a preference for clothes that others would call dated, but most called classy on him. He scooped his hair out of his sapphire eyes, midnight in hue and as he’d once been told, endless in the depths of soul that you saw there. He often scoffed that the memory, shaking his head and eyeing himself in the mirror like at any moment it would shatter as if to say he was much too intense for it and that it would rather break into pieces so that he could no longer stare at it with his ‘soulful’ eyes. Letting those over long locks fall back as he dropped his hand, he turned form the room and walked into the heat, leaving behind the cool of his rooms.
He didn’t pause or look up from the ground, but rather he kept an expression of clear avoidance for everyone to see. Sebastian was a man of few words and it wasn’t often that one got the handsome devil to speak more than a few polite words before he would wonder away at the first chance. Though, he could easily admit that there were some people that he could easily converse with, standing with a posture that often spoke volumes about the level of comfort and confidence that the Scotsmen felt, but this was not one of those days. He didn’t want to deal with the insanity of people. He wasn’t the open air and nothing between him and the world except the pace at which he sent his horse flying. That thought set a smile to his lips and Sebastian moved faster, jogging rather than walking, the thump of his boots the only sound that he heard besides the chirps of birds. He rounded a corner and came face to face with the stables and an almost child-like excitement bloomed hot and heavy in his chest as he pushed inside and was greeted by the scent of horses, leather and fresh hay.
Whistling out a little ditty, he walked along, stroking the faces of any horse that pushed its head forward for that small bit of affection. He reached his own trusty steeds and grinned widely, an expression not often seen on the typically dark and brooding teacher who seemed to have a grudge against the world and was typically cold and distant from everyone else. Crooning soft Gaelic to the mare in front of him, he presented her with a treat before turning to the stallion and giving him the same affectionate treatment, though Romeo did not respond with the same amount of returned affection as Singer did and he turned back to the mare, lifting her halter for her to see and watching the well trained dressage horse, prance and whicker in her stall, ears flicking this way and that and heavy hoof slapping the ground with gusto and barely retained excitement. Shaking his head, he opened the door, watching Skip Beat take several steps back, her golden coat rippling as she shifted and pranced, wishing to be free of her confined space. He haltered her up and led her from the building, not even bothering to tack her up.
Looping her lead line around her neck and typing it off, the hoisted himself up onto the Warlander’s back. He sat, perfectly balanced as he urged the mare forward, towards the pasture. He didn’t think anyone would be out there now, not with this heat, though he was probably wrong, it wasn’t nearly as hot as he thought it was. Still, he even if there were other horses, Singer wasn’t the type to get overly excited about it and thus, he didn’t mind leaning down, undoing the latch, riding her through and redoing it before he asked her into a trot. They flowed like water, each moving with that practiced ease of many years spent together. As she warmed up, he asked her for more speed, sending them flying through the pasture, bareback and brave as could be. He crouched low over her neck and wrapped a hand in her ebony locks, feeling the silken threads against his bare fingertips. This was freedom, pure and simple, but it would not last as Singer caught sight of a person and smoothly turned, causing Sebastian to look in that direction. Inwardly he groaned, outwardly, he reined his overly friendly mare in.
The buckskin mare came to a pause, lowering her head as far as she could with Sebastian still holding onto the reins and for a moment, the man sat on the horse’s back before realizing that he was being rather rude by first allowing his horse to invade her space the way she was and second, not saying a damned word to her. Swallowing sharply, he put a smile on his face, though he knew it didn’t reach his eyes, he hoped it was enough to convince this stranger that he was friendly, sort of. “Hullo.” He spoke the word of greeting as he swung down from the mare’s back and stroked a hand over the Warlander’s withers. “Sorry about her, she dinna seem to learn her manners the way she should have.” The words flowed easily, tinged with a brogue from a land most considered foreign, but he considered comforting, as it reminded him day in and day out of his heritage. Sebastian had to push those thoughts away, knowing that his mind would easily wonder and cling to that topic if he wasn’t careful, even as his sapphire eyes took in the lass before him with a quizzical eye. words: enough - tags: char/english - notes: none |
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