[P] Stead fast in the flames
[Harrow]
#1
[html]
look how poopy late this is
wordcount ► 315

Gale felt the cold before he really knew it. Rome was never cold, not really. It was chilly and sometimes snowed, but it was not the same kind of cold that he felt here. England was similar, but it was more rainy and chilly. A little odd, but he felt a lot better here, where the snow fell and the wind was colder. He hardly felt it; he had a lot of body fat and muscle, and his thicker coat was a godsend. Yvette did not seem bothered by it at all, either, as she worked outside or helped someone out in the Family, even if she was not one of them.


The girl was growing well, and it surprised him how happy she seemed despite being a slave here. Siv treated her, and him, well enough, and she was safe. How could he ask for more when his one requirement for obedience was happily fulfilled in a terribly easy way? Gale did not know what to do with himself that day, having done his work and being free to do what he needed, unless someone else needed help. And he found that he had a hard time denying people his assistance, especially since he was a slave and knew his place well.


Gale, however, decided to sit himself down near his hut and Siv's home, setting up a loom of sorts. It was a mediocre attempt, with the wood not cooperating. Gale really did not know how the thing had worked before, and had a hard time remembering where the parts when and how they all interacted together. He fumbled with it, thinking the clinking meant success, but then found a piece had fallen out of the arrangement and was now on the ground. "Merda," he said loudly, a loud clanking following as he dropped the rest of the attempt on his leg.


Images credited to Jason Pier. Table style inspired by Kitty.

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#2
[html]

The winter's touch was becoming more evident, but like before, it went unnoticed by the girl. Being born of the summer, she had few memories of the heat of the sun, and it was not until the air was tinged with a cold touch did her memories become more refined and easier to remember than flashes of earlier puppyhood. Aside not being consciously bothered by it, she did not share to spend, or more like waste, time complaining or contemplating about the upcoming season. It would come, and then go, like the other previous seasons, and no mortal like herself would be able to change that cycle, and she went along it with a silent tongue of understanding the inevitable.

Between her midnight hands was a stainless blade—found in an abandoned sack on her return to Salsola. The scent that surrounded the bag told her that its owner had not left it for long, and she was quick to rummage through and take only what she wanted before sneaking off and adequately covering her trail as to not be followed. The knife had a twin, but taking one was a risk enough, and perhaps, if the wolf was foolish enough, he would believe he had misplaced it instead of a dark ghost spiriting it away, causing no suspicion that his adobe had been haunted.

She trailed among the ruins, with no particular aim or direction. It was often she would float about the common area, so that she may come across others and try to offer her assistance. An Associate was not so bad of a position after spending so much time as such, but Harrow would not allow herself to become comfortable in that rank. She was inspecting the blade and mulling over her current predicament when the foreign word struck her. She looked about for Gale, and easily saw the golden man fiddling with something near Siv's house.

"Not having luck?" she remarked in a questioning tone as she approached the slave, looking down at the wood. He was perhaps one of the few she did not use a harsh tone, nor one mocking a friendliness that was unlike her, with. Instead, she sounded quiet and blunt, but neither unkindly. "What's it suppose to be, anyway?"

*licks Gale* precious babu~ 379 words

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<div class="title">Harrow D'Angelo</div>
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<a href="#!" class="skill-crafts" title="Relatively skilled at art & poisons."></a>
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#3
[html]
holy crap Aly o__o
wordcount ► 326

Gale's eyes were stormy as he glared at the wood. He was no wood worker and he was not a great intellect. His memory was faded on how the small lap loom looked back in England. He pushed the wood around with an idle hand, struggling to remember as the wood scrapped along the stone. So far, he had not found a loom to replace the one he had left behind. His hands were busy otherwise, but having a loom would bring him closer to his deceased sister. And Yvette could start to learn the skills that would help her earn her place here, and secure her safety.


The presence of an Associate startled him from his angry gaze. He was surprised to see the dark coated woman he had spoken to briefly. Scrambling to shift his pose, the man prostrated himself before the woman. Her tone was not angry or demeaning, but he still showed her the respect her higher rank deserved. "No, Domina, I am not." He looked a little shamefaced. As a slave, he ought not to show his weaknesses and failures. Success and ability was all that was important to the man, especially if he hoped to assure the protection of the masters for his young niece, and for himself. A peaceful life was he wanted for the two of them, and so far that was all they had gotten.


The woman inquired about the wooden frame and he scoffed, shoving it to the side so that the woman might have a place to sit should she chose to join him, even though he was a slave. "It's supposed to be a loom. I know how to weave and.. well.. I told my Domina that I would teach Yvette how to weave. I know it'll keep it us.. us safe." He looked at her without regret at his words, since it was simple. Be useful or lose your life.


Images credited to Jason Pier. Table style inspired by Kitty.

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#4
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I'm Not Calling You a Liar, just Don't Lie To Me
The way he regarded the wood when she came upon him spoke of ill feelings, she noticed. Harrow also thought she might have saw the shadow of anger within his sea gaze that she might have supposed that a storm was brewing on the foreign waters within, perhaps prepared to rage upon the collection of wood that was in an incomprehensible disarray. But, any trace of emotion that were brewed vanished as her prescene was known, and a moment later he displayed his respect. While she did not find his behavior displeasing, she wished to frown, thinking that such a show was not too necessary when they were aquatinted with each other, though repressed it, knowing of the man's sesentivity.



Call me Harrow, Gale, she stated instead, though she carefully crafted her tone to make her words optional to be heeded or not. She watched as he cleared out the rest of the mess for a space for her, which she took up without a second thought. Others may have considered thought, being in a public place as the Ruins, but the girl gave nary a concern for the opinions of others that could berate her for her choice of company. She, being raised with the knowledge of these people, did not treat them like things to be avoided or ignored as newcomers would with their unfamiliarity with the enslaved, and when she was not seeking dominance, she chatted with them as easily with the ranked if they were able to hold conversation. This was such a case with this man, who had shown to be acceptable company.



She looked back at the jumbled wood as he explained that it was supposed to be a loom, and the dark Associate refrained from snorting. Indeed, his hands were not meant for crafting, she thought simply. She moved her gaze back to him as he went on to explain that he was going to teach his girl—his niece, she thought absentmindedly, though she did not quite realize the weight of this knowledge—and she easily detected the subliminal message and its somewhat dark meaning.



Then she did frown, and wished to dismiss what he had said. Despite reaching the age where she would be a woman, in most ways she was still a girl—here she was, trying to deny the fact that the man's problem existed to save from having to consider the morals of her Family. She had been tested once, when she was exposed to the idea that everyone deserved freedom while off on her misadventure, but she went back to the conclusion she was taught since she was younger: some were simply better than others. Easy to think that when you were not in the prescene of one of your lessers. Certainly you are safe here. Your service thus far has proved that. If he hadn't, he would have been gone before she had came back to Salsola, that much she was clear with.



The topic was becoming increasingly uncomfortable for her, not entirely pleased that she was reminded of his predicament, and she was quick to change the subject. Weaving does not seem to be your speciality, anyway. I'm sure you can teach her something else. Labor appealed better for a man of his stature, but perhaps something beyond that. He appeared to be a seasoned warrior or hunter, what with the scar that decorated his chest and the large cat's pelt that was as foreign to her as the man's dialect. Maybe you can teach her to hunt or fight? You two could be capable enough for that. You ever been taught in either?

err, I rambled sorry. ;_____; don't feel like you got to match length. also, assuming that he has the lion pelt with him so derp. / +609

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<div class="title">Harrow D'Angelo</div>
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<a href="#!" class="accompaniment" title="Often accompanied by Omitl."></a>
<a href="#!" class="skill-crafts" title="Relatively skilled at art & poisons."></a>
<a href="#!" class="scent-warning" title="Outside of Salsola, disguises scent."></a>
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#5
[html]
holy crap Aly o__o I was worried i would prove short but then I clearly had a word poop.
wordcount ► 598

Gale watched the woman carefully. He was unsure if she meant it as an order or as a request. He simply looked at her rather rudely, but he just took a deep breath and held it in his chest. Eyes shut, he exhaled and nodded his head. "Harrow. Only alone. I would not want to seem rude to others." Perhaps Harrow's intimate friends, but he did not want to seem like he was an insubordinate. No, he would not. He remembered what happened in Rome, in the back rooms of the big manors where a disobedient woman went when she disagreed with the master. Often times she returned to work battered and rather melancholy. More than a few bastards emerged from those back rooms. At least the mistresses of such houses had the dignity to simply lash their disobedient slaves publicly.


But he smiled at the woman now, almost happy to have something intimate, as though they were friends. Even though he knew it was a lie, and could never truly be the truth. Slaves were not friends with masters. It was a kind of social mixing that just did not happen in such a society, even if masters were kind and loving to their slaves. Still, it would be nice to pretend such a thing. Gale never really had any friends except for the men in the gladiator barracks and the few men at market in England he had talked to about vegetables. Perhaps he could talk at ease with Harrow, and ignore some of the formality expected of him as a slave and she a member of the inner society.


Gale bobbed his head in acknowledgement of her compliment. She did not really know all he had done, it was rather few. He and Yvette had helped, and that was what kept them safe and happy here. Happy, partially. Gale was at peace, though a little unhappy at a few details, such as the golden nose ring that itched when it was cold and chafed when it was hot. Yvette had yet to have hers put in, and he was dreading the day, as he was sure she was too. Perhaps Siv would not force her to pierce it, and let her wear a collar instead. That was the nicer thing to do, surely, for such a pretty girl. "Thank you, Do- Harrow," he grinned awkwardly, face almost unwilling to unfold as it was for his niece, his only real companion here.


The slave's eyes darkened slightly as Harrow mentioned he looked like a fighter. Of course he looked like a fighter. Touching his scar absentmindedly, Gale looked to the ground. "I don't think teaching her to fight is a good idea. Only if Domina were to wish it. I'm sure she would teach the girl something more useful than I could." Sad eyes were raised to gaze solemnly at the dark woman before him. "I was raised to fight, I was born a slave. I was a Gladiator," he said simply, no pride in his voice, just simple fact. "I know fighting and I know bloodshed. I know the darkness in a man's heart when he has the power of life and death over another man, and the roar of a crowd that would normally pall at the sight of murder." His voice grew dark as he looked away. Rome was a bloody place, and he could not help but hate where he came from, for all his pride in what Rome used to be. A haven of his religion.


Images credited to Jason Pier. Table style inspired by Kitty.

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#6
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I'm Not Calling You a Liar, just Don't Lie To Me
She was quiet for half a moment before replying with a simple, amiable, Hmm. While his words were expected of him, Harrow could not help but ponder if she should have withheld her suggestion for him to call her by her name, if only not to cause Gale discomfort. But, she saw no harm in it though she could foresee the complications the action could perhaps cause. Then again, she was not the one in his position, and admittedly she did not weigh the thought as carefully as he did. She noted the smile upon the golden man's face, and the corners of her mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile in response. Even if she did not properly emphasized with him, Harrow never the less found his simple company enjoyable.



The woman-girl's face nearly broke into a grin at his slip of, but somehow she had kept her mouth still. She was not sure how he would react to such; he could take it wrong, it could probably be taken in so many ways other than that she only found it amusing. She did not risk to upset the little balance they had created. In the end, she pretended she did not notice it, and again only offered an off-handed word in response. Your welcome.



When she had spoke about him teaching Yvette something else, something came over his face, and immediately she wanted to take back her words, though she found no error in them. But, as Gale spoke, she soon saw the fault. It had not occurred to her that fighting would not be typically acceptable lessons for a young slave—perhaps she was unconsciously thinking of TaeKyung, and the thought of the slave that she had not seen in a long while panged her as rather somber memories came to mind. He continued to speak, and she was rather surprised at what she was hearing.



The tale he wove made her even more uncomfortable—he was born a slave, while she was born with greatness over his kind, and the thought was roughly pushed aside—and she listened in silence. A vague scene rose in her mind. A bleeding wolf hanging over her, the warmth of her own life sticking to her as the thunderous crowd created a chorus that pleaded. They roared and demanded, hungry for death. She did not notice that Gale's words had trailed off as she stared off ahead, her eyes not focused on anything in particular.



It was a moment before she spoke. Whatever little warmth had colored her words were gone, and it took on a more quiet demeanor. Did you? Her vibrant gaze now moved to where his own had moved away, to see if she could catch it. Did you kill anyone? Naivety.

let me curl up and die in guilt. also I'm going to steal Gale he is just guh. ;____; / +466

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<div class="title">Harrow D'Angelo</div>
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[/html]
#7
[html]
it's okay hun <333
wordcount ► 640

The words he had spoken stuck in the back of his throat like some sort of disgusting sludge he had put in his mouth before swallowing. He looked away from Harrow following his explanation, the name of his former occupation making his stomach roil a bit from the memories. Eyes shut and golden fists clenched tightly, he let himself be swallowed up by the thoughts he hated, the memories he did not want, and the feelings that were so painfully associated with every life he had ended against his will.


Warm blood dripped through his hands, the sensation sickly as his fingers slipped against the grain of the spear. Dark red started turning brown on the wood and on his golden hands as the tip of the spear dripped blood. It slipped off the metal like oil on good steel, the sand beneath his toes clumping with stray drops as the man let the spear go. It twitched at the residual motion, swaying lightly. The crowd was roaring proudly around him, the cacophony an orchestrated opera from hell. They screamed his name, a dull roar he struggled to ignore. The creature of the savanna lay still before him, crimson spilling onto the sand in a pool quickly absorbed. He stepped back, bloody hand touching the long cut across his chest. Blood mingled, and he felt that at least that way he could keep the creature who did not want to fight him as he did not want to fight him, with him and living on in some small little way.


Gale's eyes opened at Harrows question, gaze shifting up to her beside him. There was a nervousness in her voice and his words had clearly upset her in some way. He frowned sadly at her, eyes full of regret and remorse as he touched the scar on his chest. Leaving the memory back in the recesses of his mind was like thinking of what he ought to have said, long after his moment had gone. "I have." There was no pride in his voice as he confessed his sins. And there were so many, and he did not want to add any more to his slate. There was no way that he would find himself in paradise, with his sister. Maybe after his soul's debt was paid, he might be reunited with her, and their mother, and be together again. "I am not proud of it, but it was kill or die. And if I did not.. my sister would have been without me. And she might have found herself at the mercy of a master who enjoyed the company of his slaves, whether they screamed or not." His lips tightened into a line as he looked away, knowing that any more and he would confess that Yvette was not his daughter, and that his devotion was all for the salvation of his soul and the protection of the girl his sister had happily left behind.


"There is no other feeling.. knowing they want one of us dead and neither of us has any value to them. We were nothing but expensive toys, for their whims and pleasures. And if they wanted us to die to amuse them, one of us would die, if not both from wounds. I've almost died countless times..," he added solemnly, nails digging into his thighs as he remembered the pain, the agony, the suffering. "You are lucky, born lucky. No mostro to order you to his rooms at night. No puttana to pinch you, slap you, beat you. It's a lucky life you lead." There truly was sadness in every part of his body; Gale seemed almost tired. "My sister knew what a bad master was willing to do. Era felice di scoparla, anche se lei urlava, anche se sanguinava.."


Images credited to Jason Pier. Table style inspired by Kitty.

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#8
[html]
I'm Not Calling You a Liar, just Don't Lie To Me
She had never questioned it, the slaves. They never showed that they were truly unhappy with their position; things like that was disobedience. There was no room for disobedience in Salsola, even from the Family, much less so from their slaves. She knew the slaves all her life; unimportant names came to mind: Darijus, Tarat, TaeKyung. She rarely thought of them, and maybe even dismissed their presence, an occurrence of everyday life. It was simply the way things were. But, then, why did she wanted to cry?



She had her answer, but she not want it to be true after hearing it. Gale, murderer. It was simply that. Her stomach twisted and turned at the thought. She wanted to stop listening. She wanted him to shut up. She wanted no more of it, no more. But her breath of lost in her lungs, and no words rose to be spoken, and her face remained still, silent. She did not want to face the truth, the lie that had been staring her straight in the face that she failed to see, or at least pretended not to. It was easier that way, to deny and go on than to question it and to complicate things. But the truth had a voice and her ears could not stop listening as the word came, and she could not stop the emotions swelling within her.



She was a child, but she was not ignorant of everything. He spoke of his sister—Ataxia's, Arte's, and even Salvia's faces flashed in her mind at the sound of the word—and company. It alluded to something dark, and she wanted him to eat his words back. If she could, she would have forced them out of existence, out of memory. But she couldn't. The images came without permission and with much inner protest, and she was helpless to stop them. The wayward sister felt her chest clench at her siblings' imagined, wordless screams as they echoed in her mind.



Toys. Objects. Not even that. Her dirty pink rabbit that laid forgotten on her shelf was of more worth in her mind than half of Salsola's stock of slaves. Dispensable. Replaceable. Life, replaceable. Her stuffed rabbit was more treasured than breath and blood. Her stomach ate ravenously at itself, seeking to consume her. She wished it did. She wanted to escape from the conversation. But she did not move, nothing was saving her.



You. Hands rose to cover her dark face and to blind her vibrant eyes, but she could not hide from the truth. Me, she thought with despair. She picked up on a word that he uttered. Monster. She felt her fingers become damp. Her breath felt ragged and torn as it processed through her body. She did not deserve this, this guilt. She wanted him to do something but to sit there and say those things without action. She wanted something to make it even, so that his pain did not become her pain. To make it balance, to make the world right in her mind. But when did it go wrong? It had always been like this. The reality of it all was a bullet in her back.



How could he be so calm? She wanted to scream at him. His last words did not make sense to her, but she did not want to know what they meant. They could only hold more horror, more guilt. I'm sorry. Her words were cracked and murmured with a heavy voice, heavy with emotion that she could no repress, and she choked back a sob. I'm sorry. She sniffed in air, nose wet as her eyes as they were hidden by dark hands. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. She let out a harsh sob; her words were useless and empty. It helped nothing. She was useless. She had long avoided this, and she had no right to cry. But she did.

gdi my third time reading and I'm tearing up. gen's writing, I'm no worthy to read it / +654

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<div class="title">Harrow D'Angelo</div>
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<a href="#!" class="accompaniment" title="Often accompanied by Omitl."></a>
<a href="#!" class="skill-crafts" title="Relatively skilled at art & poisons."></a>
<a href="#!" class="scent-warning" title="Outside of Salsola, disguises scent."></a>
<a href="#" class="references-okay" title="OOC references okay - See Wiki for details."></a>
<a href="#" class="optime-preference" title="OPTIME unless otherwise stated."></a>
<a href="http://wiki.soulsrpg.com/index.php?n=Characters.HarrowDAngelo" target="_blank" title="CHARACTER WIKI" class="character-wiki"></a>
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#9
[html]
wordcount ► 505

The slave did not realize what his words were doing to the woman who was sharing his seat at that moment. His gaze was averted and he did not want to shift it back to her. His fists were clenching and unclenching, hands shuddering slightly from how hard his fingers were closing shut, twitching open and shivering a bit. He was not happy with what he had said, his mouth running off with his head even though he knew better. He did, he knew better than to speak like this to a master. They were not supposed to hear his complaints, his worries, his pain. And here he had opened up to one of his betters.


Gale could not think all that well at the moment, struggling to keep his breathing straight as he banished the memories of his sister on her deathbed, the way she looked as she held his hand. She had been a delicate woman always, dainty and petite, especially compared to her giant twin. The two were always close, and they had remained that way until the very end. Even as Evangaline lay on the makeshift bed with the old quilt draped over her much thinner frame, tucked in by the midwife who had left long weeks before. She had clutched at his hand as her breathing slowed and a serene smile spread across her face. When she told him she had been sick for so long, his heart broke. He had failed to see that and had failed to help her, as useless to her as he had always been as a slave unable to rush to her aid.


The crying startled him from his thoughts, even more so than the initial apology the woman had uttered. Words like that meant very little to him as more often than not it had little real feeling behind it. Yet, the dark woman kept at it and the wetness on her face. The look on his features fell as he cried out softly in surprise, entirely taken aback by the freewoman's response. Why was she reacting this way? Was she not familiar that slaves often had a rather dreary background? Yet her words were laden with emotion and clear sadness that he felt entirely lost. No one really ever felt truly sympathetic or empathetic about his situation and this was entirely new to him.


Feelings of compassion and affection compelled him to ignore the rules of their caste, wrapping his arms around the dark woman as she sniffled and apologized, closing the dark creature with his arms of gold, pressing her into his chest. He closed his eyes, heart beating heavily as he patted her back gently. "Shh, Harrow," he said softly, knowing that if the woman looked at him, she would see the confused and lost expression on his face. He did not know why she cried, only that she cried for him, and it felt like his heart was breaking again. "Please don't cry," he added, almost weakly.


Images credited to Jason Pier. Table style inspired by Kitty.

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#10
[html]
I'm Not Calling You a Liar, just Don't Lie To Me
Nothing had changed before they had talked. Gale's past hadn't suddenly sprung from the ground like poisonous plants to torture her and hurt her wherever her mind would step—it had always been this way. The man simply hadn't told her until now. In hindsight, she was not quite sure why she felt so unnerved by his tale. Certainly, she had to have known his past was not one of peace? The golden ring glinted at her, an evil twinkle that she had not noticed before, and she wanted to shy away from it. She wanted the ground to swallow her from where she seat and slip her away into some dark place away from here. She could barely stand the male's presence anymore, and yet she was paralyzed, a deer in the headlights.



Maybe she felt for those who were not touched. Harrow could masquerade and wear masks and play the role, her act, that she was just as merciless as the rest of the Family. Maybe the mask was a part of her and it always will be, but it could not hide away her heart. It was one of her many weakness: she felt too much. She could be aloof, uncaring, spitting, and jaded. But that was simply her character. She had vaguely considered what they were doing with the slaves to be wrong, especially have her return when the ideas of freedom and independence surrounded her and clouded her misshapen judgement. But, like everything else that was conflicting and complicated, she had let it go, and let it fade from mind as other things came and grabbed at her attention like shiny things. But the emotion that tore at her chest and squeezed her lungs until they ached and beyond that and it seemed to be the only real thing at that moment.



It was wrong, all wrong. But, nothing would change. They, the slaves, would remain like shadows to the pack, silent and ever trailing after their beings, until Salsola was no more. After this, nothing would be different. The world would turn like before. And maybe that was what had disarmed Harrow and left her broken.



Hysterics were upon her—she had always been prone to panicking. Her breathing was beginning to hitch in her throat, and she made no further attempt to stop it. Though she was not reaching out for his touch, though entirely undeserving for it, she did not protest as she felt his arms wrap around her, and she buried herself into his golden fur. She wept and wept like a child, and she was that, nothing but a child. Calming words reached her, and she grasped at them, but they were like thorns; the tighter she held them, the more they hurt, but she did not let go. He asked her not to cry. Her body would not cooperate until a moment later; she was still sniveling and heaving, but her eyes were emptying the last of her tears as she forced herself to stop, only because he asked.



I'm sorry, she repeated to apologize for her crying, but it was more controlled unlike the babbling she had done a moment ago, as dark hands wiped away the wetness that leaked from her eyes. I-I don't know why, I didn't mean to. I... She was lost for words. What could she say, anyway? No words could, or would, change anything. Nothing she could say would reveal the guilt that ripped at her, that she could never be forgiven for what she had done and have been doing since the day she had been born despite the "sorry"s that tumbled from her mouth. She wanted to cry again, but she kept it in this time, barely so.

+628

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[/html]
[html]<div class="harsig1">
<div class="title">Harrow D'Angelo</div>
<div class="icicons" id="signature-icons">
<a href="#" class="character-typical-location" title="Harrow is often found at her home in the Ruins or wandering around Salsola."></a>
<a href="#!" class="accompaniment" title="Often accompanied by Omitl."></a>
<a href="#!" class="skill-crafts" title="Relatively skilled at art & poisons."></a>
<a href="#!" class="scent-warning" title="Outside of Salsola, disguises scent."></a>
<a href="#" class="references-okay" title="OOC references okay - See Wiki for details."></a>
<a href="#" class="optime-preference" title="OPTIME unless otherwise stated."></a>
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#11
[html]
wordcount ► 653

Gale, not very well used to female interactions in general, was like a fish out of water in this one. He was not used to dealing with women, especially women that were sobbing into his chest like this. He was unsure of how to act, and since the woman was a freeborn member of the pack, he was even more lost and confused. She was sobbing, crying, her tears very obvious to him as he had wrapped his long arms around her narrow shoulders. Harrow was smaller than he, but so many were, and she seemed to fit inside his arms. Gale had never truly held any other women besides his sister and nieces, and one of them had died quite young. Yvette was the only female he felt comfortable enough to touch like this now. And he was entirely uneasy about this, as he had never known slaves to comfort their masters without some illicit relationship between them.


Her voice was a little hoarse whenever she sobbed, wracking her body The poor girl was suffering from something at this moment, and perhaps his little sad story had sparked out all of her emotions and let them forth like a dam breaking to flooding an entire valley with pend of water. Rather, that was the only explanation that made any sense at all in the man's mind. He did not understand the sympathy given to him by a freeborn, as it was far beyond his understanding. Many of those that he had known did not much care about their slaves; they had been expensive toys, nothing more. There were families in Rome who had very much so loved and cared for their slaves and would sometimes free them, but Gale had never known any of that. He had only ever known the harsh punishments of their nails, sticks, and whips. Evangaline had known the cruelty of their lusts and desires.


Yet, as he held onto the crying Harrow, it almost made a little sense how some of the well cared for and actually appreciated slaves could care for their masters in return and actually enjoy working for them. A slave always had a job, always had work with their owner, and that was made all the more pleasant when the owner was a kind soul. The only reason that Gale did not much like to work for the Helsi witch was because she had taken away his freedom, even after he had finally found it and had it in his hands. Still, Yvette was happy and he could do no more than that.


Harrow finally stopped, though she looked like a mess. She wiped her eyes and he let his arms slowly fall from her shoulders. Gale was uncertain; he was never very good with words when the moment came, and he was just as terrible with them now. Harrow's eyes seemed a little red and puffy from the crying, and her face seemed wet from the tears she had shed. It really did break his heart, since he did not understand why she had cried. Was it for him? Or was it just the emotional dam breaking? "You shouldn't cry," he said lamely, not really sure of what to say to ease the woman's sadness. "You have done nothing wrong, uccellino."


His hands shifted from the woman's shoulders, to take her smaller hands into his large ones. Gale attempted a smile, and thought as quickly as he could. "You should let me apologize. I'll make you some pine tea; it's good for you and will calm you. Or I'm sure Yvette has some chamomile stored away somewhere." Even though he was the reason Harrow had cried, he did not know if the reason was worth him apologizing to her for, even if she had spent the past few moments doing the same to him.


Images credited to Jason Pier. Table style inspired by Kitty.

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#12
[html]
I'm Not Calling You a Liar, just Don't Lie To Me
She was never one that liked to be touched. Even the simple, accidently brush of bodies or hands was enough to earn the other a glare, if not a quick, quiet growl meant only to show displeasure. But now, she could not help but to let Gale wrap his arms around her smaller frame as she buried her face into his chest. She could not tell what his reaction was to her own; her hands had covered her face as she felt the tears come, and even then as she wiped her face she did not find the strength to take a peek and took to staring at the ground. His words were comforting -- oh, they did calm her, but at the same time they nudged her closer to going back to hysterics, for she was undeserving for anything of that nature from him -- but she was not sure if he was moved, or if he was indifferent about her tears. She would not be surprised if he was the latter, and maybe even hoped that he was.



She felt terrible, and she knew she must have been a sight to see, wet eyes and cheeks stained with darker streaks. Gale's next words wanted her to correct him, that she had done wrong, but she doubted she could amend that statement without being choked with emotion again. Feeble anger at herself swelled in her chest, threatening to make her tear up in frustration at her own incompetence, but it was easily pushed out of mind as she merely sighed to show that she had heard his words. She did not want to cry again, at least not in front of Gale, since he told her not to and made herself keep composure. She could at least grant him that.



She felt his hands slip off of her slim shoulders and watched as rather large paws took hold of her's. She made herself look at him then, and saw as he tried to form a smile. It was decent enough, enough for the corners of Harrow's lips twitch upwards in some halfhearted attempt to mirror it. She shook her head, and said, There's nothing to apologize for, really... But tea does sound nice. I never had tea before. She did not want to dismiss him entirely despite his unnecessary need to apologize, and took his offer.



She gently pulled one of her hands away to softly rub her face once more, brushing her hand over her forehead and slipping it over her head, ruffling her dark mane slightly. I look pitiful, uh? she said in a somewhat sarcastic tone, her face twisting into a more heartfelt smile, even if the humor was at her own expense. Yes, she must had been a sight if Gale was offering tea to calm her down.

q__q feels / +473

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<div class="title">Harrow D'Angelo</div>
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<a href="#!" class="accompaniment" title="Often accompanied by Omitl."></a>
<a href="#!" class="skill-crafts" title="Relatively skilled at art & poisons."></a>
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