that raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling

POSTED: Thu Mar 14, 2019 10:09 pm

(476)

I need to update her wiki, but Wisteria is wearing what'll be her usual outfit of a long dark orange tunic, brown cowl (hood not up) and dark leggings she also has her bow and arrow. I am bad at clothes, so I only just recently figured out her look xD

Like a shadow, or dark spectre black wings descended from the overcast sky. The sharp bite of talons scraped at the fur of her forearm, abrasive but impervious. It was fast becoming a familiar sensation, and not entirely unwelcome. She ruffled the raven’s downy neck with an expression that was not quite a smile, but neither was it as cold as it had been. The bird had neglected to return to the outpost, where no doubt her maman was waiting. Instead, he had attached himself to the pale girl, never far and swift to return, hovering just out of sight.

<”And where have you gone today, Mort.”> The girl murmured, casting her sights out into the grey beyond, just watching with a keen hunter’s sight that sharpened as the days wore on. The raven bobbed his head but made no sound, not even a deep-throated quork. <”Not talking today, huh? You couldn’t shut up the day we met cousin Ankh.”> The bird turned it’s head to observe her, making the jerking movements that most birds did though his eyes remained transfixed, beady, piercing. <”You were grandfather’s. What was he like?”> Her maman said little, if anything, about the man that came before her- the one who gave her life. Whenever Wisteria asked, the few times she mentioned him there was always silence. And Wisteria for all her fleeting weeks of life could see in her maman a certain rigidity and her nose smelled fear. She didn’t know what answers she would find in a creature barely capable of canine speech, but she wondered. In her mind’s eye she saw only blue lights cold and formidable as a glacier but small and sharp as pinpricks. Eyes?

Though the air was warming Wisteria shivered. Mort ruffled his feathers and began to preen as pale Wisteria pondered. <”What kind of man would name his bird Mort?”> It had always unsettled her, and the teaching of D’Angelo maintained that only followers of Tak were friends of death. And though black as he may be, as all raven’s were, she could not bear the name. <”Wherever grandpa is he’s dead now, and you won’t leave me alone so I guess you’re mine. How about I give you a new name? What do you say, Mort? I mean…”>

“Name?” Crowed the raven, but instead of an unsettling mimicry of her own young voice the sound was deeper, quieter and it chilled her bones. Her gold brows furrowed and she blinked at a thought.

<”Whisper.”> She said. <”That’s your name.”> The raven gave no reply other than a croak as he unfurled his wings and flew skyward and Wisteria’s amber eyes spied the cream figure accented with russet, her hair kempt and form ever clothed in elegant shifts.

“Clem?” How long had she been here, why hadn’t Wisteria known she was coming? “Clementine!”

Last edited by Wisteria Valentine on Thu Mar 21, 2019 6:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wisteria Valentine
Salsola
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Stormie
Luperci In memoriam

POSTED: Sun Mar 17, 2019 10:01 pm

(300) man, the outfit struggle is real, so i feel you on that

Her wardrobe in its current state was a mean little thing as much out of neglect as it was her youth. Indra traded often – and found things – and Lilia’s family, known most widely for their involvement in political circles and social projects, were not unfamiliar with the concept of bartering for goods. That she had anything to call her own in the present moment was due to Salvador’s good will and the elation (presumably) at his daughter having made a love match with a member of one of Salsola’s most highly regarded families.

Nonetheless, she didn’t wear these things she owned with frivolity, not yet. There was no one on whom she wished to make a lasting impression, young as she was, and many were content thus far to simply remark that she was a relatively merry child and a possessing of a curious mind. Her current white shift was new to her, but second-or-third-hand, and most certainly made by the hands of some clever weaver in her ancestral homeland. For these reasons she overlooked the fact that it was not pure white (so very few things were, really) and had a faded, vintage cast.

The scarf was new though, and finely made, for all that it was raccoon fur.

Wrapping this closer about her neck, one end trailed behind her in a breeze that seemed to breathe of oncoming spring, the other down her front, clutched in her hands.

Clementine’s excitement at finally having arrived in Salsola had waned, and the realization that there were very few here who were even remarkably close to her own age had settled. Caught up in the small events of family, such as meeting those important members that were deemed most suitable to the continuing of her progress, she nonetheless felt immeasurably guilty at hearing her name on the breeze, realizing even in the moment to whom that voice belonged.

They were not boon companions, exactly, but girls of an age with one another who nonetheless found or made excuses to spend time in each other’s company simply because they were not family. It could become a tiring thing, after all, the expectations of those they held closest. Clem shied from this standard, this rebellion, always prepared to meet and exceed the expectations of others, but could empathize with it to some extent.

And so it was that she smiled genuinely when Wisteria caught up to her, named for some grandmother everyone had told her she resembled.

Wisteria! She answered, all sentiment and not falsity. Her clothes were new, or at least new to Clem, who hadn’t ever seen the amber-eyed girl wear them before.

Making new friends without me? She complained in jest, alluded to by her faint smile and a slight jerk of her chin toward the Valentine girl’s new feathered companion.

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Lorraine

POSTED: Thu Mar 21, 2019 2:52 pm

(304)

“I don’t think he’s anyone’s friend.” The pale girl replied, looking skyward, and added thoughtfully, quietly, “he belonged to my grandpère.”

Wisteria refocused on her friend as she neared, her dark lips splitting into an uncharacteristic grin that faded slowly as she tilted her head and made a soft sound just short of a giggle as she compared their statures. “You’re short.” In all honesty it was Wisteria who had changed the most. The pale older girl had grown a great deal in a short space of time- reinforcing the parallel between her and a grandmother long since passed. Her proportions were long and slender but gawky, an odd phase of growth not quite child but neither an adult. While it was doubtful whether Wisteria would grow any taller, her slight frame would benefit greatly from the formation of curves. And if she truly did take after her grandmother what a lovely creature she would be. Demeanor not withstanding.

“Aurelion, Sanguine, and I only came a month ago. When did you get here?” She asked, slightly perturbed that she hadn’t known of Clementine’s arrival beforehand. It registered in the backwards slant of an ear, her mind brimming with questions swifter than they could be answered. Her thoughts centered around a similar meeting with Víborg a couple weeks back. It was then she had first heard of the curse and the steps the Mafiosi chose to combat it. She wondered just how much Clementine knew, if it was more than Wisteria who did not have the benefit of such advantageous familial ties. That the Boss herself was her friend’s aunt might’ve bothered her- had she the appetite for political schemes. For now she was content beneath the mentorship of the Striker- a cousin of Valentine, and the endearing forthrightness of her uncle, Brocade.

Wisteria Valentine
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POSTED: Fri Mar 22, 2019 3:08 am

(300)

Color me surprised, Clementine grinned, her voice both level and a little unkind. to find you failing to make friends. It was a testament to their natures, this mock-and-not-mock banter that might’ve cut others to the bone. They was not untrue, the things they said, and yet they were devoid of the mockery so often found in other girls. Boys would be boys; girls would be worse.

They were more or less of an age with one another, though Wisteria was and always would be nearly two months her elder. It explained, among other things, why the girl with jack-o-lantern eyes had attained her full height and Clem had not; it also explained the strange hinterland her friend found herself in, no longer a girl but not yet a woman grown.

The younger of the two was, without a doubt, still a child.

I might be short, Began the Salcedo, eyes flashing. but your height’s your only asset. Was her pithy response, eyes raking the other woman’s choice of attire. With that hair and those eyes she would have benefited from almost any other color; blue, perhaps, or even purple. Certainly not the orange tunic that drew attention from her eyes with its brightness. Fashion was not one of her friend’s strong points. This was something they’d have to work on someday when they’d both achieved the means to do.

Not long after you, I think, She was thinking now, maybe a moon? The Salcedo children had been intending to come once the weather was pleasant, but Magnus' death and Clementine's feelings about it had altered their carefully laid plans. Nonetheless, it was clear enough that she'd missed something of import, for nothing within the Thistle Kingdom was as calm as she’d thought it would be. Wisteria’s uncle was no longer the Director, but temporary styled as an Inquisitor; so were some few others, all of them Faction members.

Why? She asked, young enough still not to fear answers to her questions.

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POSTED: Wed Mar 27, 2019 2:48 pm

(366)

Wisteria sneered at the words of her younger friend. “I’m the only friend you have outside your family.” She retorted, though it hardly came from a place of scorn. All Wisteria needed was herself, or so she liked to think. She admitted to no one how truly lonely she felt when she was away from her brothers or the familiar faces of her youth. She had neither the charisma or silver tongue of her parents to forge friendships successfully-- outside of Clementine-- who took her stoicism in stride. But in many ways they were still far apart due to the rapid growth and maturity of new optimes. The gap would decrease over time, or grow depending on the roads they chose to take in this life, the many branching choices in this kingdom of thorns.

Clementine’s reaction to her wardrobe mirrored her mothers and for a moment the girl considered why they’d ever become friends. The answer was not elusive, for the criticism was easier to stomach from a friend than a parent- and sometimes welcomed. Wisteria thought little of color and shapes that might accent her lofty height and pale pelt. She chose what was practical or useful, and while the orange tunic was a warmer and more saturated hue than was flattering it’s color mirrored that of dead leaves and dry foliage. Her brown cowl-- it’s hood currently lowered-- could camouflage her in a dark wood where her pale pelt might shine and draw the eye. While she could have easily chosen green, perhaps some hidden vanity had driven her to choose a shade that closer matched her eyes. For now, it was all she owned and would have to do.

“A moon?” She repeated, brows still furrowed, her lips pursing. That wasn’t long, if her parents had delayed their children’s travel another month they could have arrived together. “Did you come alone?” As they had. The first true test of many more to come. Though the thought didn’t ease her bitterness, to be tossed out into the world so abruptly without guidance.

With Clementine's unguarded "why?" Wisteria drew closer, a conspirational glint in her eye as she said, “didn’t you know? We’re cursed.”

Wisteria Valentine
Salsola
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Stormie
Luperci In memoriam

POSTED: Thu Mar 28, 2019 4:42 am

500 omg stop inspiring me to write such long posts

There were many kinds of friends one could make; friends you intended to use one day, boon companions, those who shared like interests, and those of necessity to stave off loneliness when one’s family was either unavailable or (as they sometimes were) unsuitable to the task. Wisteria and Clementine were a combination of these things, but largely comprised of the latter. Being girls of different families, close enough in age, it was only natural they would find themselves falling in together.

That didn’t mean they must like each other all the time, or that their squabbling truly meant anything. They cut each other with the words the same way one tested the fat on a pig, glancing blows only meant to cut their own teeth and make each other stronger. In time their metaphorical skins would become tougher, immune to jests and jokes at each other’s expense. This was why Clementine tolerated her friend’s cold shoulder – cold everything, really – that, and the amber-eyed young woman reminded her a bit of her own mother.

Not in appearance, surely, but their mannerisms. Sometimes Clem wondered if that was why they’d hung out in Portland; there was no shortage of youngsters who might mold themselves in the image of one of Salsola’s princesses, no matter her actual rank. Indra was the daughter of Salsola’s one-time Gamekeeper and granddaughter to Salvia, their golden-age Tigress.

Is that so? She wondered genuinely, thinking on those she’d met thus far. Your uncle likes me well enough, Clementine did not mention the way he meandered past the Ruins’ highest tower, coveting one of the treasures within. He’d told her tales of the war, so she’d keep her thoughts to herself. and anyway, we’re all family after a fashion. By your logic, I have many friends.

She grinned, knowing it was true. If one delved far enough into the past, almost all of their lines were linked in some oblique way.

For now. She said a bit quieter, thinking on why she’d left. No longer able to bear the mantle of Lilia’s grief and the guilt she herself felt for the part she’d played in Magnus’ death, she’d elected to make the pilgrimage to Salsola early and begin forging ahead with the skills her mothers had seen fit to equip her with. Lyra and Baltasar would be coming eventually, and she looked forward to it with equal parts dread and joy.

Her friend drew closer then, and the Salcedo instinctively tucked her chin in a manner that would protect her throat. The shine in Wisteria’s eyes was almost fever-bright, and Clementine mistrusted anything that made her friend feel anything resembling a strong emotion.

Cursed was a word she knew, and she felt a little sick upon hearing it. It explained the closeted conversations between her aunt and mother before the latter departed, and the strange expression on the soldier’s face.

Cursed? A moment's pause, and then, What makes you say that? Asked the girl with amethyst eyes, unsure this time whether she was truly prepared for the answer. Despite this, she found herself pressing in closer, playing abstractly with the sleeve of Wisteria’s tunic.

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Lorraine

POSTED: Fri Apr 05, 2019 3:04 pm

(616)

Nupe!

Her lungs inflated with another retort, for her stubbornness and determination rarely allowed her to let things go- even if Clementine had won this particular bout. Her words rang with a truth even Wisteria could not argue. But words escaped her and her teeth made a clipping sound as her lips sealed. She gazed upon her friend pensively, quiet and contemplative as Clementine herself had become. Did she even know her slip? For the sake of their friendship, however tenuous at times, the older girl’s stony face and bristling demeanor faded away. A mask, perhaps, like her mother’s overwhelming grace and sharp tongue surely was the same. It revealed the heart of her and her ears tilted.

“Why do you say that?” Were she someone other than her friend Wisteria wouldn’t have bothered. She so rarely delved into the problems of others. Like many in Salsola she guarded her own emotions as a means of necessity. Anyone could use them to their advantage and it would be regarded as a triumph by both parties to have uncovered such a waver. But she was, in many ways, still a child and therefore far more prone to slipping.

She thought back to the day she’d left- she’d gone to say goodbye to Clementine, but had been turned away. No one would tell her why. The girls had often spent time together, despite their differences, for the sake of sheer boredom and need to vent their frustrations about their respective parents and siblings. Wisteria said often how she and her mother clashed, and likewise Clementine had her own grievances. So this time had been odd. They hadn’t spoken since and over time Wisteria had forgotten. Seeing her now brought it back to mind, and while she was curious she would hardly force the issue. She wasn’t quite as cold-blooded as she appeared and rarely sought to cause pain to those she cared for.

When the revelation of the curse fell from her dark lips both girls huddled closer to discuss this new dark thing. It was exciting, in a macabre sort of way, as had the skeleton been when Wisteria and her brothers encountered it in the neutral territories. So she did not shy away this time. The girl had grown up on tales of the Khalif and their practices of ritually burning those of black pelts to appease and keep their dark god at bay. She wouldn’t balk now for fear was also it’s own sort of release. And she gold and white pelted-- pure had little to worry about in that regard.

“It’s not me saying it. The Boss did. Viborg told me. There was a meeting. They say the Crone was murdered.” She felt a pang as she said it, and thought briefly of her mother who held the Crone close as an almost surrogate-father figure. “Apparently, he was the third from the Sanctum to die. That’s why all the factions are Inquisitors now, they think maybe someone here did it.” She caught her friend’s eye to gauge her reaction, and puzzled herself over the implications. She knew only what her mother and father had told her of the various citizens of the thistle kingdom. But for all she knew the both of them had gotten on well with their fellows. She couldn’t for a moment guess who it might be- if it was indeed one of their own. It wasn’t an easy thought.

“My maman and the Crone were close. She said he helped her through something terrible. That he protected her. She won’t say what it was, but...if he’s dead.” She diverted her gaze toward the lone silhouette of a raven soaring overhead.

Wisteria Valentine
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Stormie
Luperci In memoriam

POSTED: Sun Apr 07, 2019 3:57 pm

500 we can probably start wrapping this up? then brushy brushy

No reason, She said, and though she didn’t mean it, her smile was back. It was a false thing, like the kindness her aunt showed before her temper engulfed the tower in banked heat, but it was enough. For reasons of her own, she avoided speaking of Magnus at all costs; guilt was a terrible thing, and a heavy burden, but she was diligent in carrying it.

We’ll talk about it some other time. Was all she said, and she meant it. There was a flinty sense of surety in those words. When she was ready to discuss it with others, there might be an ear or two willing to listen. As of yet, she’d refused any and all attempts to do so.

It was intrinsically tied up in her reason for being here so early; the thaw, the Boss had said, was when Indra and Lilia’s children had been expected, and perhaps they might’ve had things not gone so terribly wrong. As it was, she felt detached from herself—from her family, her remaining brother and sister—as if the blood ties that bound them were somehow lessened by distance and time. It was not true, not even remotely so, but she thought it sometimes at night when the dreams came, and she awoke alone in her small room.

Wisteria’s news was hardly less upsetting than her own secrets. That the Crone was dead, she knew, but not that murder was suspected, or that the entire tier he’d ministered over had suffered grievous losses before his untimely death. Her parents and their parents had interacted seldomly with those of the faith, either disbelieving or uninterested. Her grandparents had been great opponents of the witches; in their absence it seemed to have become the strongest of the four tiers…

… well, until the deaths.

It made her wonder whether the Pentiti himself could be responsible somehow, and it made her shiver all over with the thrill of the thought. Her green-eyed ancestress was long-gone however, and her brother with her. She doubted the former Gamekeeper had any interest in the politicking that went on here anymore.

Do you think so? She wondered when Wisteria spoke of a murderer among them, casting a glance around them as if the murderer might leap at them. I don’t know if either of my moms ever met him. She admitted, tilting her head slightly to one side.

He never made an appearance in their stories, but she knew that he’d risen to become Crone on the eve of Rafael and Violeta’s engagement. He’d seen to it himself and made it his first act as leader of the Sanctus Tier. It was a joyous story told in Rafael’s household, his marriage to the wind sprite who’d captured his heart.

Whether at the hands of a Salsolan or an Outsider, she knew that eventually someone would find blame brought down upon their heads like the fury of the sun. They didn’t have to be guilty, of course, it just had to be believable.

Maybe we should go back.

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Lorraine

POSTED: Thu Apr 11, 2019 9:56 pm

(259)

all good to wrap up!

Hardly one to pry, Wisteria accepted her friend’s denial. They were both here now and while duty and expectation might eventually force them apart perhaps they would find time to come together again, to grow to meet their destinies-- together. "Okay.” She said passively however her gaze lingered, as if she might yet extract some hidden detail in her friend’s expression. But the moment passed and Wisteria was content to let it be. There were far more exciting things to discuss, however morbid.

“I don’t know.” She said, she was not as privy to secrets as her friend. She knew precious little of her mother’s line, or how it began. Syringa refused to speak of her grandpère, for whatever reason. The most the girl had wrung from her was that he had been an Outsider that settled himself swiftly within their good graces and had at one time been a spy. The only thing of his that remained was the raven soaring above the girls’ heads. While clever as far as birds go, ravens were hardly astute conversationalists. There was so very little she could extract.

Wisteria had little more to say on the matter. She had no theories or suspects to name. Her mother and father knew very little of witchcraft, and while both had been members in good standing within Salsola their interactions with other had always been benign. She nodded her head. “Come on.” And when she held her forearm out to the side, a raven perched his eyes sharp and black as the darkest night.

Last edited by Wisteria Valentine on Thu Apr 25, 2019 8:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wisteria Valentine
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Stormie
Luperci In memoriam

POSTED: Thu Apr 25, 2019 5:53 pm

300 Let me know if you want me to change the hand-holding, LOL.

She understood that her silence—her refusal to share in their friendship, to confide—might drive them apart, but it was the constant war that went on in Salsola. The Law demanded secrecy, even among its own members, and they were covetous of their secrets. This made it a harsh place in which true friendship struggled to survive. This was also difficult for personal reasons; though she didn’t hold others to the same expectation, she felt that her grief made her weak.

So Clementine continued to deny anything was wrong, and simply stood underneath Wisteria’s penetrating gaze, sure of her purpose and suddenly aloof. It was a learned behavior Balthasar had adopted from Indra, and in times of pressure the violet-eyed girl found herself emulating this. It was her hope that it wouldn’t become a permanent fixture in her way of embracing the world, but things so rarely worked out the way they thought they would.

If they did Magnus would have been here.

If I hear anything interesting, I’ll let you know. She reached for her friend’s hand as they walked back, squeezing it with a smile. Without meaning to she picked up little—often inconsequential—things that might intrigue a quick mind. Though her height suggested she might make a good hunter or fighter, she knew that they were alike in their quicksilver minds.

Their paths, like her mother's and her sister's, might drive them apart given enough time and silence. Effort would have to be made if they intended to make a go of friendship in a place like this, and she thought about this while she walked. It had been easier in Portland, where the long arm of the Law was less obvious.

Another time, it would have bothered her to find herself evenly matched, but the news of the curse that hung over them like a plague was more important. Together they walked until the paths grew clearer and well-traveled, the raven circling above them.

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Lorraine

Salsola