there's no guarantee it doesn't matter

POSTED: Tue Jan 20, 2015 10:07 pm

Word Count → 310 :: COME TO ME, PASCALLL

The vacant-eyed girl had done well to keep her head low, herself private, straying rarely from her home with her parents and sister; though strayed on occasion to do as she had wished, which was to hang ornaments from the tree that she used to hide her treasures under, almost ceremoniously. Now was not such a time, though, and unreadable expression gathered the colored glasses and bottles into a small bag to be set aside for later. Now, though? Now was a time for an exploration, now was a time for adventure, even if it was within the safe confines of the Court. Silvia had not had a true expedition, after all, and it was best to start with the babiest of steps - not out of fear, but preparation.

The girl had grown considerably since her young age, though was still waif-like, with long, wispy feathering along her limbs that was well-groomed, partly to her father's insistence. The rest was kept at a manageable length, her long hair pulled into a loose (yet not unattractive) and intricate braid. She dressed rather nice, a new favorite pass-time of hers, and her adornments were typically modest and delicate. Expression, however, was still as unreadable as ever and enigmatic, a blank slate for her emotions to play on with the rarity that they had - the young Butler still had not quite mastered expression, and had still found it to be needless when the passion and expression was in her voice, after all, but still felt the stares and speculation from others, how they got unnerved with her ghostly presence.

It was what drove her to her solitude.

Breast puffed a little as she stepped out to the wintery landscape, taking a deep breath that puffed out in a cloud of vapor, before setting out to find a companion, much more adept at moving through the snow now than when she was a pup, no longer buried in the white blanket. Feet carried her with a small, bobbing step to the Hotel, and as soon as she had stepped through a door, there was a deep scent, something that she could only describe as musky and warm, not unpleasant, but not what she was akin to. Ice-eyes narrowed in slight as she followed it, knocking on a door carefully before peeking about a corner, sniffing for that wax-scent.

"Hello?" came the soft, curious lilt of her voice as she peered into the doorway.

POSTED: Fri Jan 23, 2015 12:02 pm

361 Random room. Tons of DIY & miscellaneous tabs open. Winning SoSu post. (Hi, shippers.)

A broad-shouldered, dark back hunched over a stained table, as Pascal, tongue thrust from the side of his mouth, slowly and carefully scraped shreds of wax from the scavenged candles he'd found in Halifax. These scraps he tossed into the double-boiler he'd constructed from spare pots in the hotel kitchens; he was constantly reminded of the first disastrous wax-burning his father had been there to witness the first time he tried to melt it.

Pas was a more experienced candemaker now, however, and his array of supplies spoke for him: rendered deer tallow, cold from the storage and in small blocks he would cut next; long wicks, ready to be dipped in the wax he would melt soon; tiny jars; small vials of essential oils, distilled from plants, traded from a savvy loner; and some rounded, colorful, faded things resting at the edge of the table. He reached for one now, slipping some torn and indecipherable paper from it (it once read "Violet Blue" and "Crayola") and beginning to slice shreds from it. He'd found these, too, in Halifax -- and tasted them, curious of their waxy scent, and decided he could use a little in the candles.

He decided he could use just a little of the crayon, in case it might ruin the batch, and was about to gather the pot to bring it somewhere safe to start a flame when a knock on the door rattled him out of his little world. The Margave jerked his head up and looked to the door, spotting abysmal blues set in a mottled face.

Hello, Pascal echoed, and bent to grab the larger pot of the boiler. He straightened with this, the smaller pot full of candlewax, tallow, and crayon shavings, and tilted his head at the girl. For another, he might have forced an awkward smile -- but with Silvia he did not feel the need; some oddity of her own made her face like his in this way. His tail wagged, half happy and half a nervous tic, and he gestured at the jars. Will you help me bring those outside? And the strings, too.

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POSTED: Sun Jan 25, 2015 10:36 pm

Word Count → -- :: 8D;

Silvia did not mind the lack of facial cues from Pascal, she would not press on such matters. Blank eyes watched, noted the tick of his tail and hark perked high atop her head, her own flag giving a tiny wave. Wordlessly, she did as she was bid, moving over to the items in question and picking them up. Eyes looked over the strings curiously, and she glanced about at the eclectic items. An alabaster finger extended slightly, wanting to touch that strange, colorful wax-stick, before withdrawing, worried she'd muss up his work.

Hands lifted up those items with the utmost of care, delicate - hopefully these weren't horribly fragile things. Hopefully she would not interfere with his work. What was this work, anyhow?

Her crown canted in slight, large doe-eyes blinking slowly as she appraised his tools.

"What is all of this?" came the soft lilt to her voice, curious. "It smells interesting. Different."

There was a span of two heartbeats, a soft moment. "Is it edible?"

POSTED: Wed Mar 04, 2015 4:48 pm

Okay, I have returned to the world of the living~

See galleries for credit.

Silvia went to help him, her hair settling in curious, feathered, wavy ways as she moved. She was like her doggish parents in that regard, and far more exotic than Pascal despite his own oddities. Among wolves, he might have been a sight with the rich chestnuts of his coat and his mismatched eyes, but Silvia was motley in a way only dogs could be -- yet subdued and pretty for it. He watched the fur on her elbows then the curl of her hesitant finger, shifting the boiler to his other hand.

For candlemaking, the Margave replied. He glanced at her sidelong, not quite meeting her face. You must have seen little jars of candles in places like the library or rooms. I make them with tallow and wax.

Her question would have made someone else laugh, but his tail beat harder for a couple arcs. Well, I don't think it'd kill you, but it tastes bad, he teased. He didn't suffer any adverse effects from the little bit of nibbling he'd done, but he didn't want to risk a tummyache by chomping on them when they clearly weren't food. His mama had taught him at a young age not to put strange things in his mouth, anyway.

Here, outside, he instructed quietly, and turned the corner to head out onto the front lawn of the hotel, paws beating briefly on asphalt and snow before he set the pots out of the way, at an old fire pit someone had made for cooking. He set the thing up, arranging some of the wood piled nearby. How are your bottles? he asked, again not-quite-glancing at her. Small talk always made him awkward, but a direct question was far easier than a "how are you?"

Loners
Wolf
User avatar
Raze
Luperci
tale as old as time
misfit prince

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