Eleventh Ink Drop [Accidental Voice]
[After hearing about Vash's death - Miyabi slammed her journal shut and threw it as far and hard as she could before she actually heard him die - the little Poncle tried her hardest to take her mind of things. But it was hard to really do anything with her state of mind. So, she's currently standing on the highest possible branch of Ammy's tree. It was the only place here in Luceti that kind of reminded her of home. Don't worry, Ammy, she left you a little food down there, seeing as how she's kind of intruding a little.
Miyabi just stares blankly at the sky for a good, long time as the wind ruffles her bangs and robe. She's not afraid of being up so high, not at all. In fact, it was much better up here, away from things. She could breath in the fresh air, listen to rustling branches and leaves, and just escape. Still, her thoughts were a jumbled mess as the moment, so escape was hard even now.
She should paint. Painting always helps...a little.
So the girl opens her journal, not really caring if everyone else would see what she drew. It's only after she opens her journal and stares aimlessly into it for a few minutes, does she realize she doesn't have anything to paint with. She ran out of the house as fast as she could without thinking of grabbing supplies.
Little does she know that the journal is recording her silence, which is broken only by the soft splatter of tears on the pages. She doesn't say a word, just sobs quietly onto the pages, sniffling and curling in on herself.
Idiot.]
Miyabi just stares blankly at the sky for a good, long time as the wind ruffles her bangs and robe. She's not afraid of being up so high, not at all. In fact, it was much better up here, away from things. She could breath in the fresh air, listen to rustling branches and leaves, and just escape. Still, her thoughts were a jumbled mess as the moment, so escape was hard even now.
She should paint. Painting always helps...a little.
So the girl opens her journal, not really caring if everyone else would see what she drew. It's only after she opens her journal and stares aimlessly into it for a few minutes, does she realize she doesn't have anything to paint with. She ran out of the house as fast as she could without thinking of grabbing supplies.
Little does she know that the journal is recording her silence, which is broken only by the soft splatter of tears on the pages. She doesn't say a word, just sobs quietly onto the pages, sniffling and curling in on herself.
Idiot.]