her bare feet seem to be saying 'we have come so far'
Who: Sheila And You. At Least One Of You
When: Backdated to the 24th, before the icicle blast.
Where: A Random Roman Catholic Church in the Port. (Y'know there is one) (Somewhere)
Summary: Sheila finally finds a church at the Port. It's time to reflect. And, perhaps, socialize.
Warnings: Nothing. This is basically because I've missed out on so many awesome events. Sheila survived the bombing at the Towers via luck (Because her mun has no time - what's that again?; and this post chooses to reflect that. Wanna be the person who guided her to safety?
She is alive. That fact alone is some sort of mild miracle, since the apartment right beside hers is now rubble. The trauma's clouded the part of her mind that governs the memories behind her descent; somehow she got to the shelter. There she has been eating, if not sleeping. The vague swirl of memories - of having been to parties and to Christmas and to work - flit through her mind. She sees the smoking hole blown into the crater of her second home. It is as was the tower of her own homecastle, under a rain of Greek fire. Life has a way of circling about like this, tail to head, in a parody of self-immolation.
Through the enormous drifts she has slid and marched, all cloaked in her black cape, wearing the shoes she acquired from a goodwill bin, waddling like a penguin returning to her spawning ground. She has found this place through sheer will, the wood gleaming under her hand. The beads the first thing she has ever owned, the shoes the latest.
She will not fail herself in this.
Bent to her prayers, her mind wanders. There are candles lit for the souls of her brother and parents, and even for Ash...wherever he might be now. She has come to feel the dullest sensation of loneliness at his name. Perhaps the hard work of this place has deadened her to
When you have given your whole self to someone, it is a bitter dross to discover you've only been surcease for a randy cock. She has waited nearly a year for him to return, but the ground has frosted over, the chainsword gleaming, polished and unused in her closet. It's time for her to take care of herself, yet she prays for strength to remain herself.
She is the same woman she was a year ago and not at all.
Perhaps you will recognize this as she genuflects, turns, and walks up the aisle. Perhaps not. But she's coming your way.
When: Backdated to the 24th, before the icicle blast.
Where: A Random Roman Catholic Church in the Port. (Y'know there is one) (Somewhere)
Summary: Sheila finally finds a church at the Port. It's time to reflect. And, perhaps, socialize.
Warnings: Nothing. This is basically because I've missed out on so many awesome events. Sheila survived the bombing at the Towers via luck (Because her mun has no time - what's that again?; and this post chooses to reflect that. Wanna be the person who guided her to safety?
She is alive. That fact alone is some sort of mild miracle, since the apartment right beside hers is now rubble. The trauma's clouded the part of her mind that governs the memories behind her descent; somehow she got to the shelter. There she has been eating, if not sleeping. The vague swirl of memories - of having been to parties and to Christmas and to work - flit through her mind. She sees the smoking hole blown into the crater of her second home. It is as was the tower of her own homecastle, under a rain of Greek fire. Life has a way of circling about like this, tail to head, in a parody of self-immolation.
Through the enormous drifts she has slid and marched, all cloaked in her black cape, wearing the shoes she acquired from a goodwill bin, waddling like a penguin returning to her spawning ground. She has found this place through sheer will, the wood gleaming under her hand. The beads the first thing she has ever owned, the shoes the latest.
She will not fail herself in this.
Bent to her prayers, her mind wanders. There are candles lit for the souls of her brother and parents, and even for Ash...wherever he might be now. She has come to feel the dullest sensation of loneliness at his name. Perhaps the hard work of this place has deadened her to
When you have given your whole self to someone, it is a bitter dross to discover you've only been surcease for a randy cock. She has waited nearly a year for him to return, but the ground has frosted over, the chainsword gleaming, polished and unused in her closet. It's time for her to take care of herself, yet she prays for strength to remain herself.
She is the same woman she was a year ago and not at all.
Perhaps you will recognize this as she genuflects, turns, and walks up the aisle. Perhaps not. But she's coming your way.