they put you in a box
Who: mortestmamere, vanagandr, and I suppose if anyone wandering around Camelot wants to talk to her, they can.
What: Well, he was invited.
Where: Camelot is the place for all things.
When: October 20th
Warnings: Fruitcakery
She is coming to like this cold, dreary fortress. She enjoys the quiet of the place, the great expanses of emptiness which house only dead memories and flickering spirits now. The wizard can shout at her all he likes to the contrary, but Christine knows that they are there, and she enjoys her conversations with them. Truly, it is almost an insult on the old man's part to deny them the life that they breathed here, infused the shadows and mortar with. For some, their blood is soaked into earth and stone. Christine is appreciative of it, and she sits and gossips happily with long-dead scullery maids about the courts no longer called, and about the strange city Camelot is now sister to. She pays them due homage in flowers and trinkets.
She had found a dead bird in the great hall, the very first morning she had stayed. She'd taken it as an omen, had quickly treated and stuffed the little thing to honor it, and it now decorated the archway above her door. A chamber claimed on the second floor, that she was steadily and privately making her own. The smell of chemicals and paint is pervasive, but not overpowering, not with such great open windows to keep the air flowing through.
Yes, she's starting to like it here quite well, and she is humming to herself, relaxed and quite at home, as she works on a painting, one of several that she had started just two days before. Her ripped jeans and loose, white tank-top are both slathered in paint from her exuberance, but that's to be expected, isn't it.
What: Well, he was invited.
Where: Camelot is the place for all things.
When: October 20th
Warnings: Fruitcakery
She is coming to like this cold, dreary fortress. She enjoys the quiet of the place, the great expanses of emptiness which house only dead memories and flickering spirits now. The wizard can shout at her all he likes to the contrary, but Christine knows that they are there, and she enjoys her conversations with them. Truly, it is almost an insult on the old man's part to deny them the life that they breathed here, infused the shadows and mortar with. For some, their blood is soaked into earth and stone. Christine is appreciative of it, and she sits and gossips happily with long-dead scullery maids about the courts no longer called, and about the strange city Camelot is now sister to. She pays them due homage in flowers and trinkets.
She had found a dead bird in the great hall, the very first morning she had stayed. She'd taken it as an omen, had quickly treated and stuffed the little thing to honor it, and it now decorated the archway above her door. A chamber claimed on the second floor, that she was steadily and privately making her own. The smell of chemicals and paint is pervasive, but not overpowering, not with such great open windows to keep the air flowing through.
Yes, she's starting to like it here quite well, and she is humming to herself, relaxed and quite at home, as she works on a painting, one of several that she had started just two days before. Her ripped jeans and loose, white tank-top are both slathered in paint from her exuberance, but that's to be expected, isn't it.