❝dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragons' fire.❞
in which valerie greenwood is the sandman. she is what nightmares are made of. she is hell wrapped up in a twenty year old girl (at least, according to her). and travis stoll isn't scared of...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ALYSSA WINSLOW HAD NOT EXPECTED the stark difference between heiress Valerie and Sandman Valerie.
Sandman Valerie is closed off, secluded within herself, quiet and stoic. She does not smile, or go out of her way to talk to people. She wears all black and band tees, Dr. Martens that have been broken in with time.
Heiress Valerie is bright and bubbly, smiling at the people she passes in the stores they enter. She's wearing color, a pale blue sweater and a pair of tailored jeans, tucked into a pair of Chelsea boots.
She looks so different from the Valerie that Alyssa knows and loves, the one that she's had to drag out of bed at all hours of the afternoon, all darkness and secrecy and sharpness. But she's smiling at the boutique's sales associate, beaming widely and making small talk.
"Miss Greenwood, it's been so long!" The sales associate, a peppy blonde whose name tag identifies her as Becca, says, reaching across the counter to place her hand over Valerie's. "I was so sorry to hear about your sister, but I'm glad to see you again."
Valerie's smile falls only slightly, turning sad. It's all an act, it seems, although the flicker of something mournful in Valerie's eyes is real. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that." Her voice is soft, and she squeezes Becca's hand once more before withdrawing her own hand.
There is a lull in conversation for a moment, until Becca clasps her hands together. "So! What are we looking for today? I'm assuming you're shopping for a dress for Eloise's birthday, but what direction are we going in?" She asks, leading Valerie and Alyssa deeper into the shop, where rack after rack of gowns lined the walls.
"I was thinking something Alexander McQueen, maybe Rodarte. And I like some of Dior's new line." Valerie says, listing brands that Alyssa has only seen on celebrities, in pictures from award shows. "I might just try some things on until I find something I like."
Becca's smile grows, showing off a dimple in her left cheek. "Alright. If you need me, I'll be up front." She says, and her heeled boots clack sharply on the tiled boutique floor as she walks back up to the desk by the door. She's humming to herself, under her breath, and she's quiet as she clicks around on the shop's computer.
Valerie turns to Alyssa, and her smile falls immediately. "That was torture. I was two seconds away from bribing her into leaving us here unattended." She whispers, whiskey eyes dark and deadly serious. "That made me want to die. I hate the richy rich small talk shit."
Alyssa is only able to hide her laugh by turning away from Valerie, facing a rack of designer gowns. There are a myriad of colors dangling from padded hangers, blue silk and silver lace and black velvet.
"Divide and conquor?" Alyssa asks, gesturing to the wide room.
Valerie nods, just barely tipping her chin down. Despite her negative stance on her wealth and privilege, something sparkles in her eyes when she sets her gaze on the designer dresses. While she's always felt more comfortable at Camp Half Blood, where wealth and prestige doesn't matter in the slightest, she grew up in this world—grew up surrounded by more money than she could possibly spend, with a last name that opened doors and expensive things were purchased without batting an eye.
