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A green-eyed empress scuttled through the underbrush and stared at the tall, powerful museum that had been constructed long ago but converted more recently, the bricks and mortar displaying the renewal and her curiosity had first peaked as a child because of it. Her ordinary clothing had held much modesty with only neutral tones and a deep green cardigan over top to shelter her from the autumn cold. Then there was her vibrant copper hair that blew in the soft breeze and wailed in the harsh wind; nevertheless, it shone in the autumn sunshine at daybreak as no diamond had shone before. She had stalked toward the building nervously and with a great understanding of the risk she was at, the fear of being caught by the surrounding surveillance of security kept her alert.
Rowan Lochwood was an effervescent creature, she had always remained hopeful for her future as a poet and would cherish the nature of good human beings that would influence her studies. Rowan has an outstanding amount of understanding of the English language and would often use words that no one else had ever even heard of. The passion for it had removed any accent of Birmingham and she just sounded normal, somewhat posh with the occasional unusual word but she really had not had the twang of Birmingham.
Along with literature: one of her many passions had been her love of all things the 1920s and proceeded to study the era without ceremony and until it was as if she had lived then herself. She would often think of the disappointing response to the outbreak of shell shock and PTSD after the Great War and how it had never been truly resolved. Even now soldiers from any war had been mistreated and most notably disregarded from validity. This was very much fact, and she refused to argue with anyone who disputed it.
Not that social gatherings, interactions or any type of debates were normal for her.
She had always disliked social interactions as with strangers she took on a very evident stammer because of her nervousness and if anything hurt her more than talking with strangers, was the idea of hurting someone with something she had said.
Rowan would often spend hours in her library, harbouring herself from the world while she continued to grow her knowledge. Her house was irrefutably the most wonderful in all of Birmingham. It was a family house with out of control ivy and wild roses crawling up the walls and looked almost like out of a fairytale. You would've expected many others to be living with her but she had lived alone for all of her adult life which was coming up to 4 years as she approached her 22nd birthday. There had been no tragic accident nor heroic ending to her family's near extinction but the absence of luck with health was solely to blame. This had left the Lochwood lady to sorrow, loneliness and literature.
Approaching the museum was a feat in itself because of the wild surroundings, the weeds growing tall and grass being thick and rich with mud. She gripped her emerald necklace, a token from her mother who had always believed that green suited Rowan. Her eyes were of similar tones and the little specks of hazel and brown added to their beauty. The beloved locket opened and inside was a picture of her dear (and only) friend Malachi.
He had become the only person to take care of her and visit on the odd occasion when he could get away from the office, he was a solicitor and one of the most brightly respected in the field. He had become her best friend in school and they had stayed as thick as thieves. Malachi seemed to be the only person who acknowledged her existence.
The garden that had surrounded the museum made her think of her own garden, and the hours she would spend wandering around it, romantic novel in hand and at times - when she fancied it - a gothic romance. Oscar Wilde's poetry was her most recent reread and it was unlikely she would ever stop reading his work. She had read almost all of his work and was infatuated with the romanticism of the man. He had become her favourite poet to read and model from.
She had dreamed about having someone likeminded to Mr Wilde in her company. Malachi was a man of logic and wouldn't share in the idea of romantic escapades that Rowan would, he knew that men like Oscar Wilde didn't walk down the street anymore as romanticism had slowly begun to die out. But Rowan made him believe it would stay alive forever, she wished to keep it as living and fruitful as the roses thriving in her garden.
There were things Malachi wished he could shield her from, her innocent nature and vibrant soul would easily be dampened because of her sensitive spirit. He was amazed that her sensitivity hadn't been taken advantage of yet and he wanted to protect her from it ever happening. But he also knew that doing so would not help her learn from her mistakes, and would learn to step back when needed, he knew she was getting lonely.
And Rowan knew he was right.
Without her knowing, Rowan was already being watched by security and if she made any bid to get into the museum they would politely arrest her for trespassing. The guards, however, knew the girl, she had been visiting the museum for years, and despite its refurbishment: it was closing down. Many hours of her childhood were spent exploring the museum and it was what first piqued her interest in the 20s. The more books she read the more the physical evidence came to her attention. A few months back she had taken a shine to the locally known gang named the Peaky Blinders and their reign at the top of the crime ladder for many years. The Shelby's has really obtained her interest and soon enough she knew everything there was to know about them. They had acted above the law for years, killing, fighting and fixing horse races through the family betting business. She had seen paintings and portraits of the family when Malachi had shoved them in her face one evening, marvelling at the sheer power of the family.
The museum was cold and much to her dismay her cardigan was not doing much to aid her because of it, even with her attempts to warm up; she couldn't. Breaking into the museum had been simple enough, a window left ajar and a climb through it led her into the bathroom.
The cold soon left her as adrenaline took over.
She was being chased in a game of cat and mouse through the museum by a duo of security guards, both unfit enough to run. She sprinted towards the war and crime section and but tripped and fell into something. Through her delirium, she was unsure of what it was but made no bid to find out as she ran and hid behind the WWI uniforms.
She noticed a singular badge on the British uniform, it was not an award or medal. It left her confused as to what it represented, and through her curiosity she stared at it, reaching out to touch the badge and feel it's history. As her finger graced over its smooth design... she felt this energy climb around her and transport her to another place.
Rowan awoke face down in the mud, her long copper hair dangling in it, but thankfully it had been dry mud and not squelching mud like that of a bog.
The place was completely foreign... yet somewhat familiar.
