[ the dallen’s been all nerves the past few days. she’s to be wed, a little lady in white, hírilía’s been shedding her seasonally — sensitive scales now more than usual, the academy’s gossips whisper that her betrothed’s been seen in late — night escapades with a looney bin, and @soverlars can just be so loud. without any effort, without having to command the chords of his enunciated vocals. it’s just the two of them in the secluded corners of the greenhouses peering into the fine greenery of the gardens. her feet & shoe — wear, mary — janes cladded as if to prepare for the battleground of fifth period, not wet from the rain outside but still shrouded with an undefined type of cold. maybe it’s chronic, maybe it’s seasonal like (híri)lía’s shed. pages in her worn book on beowulf history are frantically flipped until they are not and theah dallen’s similarly frigid hands travel north to fix her near — perfect braid. she realizes, and tints a slight rose — pink at the consciousness of, that the majority of the ambiance’s sounds had solely been her insentient doing. there’s a small window of waiting. ] — YOU MUST THINK OF ME A CHILD. [ the admittance is whisper — soft, death — chilled. the safe distance between their sat persons seems to close in by the end of it. theah feels it by the urge of her bones to lead to fix off any strays in her braid once more. she feels spoiled, improper in every sense of the word as she then makes eye contact with achilde without breaking her practiced composure. to talk about rosaunt made some sense. but to talk — nay, rather moan & groan & pity & lament, — over him with achilde membresia in presence, no matter the pretense of their unfeigned friendship, felt completely and irrevocably wrong in the moment. ]
