So, Father. There's a new arrival at the temple. She's a tired, weary thing, dressed in the plain clothes of a new arrival, and she is very, very quiet. Very still. Her breathing is inaudible, the rise and fall of her chest nearly imperceptible. You've seen this look in people's eyes before, on a ship between worlds and again in a Village; an observer, looking at nothing, taking in everything. There is no comment. There are no words.
Not for awhile, anyway. Not until the late-crawling sunset, here at the edge of summer's dominion, threatens to make travel back home dangerous, or impossible. As others filter out, leaving you and perhaps Degas behind, the new woman's head turns to look directly at you, at long last. Her goblin glamour melts away to reveal familiar pale flesh, and hair of squirming shadows that drip, like maggots, onto the floor to evaporate into the light. Vickie Reeds. Number Forty-Four. Half-hunched like this her profile resembles nothing less than a kukri, wicked and weighted, but she'd never hurt you, would she?
She's so very tired.
"Sanctuary," Vickie murmurs. "...Always wanted to say it, but I do also mean it."
A Ragged Ghost | Open
The new arrival floats from job to job, trying this thing and that at any door that won't turn her away. Need a dish bitch at your bakery or the Burger King? Sure. Help with Laundry Day? She's already there. Farms are approached to ask if they might want a hand, with things so busy, though this strange thing that won't give a name keeps having to stop and wipe tears from her eyes when animals do the most normal things.
One day a butterfly lands on her shirt in the middle of the street, and she breaks down sobbing, inconsolable, demanding not to be touched.
Approach carefully. One last chance at life or not, there is a tail of hurt that trails after this woman, and she won't hesitate to dish it back out.
Vickie Reeds (Number 44) | 23+ (time abyss) | Changeling: the Lost & CRAU
So, Father. There's a new arrival at the temple. She's a tired, weary thing, dressed in the plain clothes of a new arrival, and she is very, very quiet. Very still. Her breathing is inaudible, the rise and fall of her chest nearly imperceptible. You've seen this look in people's eyes before, on a ship between worlds and again in a Village; an observer, looking at nothing, taking in everything. There is no comment. There are no words.
Not for awhile, anyway. Not until the late-crawling sunset, here at the edge of summer's dominion, threatens to make travel back home dangerous, or impossible. As others filter out, leaving you and perhaps Degas behind, the new woman's head turns to look directly at you, at long last. Her goblin glamour melts away to reveal familiar pale flesh, and hair of squirming shadows that drip, like maggots, onto the floor to evaporate into the light. Vickie Reeds. Number Forty-Four. Half-hunched like this her profile resembles nothing less than a kukri, wicked and weighted, but she'd never hurt you, would she?
She's so very tired.
"Sanctuary," Vickie murmurs. "...Always wanted to say it, but I do also mean it."
A Ragged Ghost | Open
The new arrival floats from job to job, trying this thing and that at any door that won't turn her away. Need a dish bitch at your bakery or the Burger King? Sure. Help with Laundry Day? She's already there. Farms are approached to ask if they might want a hand, with things so busy, though this strange thing that won't give a name keeps having to stop and wipe tears from her eyes when animals do the most normal things.
One day a butterfly lands on her shirt in the middle of the street, and she breaks down sobbing, inconsolable, demanding not to be touched.
Approach carefully. One last chance at life or not, there is a tail of hurt that trails after this woman, and she won't hesitate to dish it back out.