Post by Vio on Apr 16, 2021 6:27:03 GMT -5
Wictoria #1
‘Twas a crisp night, illuminated by the gentle caress of the crescent moon’s silvery beams. Like a pearly smile captured in a sky twinkling with starlight, the brilliant grin gazed down through rolling clouds of inky blue, bearing its teeth for all below to see. Yet on the horizon, the orange-red glow of the sun stained the scene — the only thing it could have managed. For this was a rare occurrence to the people of this island, whose eyes seldom ever saw the radiant glow of the sun proper. This island’s name…?Montgolfière!
Nestled in the waters of the North Blue, ‘twas an isle surrounded by no less than twelve geological wonders. Each a towering pillar of volcanic rock rising from the shallow sea that surrounded the land, each of variable height and no less than fifty feet from sea level. Upon their peaks, brass bowls had been placed, of which three on this present day burned with a deep blue flame as oils were burned — the tallest peak to the south, its shorter neighbour to the west, and the last to the north-east. Within the hour, the flames of the second peak finally fizzled.
Knock! Knock! She awoke with a start. The sound of knuckles rapping upon her room’s wooden door had stirred her from an admittedly rather light slumber and, with groggy lethargy, she eased herself from the writing desk upon which she had fallen. Blue eyes surrounded by darkened circles gazed momentarily at the diminishing yellow flame of a simple candle within its iron holder, much of the jasmine wax having melted away and leaving the last few vapours upon which the flame desperately fed.
Another knock stirred her proper.
“Wictoria, dear! Are you awake?” asked a woman’s voice, the door easing open slightly and allowing the glow of another, more radiant candle to creep across the floorboards. Easing herself from her chair, the younger lady stood, wiping a little sleep from her eyes and brushing a waxy bang from her face. Her chocolate brown slacks and beige blouse spoke of a simple worker as she yawned and stretched, releasing some of the stiffness in her joints before finally replying.“Yes, mother…”
“I brought you some tea,” the woman said, pushing the door open with an elbow. She was of middling age, perhaps in her early fifties, yet her appearance barely gave it away. Only the slightest wrinkles about the corners of her mouth and eyes were suggestive of a woman past her prime, but could just as easily have been mistaken for laugh lines in how they were placed, not to mention how her face was contorted into the most gentle of smiles at seemingly every waking moment. A long house dress of honey colouration concealed a figure now slightly more on the plump side, but far from unattractive, with long white-blonde hair that poured from her head, tied back but allowed to cascade over one shoulder in an elegant yet distinctly lumpy loose braid. Blue eyes mirrored those of her daughter’s.
A small silver tray in her arms carried a burning candle, only recently ignited, and a tiny little teacup upon a plate whose green contents produced a strangely soothing, mild aroma that mixed well with the scents of smouldering wicks and molten, fragrant waxes. A small biscuit sat on the tea plate, too, for good measure, which she set down upon the small table beside the bed in an elegant and perhaps well-rehearsed manner. As if the movement were one in the same, she tucked the tray beneath her arm and took up the candlestick in hand. Eyes scanned Wick, lips pursing in a slightly amused but caring expression.
“You fell asleep writing again, I see,” she gestured, a finger pointed gently at the girl’s face. Wictoria raised a hand to her own cheek, pressing a finger against pale skin before looking at the black staining upon the skin. Eyes darted to the writing desk, where a parchment lay with smears of black across it, a chunk of its written word turned illegible, much to the young woman’s dismay. Not to mention, the ink pot beside it had now dried up, and so too the quill that she gingerly lifted from the floor at the desk’s feet.
“Ah… And so ‘tis that I shall needeth to acquire fresh inks,” Miss Joan nodded, getting a better look at herself in the small mirror at her dresser. Impressions of calligraphy upon her cheek and blotches of dried ink on her blouse actively confirmed her mama’s ‘suspicions’, though a change of clothes would not have gone amiss. “Mother, has father ‘ready departed for duty?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, and admittedly uncertain of what time of day it was.“Yes, he’s gone to work,” Mrs Joan nodded:
“Seems you’ll be having a day out…!”“Mm…”{Post Synopsis:—}
Wictoria is awoken by her mother, and prepares to venture out into the town!
NOTES: SnowDog, Sam, and maybe Fox?
Joan Wictoria | #f8de7e
Mrs. Joan | #c46210