#gridcrown

she is, quite easily, one of the best people in this rpc, not in a loud, attention-demanding way, not in a way that needs to be constantly proven or performed, but in the quiet, consistent, almost infuriating way that just is. you don’t question it. you don’t debate it. you just notice, over time, that everything feels steadier when she’s there. there’s something about her presence that changes the shape of a space. conversations feel easier, lighter, more intentional. people soften around her without even realizing they’re doing it. and it’s not because she tries to be anything, it’s because she doesn’t. she shows up as herself, fully, honestly, without calculation, and somehow that ends up being exactly what everyone else needs. she’s always been kind in a way that isn’t performative. thoughtful in a way that isn’t forced. she remembers things, the small things, the important things, and she carries them with a kind of quiet care that makes you feel seen without ever feeling exposed. she has this instinct for people that i don’t think can be taught. she just understands when to be there, when to listen, when to make you laugh, when to let something sit.

and she’s funny, which i feel like doesn’t get said enough. not in a try-hard way, not in a way that pulls focus, but in these perfectly timed, almost effortless moments that make everything feel less heavy. she has this ability to cut through tension without dismissing it, to make things feel manageable again. writing with her, being around her in any capacity, honestly, never feels like work. it feels natural, like something that flows instead of something you have to force into place. she brings out better ideas, better scenes, better versions of people, and she does it without ever making it about herself. and i think what i admire most about her is that she doesn’t need to take up space in order to matter. she just does. her presence is enough. her voice is enough.

        here, her missouri accent sticks out like a sore thumb. without softening, amma's a charming, homely country bumpkin among royalty, but they seem to be taking to her just fine. really, amma doesn't care what they think. she's not here for them. if anything, they're here to entertain her. it's not a nice thing to say to what might be a room full of clarissa's devotees and dear ones, but amma's never been a nice girl. it's clarissa's thing, with all of her bright smiles and trophies and a gracious, helping hand. headlines and clinking glasses- and french, which amma knows, though nobody here knows it yet. she likes it better this way, hiding her wolf of a tongue with a smile.

        if she's dressed in sheep's clothing ... amma's one drunk-ass lamb. and if it shows- don't know, don't care! these people know her better as amity crellin, anyways. princess of pig slaughterers and american roots. blah-de-blah, blah. even here, she's doomed to be adora's daughter.

his chest feels tight, wiping away the sweat that formed on his brow. shoulders roll uncomfortably, his baby blues cast to the dirtied floor. there's no excuse anymore. her words are harsh, a reminder to him that he can no longer sit around and be idle. that's not who he's ever been. despite his exhaustion, he's not infected, and he's not dead ( yet. ) i just have to keep moving, keep going, until i see the light at the end of the tunnel. all of this is one bump in the road.