#wiintry

              a PRECAUTION. if she hadn’t been forced into such an unfortunate situation, she would perhaps laugh; as it were, however, only the most exiguous traces of a smile carves its way across porcelain features. she is being guarded; her guards are not stationed around her for her protection, but for the protection of others instead. a precaution. she turns her wrists slowly, glancing down for the briefest of moments.

              at least she’s no longer handcuffed. (for now she’ll look on the BRIGHT SIDE and see if it turns out the way that she wants it to). ❛ of course. i understand perfectly. ❜

       papers shift between slender fingers as beryl hues scan the words imprinted on them; reports of the pale featured woman’s actions. a surveillance camera had picked up the woman’s  SURPRISE appearance at the louvre, well after hours, and had alerted the police of her presence. chloe’s director wanted to make  ABSOLUTE CERTAIN  that this foreigner would not be a further problem and had tasked chloe with figuring out the real reason she was in the museum that night. a tsk-ing noise breaks through ivories as she makes quick work of the notes in front of her. foot finds its way to the leg of the chair opposite of the suspect, kicking it back enough for her to sit down.

the hesitation in the air is imminent to lucy as ingrid’s seemingly genuine warmth whisks away in an instant, leaving her to wonder if she’s done something WRONG--- besides being nearly killed by the strength of the snow’s sleep. but in the case of annoyance, lucy doubts ingrid would have rescued her at all--- much less give her such a WARM smile before repressing to a coldness mimicking the killer snow.

her face falls along with her head && she’s looking down to avoid having her watering eyes seen: the woman is BEAUTIFUL && she has such a majestic aura about her, but madeline is terrified. she’s scary, scary !! somehow, despite the calm && the beautiful gown && the kind face, she’s obviously very powerful !!

L o n e l y.

Peter listened to the sound of his footsteps on the forest floor and the sound of the winds rustling the leaves on the trees that surrounded him. The sun's light peered through the trees, glimmering in golden streams as it touched the ground and lit his path. His body felt heavy with emptiness and dread. He was lonely, though this was something he hated to admit. It had been some time since he'd last had a visitor. The shadows who inhabited the island were only so much company. Shadows weren't people. They could not provide him the company or ENTERTAINMENT he desired.

He halted mid step as he took notice of something different. Someone had entered Neverland. He turned in the direction of the beach, (where most visitors had appeared) and with only a thought, he appeared on the beach not far from the young girl who had her back turned towards him. He observed her for a moment before he finally spoke.

She goes to clear her head. Minnesota is small and terrible, but her head is clear here, and the further from cities she gets, the more comfortable Alana feels. She leaves and she leaves and it all gets better. Brisk air does her favors. Her mindset is better, her thoughts easier to manage. Even still, some nights sneak up on her. This, unsurprisingly, is one of them.

It’s very, very late. Almost five, and the Interstate State Park is vast. Probably too vast for someone with the difficulty she has. But the dogs are all asleep, nestled quiet and tucked lovingly in the mud room. Her children, all of them sound and silent, all of them breathing. She looks at them before she leaves, watches them for a long moment. How loving dogs are, how affectionate. How little they can know about her. 

There’s a river trail and at this time of night it’s rarely crowded, if ever at all. The steady stream, like the river similar to it, is often constantly moving, perpetually stifled. She finds a place aside-- a bench, and the river babbles quiet. It’s a few minutes before she realizes she is not alone-- it is a few more before she realizes, in fact, that she is being watched very very carefully. Her hair is blonde and she’s beautiful the way, sometimes, Alana thinks women are in the way that they’re imagined in stories told by others. But more than anything, she’s being looked at, and it makes her fidget, fingers anxiously brushing the handle of her cane. She’s tense. She always is.

Being looked at means being recognized. Often, being recognized is not-- kind for her--