The full seasonal event can be read here! Below are the main seasonal items for quick reference:
1. A thread reacting to the season's weather in some ways.
2. A thread in the part of the city your character doesn't live in!
3. A thread relating to your vocation.
Of The Season
Quote
"Tell Dr. Nate that Gale sent you, and he still owes me for the mushrooms. Except that it takes you a while to reach the clinic, and by the time you do your fever is spiking, and so instead of the requisite message you instead tell the poor soul who greets you that 'A gale'a m'shrooms sent me cus'a my hands.'" - Zephyr in Oh help me, please doctor, I'm damaged
Untie a tangled thread and talk about tomorrow, Step on your stretching shadow and talk about tomorrow.
It's raining. What a big shock for the season of Drenak for it to be raining, right?
It might be about midday, but the sun has been camouflaged by thick, grey clouds. In the streets below, people walk by with various colors of umbrellas. Most of them shuffle quickly from building to building, shopping bags in tow. The gleaming, glittering floors and stores reflect brilliant lights upon the wet surfaces below. As more people move, as the wind blows, the shimmer ripples and shuffles.
It's pretty, this rain.
The steady stream of umbrellas, a swirling rainbow of color.
The shoppers too, seemingly unfazed and unworried, are pretty.
Upon a balcony, tens of stories high, stands a slim figure against the light from the window. A face with a gentle, blank stare looks down at the crowds below, watching the push and pull with a sort of bored attention. If you get close enough, you can see him leaning against the railing, arms crossed, one hand clutching a metal bottle. The other hand is buried deep within the sleeve of a sweater.
The store behind him is packed full of clothing, various shades and colors, but all seemingly made with rain in mind. Various textures of nylon or plastic coverings, many coats, all designed to prevent you from getting soaked in a sudden downpour. All that effort, all in vain.
The door to the balcony, made of all glass, pushes open. The bustle from inside the store roars, causing the man leaning against the railing to let out a small, aggravated sigh. Straightening up, he turns around, his expression vaguely annoyed. He doesn't speak, just glances with disapproval.
Sure, it gets old after a while, and late in Drenak she will curse it all: the wet, the dark, the constant pitter patter of droplets on the windows. But for now, early in the rainy season, she looks out into the downpour and smiles. The damp hasn't yet set into her bones, and she can still remember how beautiful it is to watch the raindrops falling. Sometimes, on rare occasion, a rainbow will appear in the mist overhead, the umbrellas swirling below a pale mimicry of its beauty. Those are her favorite days.
Today, Maven is window shopping. She doesn't need anything in particular, but she can't stand to sit at home, alone with her thoughts, and hers is one of the umbrellas that has so transfixed the man on the balcony. She enters the building, rides the elevator all the way up to one of her favorite shops, browses for a while. When she gets bored and tired, sick of being jostled by other patrons, she slips to a side door made of glass, out onto the balcony, and breathes a sigh of relief. The air is sweet with rain, and she breathes it in gladly.
It is then that she notices a man looking at her, in a seemingly disapproving manner. She ignores the expression and smiles, calm and cool and collected, and says, "Hello. I'm sorry to have bothered you." She hesitates, reluctant to go back inside and rejoin the fray. "Do you mind if I join you for a moment? It's a madhouse in there."
I just want one more chance to put my arms in fragile hands
Untie a tangled thread and talk about tomorrow, Step on your stretching shadow and talk about tomorrow.
Much to his disappointment, she doesn't leave immediately.
A cool gaze watches her sigh of relief, her eyes cast outward toward the shimmering drops of rain. He watches as realization brightens across her face, her own turning to look directly at him. She smiles, almost in defiance to the cold, grim expression on the man's face next to her. His face does not change, almost to the point that you might find yourself wondering if that's just how he looks.
He does not respond immediately, almost as if her apology fell upon deaf ears. The annoyance does not wane or grow, though, so at least at the moment, she is not hurting anything by lingering on the balcony.
"It's fine," a voice that is surprisingly light and delicate responds, if only out of politeness. Dark eyes shift toward the window, into the store, as she references it. A horde of bodies swirls about in the store, amid colorful fabrics and textiles, looking oppressive even when viewed from the serenity found outside. The man lowers his gaze to the floor and turns sharply on his heels to lean back against the railing. "Whatever suits you."
Owen rests his head upon crossed arms and turns his face to look up at the stranger. Her figure is slender, much like his own, though she is considerably shorter. Against the grey backdrop of rainclouds and cityscapes, her hair is like golden sunlight. Her eyes like citrine. Pretty, he thinks to himself as the patter of droplets continues in the background.
"Shopping for something?" he asks, albeit a bit flatly. He does not really care, but it is a bit awkward to stand in silence next to a stranger when you are the only two around, even for him.
Maven knows that she is a disappointment to the stranger, but she can't bring herself to brave the crush of people in the store quite yet. It is far nicer here, listening to the pitter-pat of the rain and feeling a cool breeze on her skin. Yet, she still feels bad for having interrupted the man, and her smile turns apologetic as he acquiesces.
She moves to the railing, leaning her elbows on it and looking out over the swirling umbrellas of the city. It is strangely beautiful from up here, where she is not a part of the hustle and bustle below. It makes her feel removed from the life she lives here, as though she is outside her body watching herself exist. It's strange. She's not sure she likes it.
But the man speaks to her, and she turns to meet his eyes from where he looks up at her. "Nothing in particular," she says. "What about you?"
I just want one more chance to put my arms in fragile hands
Untie a tangled thread and talk about tomorrow, Step on your stretching shadow and talk about tomorrow.
A small smile, painful and apologetic, flickers across her face as Owen allows her to stay. A pang of regret taps his chest, but he hardly knows how to recognize it. Everything feels dull, as if it's taking place far away from him. From the other side of that vast difference, he does not feel gentle shifts in emotion.
Just annoyance, anger, apathy.
Drowning everything else.
Her eyes shift from the busy street down to his below, and he's not quite sure what to make of her expression. At least the weak smile is replaced with something natural. It suits her better.
"No," his answer is curt. He wasn't here to shop for clothes, since spending his father's money did not suffocate the fire in his chest anymore. At first, it felt good to at least waste what was so important to the man. Now, it left him feeling more and more hollow with each purchase.
So, why was the man up here, staring down at the world below?
It was simple.
"This is the best balcony in the city," he offers to let the woman in on his secret. His face turns back to look at the view, tracing invisible pathways in the air with his mind as he mentions each detail. "You are high enough up to see everything below in the plaza but in enough detail even during heavy rain. You can see out over the highway behind POE. Watch the sunset over the city."
You can be far away from the world here to be safe but still feel like it's close enough to touch.
This is the best balcony in the city, the man says, and Maven has to admit that he seems to be right. She faces out into the rain as he speaks, following his gaze down to the streets, up to the highway, over the city. She wishes she could see the sunset; even though she likes the rain well enough, watching the last of the sun's rays dim over the horizon is always spectacular from the plates. She feels bad for those in the Drench, where the sun barely shines. It doesn't seem fair, somehow.
"I see," she says, gently, in a tone that implies that she really does see. She is quiet for a moment, contemplating the view and the man and the balcony. How many balconies has he been to, in order to proclaim this one the best? "Do you come here often?" she asks, curious in spite of herself. Then, because that seems to imply too much interest, she adds, "I will try to avoid disturbing you in the future, if you're here frequently."
I just want one more chance to put my arms in fragile hands
Untie a tangled thread and talk about tomorrow, Step on your stretching shadow and talk about tomorrow.
If we leave the current moment and retrace the footsteps of the man leaning lazily against the railing, it might be surprising to find out just how many of these balconies he had tested out. Without a job or solid goal in life, the spectacularly lonely and self-loathing man had taken it upon himself to find a new pass time - locating an escape, however brief.
This balcony was one of dozens in this building he had been to. He'd scouted out the other buildings on this Plate too. In fact, he had even had a brush with the Enforcers a few weeks ago for trying to break into a balcony in one of the buildings in POE. His father was contacted, against his wishes, but at least he was not taken to the Capitol Prison for trespassing. Rather unpleasant conversation, that.
For the matter at hand, though, the pretty lady seems to take the statement at face value, not questioning his expertise in the matter. She asks him a question, a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. Moving his arm carefully, he covers a smirk from her view. She adds an addendum to her statement, as if to set him at ease by promising not to invade a personal space. How kind to quell her own nature to suit his own. "No," he says, flatly.
"Did you have a favorite book as a child?" he asks, his expression suddenly and strangely sincere. "You loved it so much that you read it over and over, until you could almost recite the passages from memory?"
"Every time you read it, the less magical it seemed."
A smile, thin and flimsy.
The man asks about her childhood, and she immediately thinks of her daughter. It's strange, the things that remind her of the girl she'd loved so much. Gracelyn's favorite book was one about being loved to the moon and back. Maven can still hear the girl's giggles as her mother snuggles her closer and kisses the top of her head. The memories are painful, and Maven slides her eyes away as though to hide the sudden squeezing of her heart. She shoves the sensation aside. She's tried to process her grief for years now. It never gets any easier.
Her own favorite book as a child had been about a girl who disguised herself as a boy to become a knight. She'd read it over and over, but the passages had never lost their spark. "My favorite book was more like walking into my favorite place. I loved experiencing the story over and over again," she says. Not wanting to dismiss the man's question entirely, however, she adds, "But it was never quite like the first time, when everything was new." She pauses. "Sometimes it seems like the true magic is the magic you choose to see."
I just want one more chance to put my arms in fragile hands
Untie a tangled thread and talk about tomorrow, Step on your stretching shadow and talk about tomorrow.
Walking into my favorite place.
The smile disappears entirely, replaced instead with a placid expression. Pale features resembling more of a statue than a human now, with dark eyes hardened like obsidian stones as they shift to gaze out at the umbrellas below. The phrase makes him consider all too suddenly where his favorite place is. A sensation is building in his chest, like a ball of hot lead burning and heavy, uncomfortable and violent.
What do you do, if your favorite place doesn't exist anymore? He wonders.
This woman seems needlessly optimistic, though. Even if she acquiesces a bit to his glum outlook, her words still paint a picture of someone who believes your willpower can defy the odds. You can determine your destiny. You just have to choose to be happy or choose to see the best in others.
A brackish laughter fills the air for a moment.
Ha.
HA ha HA.
Ha.
Expressionless and cold, without a hint of humor, he looks at her, a golden ray of sunlight on a rainy day. "Seems like a waste of effort to me." The statement is flagrantly arrogant and hopelessly colored by his own personal experiences, without regard for hers. Youth does make you brave and stupid, in a lot of ways.
"Even if you put lipstick on a pig, it's still a pig."
The man doesn't seem to like her answer, and Maven strives to keep her face neutral so as not to render his opinion invalid. She offers a shrug, thinking that this man must live quite the sad life if he thinks that way. She feels rather sorry for him. Old books, older memories - they are to be treasured. You never know how much time you have left until it's gone.
Besides, you can't control everything around you. All you can control is yourself. Your thoughts. Your words. Your actions. There's enough bad in the world without adding to it.
So yes, Maven chooses to be happy. Chooses to see the good in people. It's the only thing she can do, after the life she's lived, or she'd go mad from all the pain she's seen. The pain she's felt.
"Maybe," she says. She resists the urge to add that it would be a prettier pig. That doesn't seem like the answer her newfound companion is looking for.
I just want one more chance to put my arms in fragile hands
