𝙏𝘼𝙂 𝘿𝙍𝙊𝙋.
𝙏𝘼𝙂 𝘿𝙍𝙊𝙋.
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ visual
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ study
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ wanted dynamic
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ starter
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ task
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ intro
𝗙𝗔𝗬𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘 ⸻ thread
More Posts from Einchants and Others
there is something feral going through rowena's head as they're being questioned about a death that her claws were nowhere near ━━ and she finds herself thinking that perhaps they should talk to the huntsman about it, his hands already covered in dried blood. red ribbon holds the long and messy braid together, hair swinging all the way down to the end of red's back as she walks. eyebrows furrowed, part of the little red thinks they somehow messed up ━━ thinking things through is not their forte. each step down the stairs feels like the walk through the hall of a prison wing and rowena doesn't know if she's walking away or right into a cell of someone else's making.
red tilts their head, both arms now crossed over her chest. "and what makes you think i would confess anything to you?" there is only one soul that she might bare her own to and he's unrecognizable these days. "are you just waiting here for people to talk to you about what they told the magic mirror? boredom really does take a toll on some people."
open to. anyone — come one, come all ! setting & notes. remembrance day event part two, looming about around the main enclave. feel free to assume connections if not plotted yet, or this can be their first interaction if you'd like.
a slimy thing, waffling about and bouncing from one corridor to another, eyes on the action as always. if there was one thing fionn couldn't miss, it was a show — comedies or tragedies, both equally as entertaining to a lone sprite, itching to get a firsthand view at the next sensation that sweeps their quaint little town. it's about time, he'd assert, after days of droning boredom, the cabin fever was bound to settle in eventually - fionn just didn't expect it to be so soon. " what a shame, " a tone decorated with dramatization, cutting through the undercurrent of empathy that was, albeit, genuine, but it was hard to tell with him.
" now, what say you when the magic mirror reveals your deepest secret to the entire town, hm ? " he was merely playing, but surely this was neither the time nor place, with tensions inevitably rising and, eventually, anxieties too. " the time to confess your wrongdoings is nigh. i pinky promise i won't tell another soul, unlike that dreaded mirror. "
fabletown is a small pond and faye thinks herself a fish too big for it ━━ so it's no surprise that every time the fibres of their being are laced with a kind of boredom too overwhelming to ignore, people around feel the shock wave of it ( and more often than not, the aftermath is less than good for a couple of unfortunate souls ━━ it's a wrong place, wrong time sort of situation and with something enticing enough for faye to do something about it ). peter, even with all the history that they share, might become a victim just like anyone else. to be fair, he approaches her. "and you are far too dramatic, peverell." a name foreign on her tongue, even with all the decades of use ━━ he is peter pan, the boy who refused to grow up and she his trusted companion. that is how the story goes, isn't it? "please. we see each other every damn day." a chuckle, a head shake and a sip of a beer that warms with each second.
every word exchanged still feels heavier than it used to be. an abandon of their home and company left behind... faye knows better than to believe all is well. as much as she hates it, actions have consequences. "i have my hobbies and i can guarantee none of them will ever be knitting. have you tried it?" eyebrows raise and mischief paints itself on faye's lips as their blue eyes meet peter's. then, the offer of a sip of her beer. "genius is right." a jest, even if there is no lie to be found. "the day has just begun. don't cheer just yet, peter. i might just take your wallet next, see what secrets you've been keeping from me and the magic mirror."
peter slows when he sees her, doesn’t stop right away — just enough for his stride to falter, for the sound of his footsteps to hush. no surprise finding her like this: sun going down, attitude rising, one foot on the edge of a bad idea and the other barely planted in whatever counted as rehabilitation. he squints down at her, cigarette tucked behind his ear, a notebook wedged under one arm. the picture of reluctant responsibility. “you wound me, darlowe.” he drawls, tone dry as the sidewalk she’s baking on. “not even a hello before you threaten to hoard your shitty beer ?” peter crouches, not to sit, never quite that relaxed, but enough to put himself just in her line of sight, forearms balanced on his knees, mirrored like mockery. his eyes skim the can in her grip before they flick up to hers.
“you know,” he says, glancing around like the scenery might surprise him, “most people at least pretend to find hobbies that don't involve sitting on the side of the road. you ever try knitting ?” followed by a little shrug, not judgmental, just peter: half amused, half weary, all blunt. “but hey, if scowling at pavement’s what’s keeping you from torching another mailbox or charming a guy out of his wallet, who am i to stop genius at work ?”
⸻ king roberon cole welcomes faye darlowe to fabletown—or, as they were once known, tinkerbell from peter pan. before the magic mirror, they come glamoured in the mirage of sitting at the edge of a rooftop, legs swinging, cigarette smoke curling like a spell ⸻ watching the windows of strangers who dream of neverland / walking home through the fog with bare shoulders and blood on her wrists ⸻unbothered & humming lullabies / keeping old ribbons and rusted thimbles in a cracked music box, each one a souvenir from a night she doesn’t remember starting, but always ends alone / pouring sugar into tea she doesn’t drink, stirring it with the same silver pin she once drove through a boy’s heart; they said he’d never grow up ⸻ she made sure of it. the tale from which they hail exalted their independence and boldness, but decried their possessiveness and vengefulness in equal measure. no matter; this time, they shall write their own. in accordance with the fabletown compact, they are granted amnesty for any and all transgressions, even that which is little known: she gave wendy a ribbon, said it was enchanted. every time wendy wore it, she forgot a little more of who she was. wendy thought they were friends. tink thought they were entwined.
DOSSIER & WANTED DYNAMICS
impatient bartender leaves their place of work before they are roped into doing the final steps of closing up, night plans already sent down the drain. faye would be lying if they said they are looking forward to this empty headed meeting of all of fabletown ━━ a gala to make them all forget that their little safe haven might not be as safe after all. if nothing else, tink is looking forward to whatever drama other fables might cook up ( and it might make up for the lack of good entertainment ).
familiar figure catches the fairy's eyes and, for half a beat, faye considers merely walking past and ignoring the other's existence. and then, he speaks. "the celebration hasn't even started and you're already speaking like you're on your third glass of wine, debbie downer." as if faye has any qualms with the thoughts lancelot is sharing ━━ it's not like he's the only one.
"if any mundanes came tomorrow, i think we'd be alright. i'm not above kicking someone in the crotch. and i found a cute butterfly knife i'm just dying to use." morality is far too expensive these days. if mundanes came looking for a fight, who could blame the fables for rising to the occasion? "what would you do?"
mise en scenè ⸺ the crooked mile, at the juncture between the open arms hotel and the lucky pawn, an hour before sunset.
in a few hours, fables from each parcel of their sequestered town will march their inexorable way to the woodland in the opaque night, beneath the cool balm of stars. the sun will slope beneath the horizon—the world aflame, then put out as if drowned—and the shoulders of the sky will falter, will capitulate to the black sails of darkness. the day’s light, extinguished in but a short breath, a short-lived exhalation of time.
natural occurrences still startle lancelot, but he supposes it is to be expected, even excused: after all, he was only recently roused from an interminable stupor. hanging from a tree for the better part of four centuries will do that to you, king cole had said. the symbol of death marks him still; no signet of valiance or virtue or the life he paraded and prided himself in when camelot still stood tall and unfallen. no fate could be so final and so essentially pathetic. nothing, not even the glory of a name, could absolutely survive death.
this world, this mundane world, had prevailed and thrived long before the fables arrived. it will continue to do so long after they are gone. one way or another, he thinks. how long before their magic is depleted? before the cardinal bond between birthplace and creation is severed completely? until no one who has entered the heart of their collective tale can remember it, can pass it on?
for now, he waits, a sombre sentry hemmed in between the open arms and the lucky pawn. the fleet of footsteps draws neither his eye nor his ear, but he inclines his head nonetheless. “for how long do you think we’ll remain hidden? another decade? another century? tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll wake to the mundane authority storming our homes.”
familiar ( and often found irrelevant on faye's day to day life ) faces pass by and for the first time in forever, the bored bartender actually sees the lot of them ⸻ and none of them seem innocent though faye is all too self aware that she does not trust easily. then again, in a place like fabletown, who is? their silent challenge falls short of the entertainment faye wished to drain from someone else's manifestation of guilt ( or maybe just one bad night, an evasion of sleep mimicking what would be a heavy conscience ) and yet, she is more than glad to change spots and try her luck somewhere else. perhaps closer to the sheriff's station, catch as someone turns on their heels far too quickly as they change their mind.
plans change just as quickly as they are made, though.
the corner of tink's lips curl into an amused and knowing smile ⸻ she might be melting away from the boredom of it all but she at least is well aware that finn is too. knowing he is suffering just like she is helps the feeling of numbness ( and faye will tell herself it is because there can only be one blonde faerie ⸻ and she is so clearly the better choice ⸻ and leave out the part about the relief of someone knowing exactly what goes inside her mind ). eyebrow raises and hazel eyes meet his own, only for a moment. "i was not offering, fionn." another sip, attention stolen back by nothing at all. faye scoffs at her companion's words, head shaking at how silly he sounds. "i thought you were smarter than this, my companion in blonde. you and i both know i am not that easy to get rid off. and who else would keep this town interesting?"
a whole day of lurking ultimately capitulated into a bed of unsuccess. perhaps it wasn't smart to play look-see all day instead of attending to matters otherwise productive in comparison. he had lurked around the main enclave all day, examining the faces of each passerby to hopefully absorb their current state of mind. guilty ? innocent ? mourning ? a mix, even ? regardless, he was dully disappointed — karmic retribution for nosing in everybody's business. if he couldn't get his fill then, perhaps trifling with a familiar blonde would help mustardseed feel, well, something.
he crouched down beside them, an exasperated, dramatic as ever sigh poking at the ears of anyone nearby. fionn has never said he wasn't one for theatrics, especially during a lull that felt so painfully lackluster. " i'm not exactly the type to beg for warm beer — even i'm not that desperate yet — but i appreciate your gracious offer, my companion in blonde. " a flat palm to his chest in faux earnest, much of this simply gilded in irony. despite jests, even her presence alone was far more satisfying than the past eight hours, so he leaned back, hands resting flat against the concrete behind him, gaze following the direction faye's attention pointed towards. " so, what're you doin' out here, all by your lonesome ? don't you know there's a big, bad killer out there ? maybe they're especially desperate for a drink right now. "
fingers tap on the bar top, the faerie's head tilting to the side as she watches one dorothy gale spin one too many times. boredom has no true cure, not for someone like faye ━━ it is only dormant, waiting to come back when her latest entertainment loses it's novelty. pudding & pie helps little but it is better than being surrounded by nothing and no one. and who knows? perhaps the opportunity to amuse herself ( and perhaps make someone else's day less than ideal ) will come on a silver platter.
and it did.
hazel eyes focus on the fable, narrowed in both wander and annoyance. faye could not give less of a damn about the dead witch ━━ they barely give a damn about people whose name they do not forget on a daily basis ━━ but there is something dense about such a celebration, not because dorothy is only a few steps away from dancing on the witch's grave, no ━━ who is to say being a witch is why... whoever her name is, is dead?
faye smirks, though it does not quite reach her eyes. "ding dong the witch is dead, yeah?" a scoff, a sip on her drink. furrowed eyebrows paint themselves on faye's expression ━━ a part to play, a reaction that is planned more than genuine. "ever think that maybe there is a possibility it wasn't because she's a witch? you could be the next victim for all we know. and i don't know about you but i like being alive."
" I DON'T KNOW WHAT EVERYONE IS SO FUSSY ABOUT , " dorothy voiced , but the words were spoken between shallow and bitter breaths , having just teetered off the stage from a particularly grim performance ( the town's happenings had left little room for pallet - soothing whimsy , but perhaps her audience could have done without her celebratory merriment about the witch's fate ) . taking the scarlet fingertip of a stain glove between her teeth , dorothy tugged the costume piece off her tawny limb before discarding it behind her on the bar top .
" ─── anyone in their right state of mind would be relieved . feel , , , safer . " it were almost as if dorothy were self soothing ( as she was one to talk about what defined a right state of mind ) , shifting her bite to show her opposing glove the same attentions she had gifted the first . then , swirling on the stool so she was facing bar side , dorothy collected her thick , loose hair and pulled it over her shoulder , beginning to anxiously thread it into a loose plait , only to run her fingers through it and start over .
over . and over . and over again .
her eyes find the occupant of the seat next to her , eyes like that of a sleepy pup's as painted lashes framed droopy lids . she was so tired , their features blurring , a yawn burning her throat that she didn't let surface .
" i think we should give whoever did it a proper thanking . "
a 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 for 𝘋𝘖𝘙𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘠 𝘎𝘈𝘓𝘌 set at 𝐩𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 & 𝐩𝐢𝐞 the eve the news broke of the murder . ( @detr1tus , @gravemist , @lcgendaries , @einchants , @daydreambeliiever , @unyearning / @unforsworn )
