soliloquies of the woodland
 Welcome to Soliloquies of the Woodland! This will be my new coding dump because I would prefer to have Graci's Gallery be more banners than code. Again, welcome, and I hope you enjoy! | _______________
Coded by LeaBel<333 AKA Graci Laren:) | ________________
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 __________ | My codes are nothing special, but I do take great joy in creating them! No, I do not offer any coding services in a shop, but if you have something you want me to code I can:)  ____________ |  ____________ |
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soliloquies of the woodland
entry no.0 - entry index_______
entry no.1 - travel preparations
entry no.2 - pre-travel personal assessment
entry no.3 - stops and aquaintences
entry no.2 - pre-travel personal assessment
entry no.3 - stops and aquaintences
entry no.0.5 - reference letters_______ reference no.1 - imaging guide reference no.2 - Laren, Graci [ participant 01 ] reference no.3 - soliloquies |  __________ |
signing off [ ... ] ________
Ardelis, Jarden [ participant 02 ]________
Ardelis, Jarden [ participant 02 ]________
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soliloquies of the woodland
 |  wila, wil, or ress! she/her, irish, eleven, gemini ──────────────────── after all, we're only here once | [ willow. ] willow tree [ cypress. ] cypress tree [ clementine. ] merciful ──────────────────  |
 | There are boxes of clementines - in the kitchen - And the thing is that I love you again. |
Willow Cypress Clementine was born in Cork, Ireland, raised by her Nana Saorise alongside her cousin Brennan. She is a first year, [ house here ] at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Age eleven, born June 13, 20XX. Wila is a half-blood of Irish descent. Her Nana gave her the last name Clementine after Saorise's daughter left Willow to her care, not knowing the father and thinking it best for Willow to be left unburdened by an absent mother. | || | ───── |
 | ── thinking about the poems |
Reducio
Willow had always wanted to please. To be praised. So she drew. Of home, and love, and clementines. She drew tires swings in the sunrise, flowing fields of grasses, and the feeling that was always in the air as her Nana made breakfast. Saorise always loved them, noting the color, but never the feeling. She knew it was there, but hurt does not wish to resurface. So Willow saw, and really looked. How the dull thud of chopping carrots was like the beating of a weary heart. How sad smiles appear on faces more often than not. How hurt could ruin, filling silence like bitter honey. How her Nana tried to hide the sighs after a long day, and how pain could cross ones face and turn into a smile so quickly. Willow wrote, too. Of the days happenings, of frogs in a stream, of colors bleeding through the horizon and into her heart. She recounted tales of melancholy before she knew what it was. Inking into a notebook the bittersweet endings that left your heart feeling empty and your mind full. Willow whispered secrets to the wind, blowing them along with dandelions, like a secret only the earth could keep. She spoke of how reality seemed to dissapear into dreams, a soft haze covering the pain of daylight and nighttime alike.
Willows words seemed so plain, their message anything but ordinary, though. Her word choice rarely varied, but the descriptions like a drawing full of love and detail. Her phrases were repetitive, not beautiful nor prose-like. Just raw, unfiltered, and so very close to her heart. She once wrote a page about a small feather dancing about the floor in the rotation of a fan, caught in invisible orbit.
I breathe and I breathe. Sometimes I have to remember that I must. The fear that if i'm not present I will fade away. When I was in the stands, I did not feel eleated, only at peace. Life surrounding me, and the steady beat of my heart.
Willows words seemed so plain, their message anything but ordinary, though. Her word choice rarely varied, but the descriptions like a drawing full of love and detail. Her phrases were repetitive, not beautiful nor prose-like. Just raw, unfiltered, and so very close to her heart. She once wrote a page about a small feather dancing about the floor in the rotation of a fan, caught in invisible orbit.
I breathe and I breathe. Sometimes I have to remember that I must. The fear that if i'm not present I will fade away. When I was in the stands, I did not feel eleated, only at peace. Life surrounding me, and the steady beat of my heart.
| BACKSTORY ── | " smile, child. make peace with broken things. the healing will come. " |
Caoimhe Lillis never wanted to be a mother, and Willow Clementine never wanted to be her daughter. But fate will do as it pleases, giving them both a chance for what they never chose. Because sometimes it is simply better that way. By some stroke of pity and morality, Caoimhe gave birth to a healthy baby girl on June thirteenth, 20XX. A few months after, Willow was unceremoniously given to Caoimhe's estranged mother, Saorise. Documents and a giggling child, then mother and daughter never met each other again.
Willow's surname was not Clementine, but sometimes the best names come from a new start. Saorise got a second chance, and Wila got a home that would love her. She grew up in her Grandmothers small house, with an attic room with a pretty circular window at both ends, light slipping through glass to meet the other horizon. She had a small, impossibly squishy bed, a handmade quilt draped over the end every day. On the nightstand there was a small Tiffany lamp and a rotating selection of books. Simple, but hers.
At around four years of life, her cousin Brennan {five} started visiting for the week days. His mother had passed from an illness a month or so before, and his father worked most of the times. Brennan was more of a brother than cousin to Willow. He fondly called her Wil, though their grandmother said it sounded like a boy name. Willow never minded.
The summers were best, though. Sunny days were spent in the too long grass that got mowed only when it was absolutely necessary. A tire swing hung from the tree in their from yard, where squirrels could be spotted any time you glanced out the kitchen window. Mini plastic sun catchers hung on the windows, crudely painted and attributing to about half an hour of distraction before the two gremlins came to bother their Nana once more. The fridge was plastered with crayon drawings of dragons and corner suns with smily faces. It never got old, only more and more like home.
Willow and Brennan attended a small private school a small ways off from their home once they were old enough. Best friend through it all, but more out of convenience than anything. Neither of them were altogether that smart, though Saorise said they made up for it in energy and earnestness. Both of which they had in unfair amounts.
As they grew older, nothing much changed, and they all preferred it that way. Their interests blossomed, and the pictures on the fridge slowly started improving, with their respective bookshelves filling up as they discovered favourite tales. The children's childhood was a group effort between the three of them, and occasionally Brennan's dad when he took them on weekend trips.
Willow's childhood was a happy one, but she was an observant kid. As she grew, the cracks in their metaphorical family foundation became more apparent. She often wrote what she saw, placing it in metaphors and hypotheticals to see it from a different light. One more flattering, that made everything seem softer, less harsh.
The Lillis-Clementine family was one Willow was glad to be a part of, even amist the many, many hardships that relations brought.
Willow's surname was not Clementine, but sometimes the best names come from a new start. Saorise got a second chance, and Wila got a home that would love her. She grew up in her Grandmothers small house, with an attic room with a pretty circular window at both ends, light slipping through glass to meet the other horizon. She had a small, impossibly squishy bed, a handmade quilt draped over the end every day. On the nightstand there was a small Tiffany lamp and a rotating selection of books. Simple, but hers.
At around four years of life, her cousin Brennan {five} started visiting for the week days. His mother had passed from an illness a month or so before, and his father worked most of the times. Brennan was more of a brother than cousin to Willow. He fondly called her Wil, though their grandmother said it sounded like a boy name. Willow never minded.
The summers were best, though. Sunny days were spent in the too long grass that got mowed only when it was absolutely necessary. A tire swing hung from the tree in their from yard, where squirrels could be spotted any time you glanced out the kitchen window. Mini plastic sun catchers hung on the windows, crudely painted and attributing to about half an hour of distraction before the two gremlins came to bother their Nana once more. The fridge was plastered with crayon drawings of dragons and corner suns with smily faces. It never got old, only more and more like home.
Willow and Brennan attended a small private school a small ways off from their home once they were old enough. Best friend through it all, but more out of convenience than anything. Neither of them were altogether that smart, though Saorise said they made up for it in energy and earnestness. Both of which they had in unfair amounts.
As they grew older, nothing much changed, and they all preferred it that way. Their interests blossomed, and the pictures on the fridge slowly started improving, with their respective bookshelves filling up as they discovered favourite tales. The children's childhood was a group effort between the three of them, and occasionally Brennan's dad when he took them on weekend trips.
Willow's childhood was a happy one, but she was an observant kid. As she grew, the cracks in their metaphorical family foundation became more apparent. She often wrote what she saw, placing it in metaphors and hypotheticals to see it from a different light. One more flattering, that made everything seem softer, less harsh.
The Lillis-Clementine family was one Willow was glad to be a part of, even amist the many, many hardships that relations brought.
| FIRST INSTANCE ── | " you'll choose different, kid. you'll be better than we were. " |
The grass had gone unmowed for far too long now. Willow's fifth summer was spend running through the grasses with Brennan, blowing dandelions to the wind, only adding to the growing number of weeds in their yard. On that certain Thursday afternoon, they were laying under the oak tree that held their tire swing, making wishes they knew would never come true, because who better to be wishful than those who have enough life to yet make them come true? The dandelions were floating in the air for a few minutes, stalks and all before the two children noticed, eyes going wide. They went limp and fell to the ground soon after. Neither Willow nor Brennan thought much of it.
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Willow is one of the most easygoing people someone could meet. Not passive, nor unopinionated, but willing to work around and with others. She's friendly, though religiously bases people off first interactions. 'Go with the flow' type. Sassy at times, but prefers a good laugh to unnecessary back and forths. 'Sharing is caring' spurs most of her actions, but still fiercely protective of what is hers, and values privacy as well as individuality. Very down to earth and observant, taking blocks of her day for ideas and dreaming so she can live in the present when she's with other people. She holds family in high esteem, and thinks biological relations are the least of anyone's worries. |
| │ │ | [ hair. ] red, curly [ eyes. ] light brown [ body type. ] endomorph | │ │ |
 ______________ | | | Willow never particularly cared for mirrors unless they were in metaphors. A wide build, and soft around the edges. No sharp angles for her, which she thought was nice. Her wide Brown eyes were often squinting in a smile, small freckles spattering all over her face. And muted red hair to top it off, looking far brighter in the sunlight. If she was to take after one of her parents, it would be her father, though no one really knew who he was, only that Caoihme looked nothing like the young Clementine. Average in terms of height, expected to be around 5'4 {162.5cm} by the time she's done growing, 4'9 at eleven. " you don't have to be good or useful for someone to care about you " |
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soliloquies of the woodland
N ú r i a |  | There is a moment, in early November when the light itself seems nostalgic, as if recalling the afternoons it once gilded. The sky remembers us, even when we forget.  |
| In these last days of November the city seems to breathere differently. A quieter, shallower breath. I watch the sky lower itself and thing: yes, this is the season when we become transparent to our own longing.  |
 | R h e a |
my gosh, I'll format this better later but my computer's been finicky lately, so don't wanna lose this. I'm planning on explaining the backstory further and then using refences to link the images to different parts of her life.
Tears of an Owl: The Tales Told Before
| ♮ | { 01. }  | ♮ | { 02. }  | ♮ | { 03. }  | ♮ |
| ♮ | { 04. }  | ♮ | { 05. }  | ♮ | { 06. }  | ♮ |
Reducio
Tears of an Owl: The Tales Told Before
| ♮ | Núria was born on November 2nd of 20XX in Barcelona, Spain to Aniol Serra-Alsius and Laia Ona Corromines-Masdevall, on what could only be described as a dreary day. The heavens raging with tears, the drumbeat of its anger a backdrop to her cries, and first breaths. Her first moments were of a mindless sorrow, as though a foretelling of what some of those dark nights of the future might be in her plagued mind. That was her first and only moment of untarnished life, pure and unknowing of the world’s sorrows. Those things never last long, in Núria’s experience, however limited it might be. Alas, all things, good or bad, must come to an end. Her parents had adored her from the start, though perhaps one more intrigued about who this small being might turn out to be. And though Aniol and Laia could never tell, they certainly played a role in how she grew to be. For the first six years of her life she was happily raised in Barcelona by her two loving parents and a whole host of relatives. Aniol’s relatives {Serra} were more distant, shallow at a glance, but that is merely an illusion. They raised him to be proficient at most things save for relations. The Serra couple are a quiet pair, viewing Rhea with curious eyes, paired with something she can hardly describe. A mix of weariness, sadness, nostalgia, and heartfelt emotion that Rhea wishes she had a name for. Quite a name it would have to be, indeed. The Coromines, on the other hand, are a loving– albeit rowdy– lot. She doesn't want to try and count the cousins, knowing there would always be some sick, or another on the way. Laia has four sisters and a lonesome brother, almost all married with at least one kid. {The Coromines family will remain unnamed at this time, too many Spanish/Catalan names I don't wanna come up with/find.} In September of 20XX {Rhea age 6} the family promptly started packing for England after a hurried visit from her paternal grandparents {Serras}. Rhea was never told why they abruptly moved, save for thinly veiled excuses about ‘job opportunities’ and ‘change in scenery’. It’s a far away memory in her mind now, with her only remembering the fact that they moved, and a lot of fragmented memories of Barcelona. Spain is only an origin point for the wandering Catalan girl. England is the next stop, not the destination by any means. The world fears she is just getting started. Núria and her parents moved to Santon Downham, a village and civil parish located in Suffolk, England, nestled within Thetford Forest on the Norfolk-Suffolk border. Of course, Núria had no clue what any of that meant other than new, scary, and village. For the first while they stayed in an unassuming tent just in the forest, claiming to the locals they were just camping through the countryside. Of course, they were planning for a much longer stay indeed. During the few weeks it took them to pack up and leave Barcelona, construction plans had started on a house just into the woods near the small village. Aniol and Laia took some creative liberties and helped in the architectural design even amidst the rush and stress of quickly relocating. Some poor local muggles had their memories altered slightly to accommodate for the new surprise of a house showing up just on the outskirts. There were also a heavy amount of concealment charms placed around the house so it was avoided by the majority of the village's populace. Santon Downham was a place where Rhea’s lonely anti-social tendencies flourished. She has social skills, yes, but her want for solitude was only encouraged by her parents, even if not consciously. Her father fancied himself to be a sort of scholar or poet. He also has a tendency towards Defense Against the Dark Arts, which likely prompted his becoming an Auror, though he rarely is working in that respect. Rhea’s mother, on the other hand, is a seamstress. Often Laia would spend hours in her sewing room, humming to herself and sewing. It wasn’t anything special, but it was occasionally heartfelt and loving, if lonely. The matter of Rhea’s schooling was taken up by both of her parents in turn, her mother teaching her the finer things; music, sewing, and craftsmanship of all sorts, including Rhea’s distraction of choice: woodcarving. Aniol gave Núria the lessons she needed in the more core subjects. Arithmetic, basic history, some science, and a whole abundance of literature. Literature was something Rhea and her father bonded over, even through their different levels of understanding. Perhaps because of it. Aniol also taught his Daughter her fair share of muggle culture, however varying it was. Despite loving solitude himself, he understood that Rhea could not be holed up in the nest of their home forever. She would need to make friends with the other kids in the Village and, eventually, Hogwarts. That would still be for a while, of course, so he didn’t worry too much. Another way Rhea spent her solitude was through teaching herself piano. Her mother had taught the basics that she herself had learned as a young girl, but Núria pursued it further. A year or two after moving to England they had acquired a grand piano for their rather sparse living room. The whole house was rather sparse, actually, save for their rooms and spaces in which their distraction of choice was practiced. Núria became quite good at her craft, her long practice sessions a sort of background music to the saddened lives her family lived out. She was partial to the more difficult pieces, seeking a challenge where everything was only a matter of time. Magic had been introduced into Núria’s life a mere few months before leaving Spain, prompting many a long lecture from her father about magical theory and keeping a hold of her emotions so she wouldn’t break anything. MORE HISTORY TBA, slowly being written | ♮ |
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soliloquies of the woodland
 ______ | _ | The life of R.J. Rowell is not a tale with a happy ending. No satisfaction, no justice, merely the life of a young man burdened by self imposed responsibility and the quiet expectation of the adults in his life. Read with caution and discretion, for pressure cracks even the strongest of minds after a while. Angel wings plague visions of faraway tales, the blood of a brother seeping into long forgotten fields.
The guardian angel, the jealous bother, the oldest sibling, the overlooked worker, the pained artist.
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{face claim.} Fernando Lindez {height.} 4'10 // 137 cm {blood status.} half-blood {birth date.} 01/29/xx ______________ | _ |  { the anatomy of a fallen angel. } | _ | {first name.} Rhett {middle name.} Joel {surname.} Rowell {residence.} St.Louis, MO ______________ |
Reducio The first time Rhett punched someone was on a blurry October afternoon. School had just gotten out, and rain was drizzling against the small overhang covering the bus stop. Rhett was nine, but school busses were safe, and everyone else had no reason to pay attention to Rhett and his three little siblings. Jordan was rocking on the balls of his feet, smiling in excitement to show their mother his art project. Amni never really cared about first grade crayon drawings. Ronnie and Jimni were giggling about whatever kindergartners giggle about. Rhett was worrying about whether Amni had remembered to go with Opa to get his perscription. Then onto if they'd successfully put the car seat in for little Jullian. Opa always said Rhett thought too much, but he had never known how to turn it off. A constant assessment and day-dream-like drifting from thought to thought. A persistent point of concern, though, was Atlas. Atlas was in his grade, and oddly annoyed with Rhett's very existence, as well as his siblings, by association. Jimni had begun wearing her hair in a long braid down her back so the waves would not frizz so quickly. Atlas often knew exactly where to strike for maximum annoyance. Childish giggles bled into a sharp cry that had Rhett's head snapping painfully fast towards his little twin sisters. The thick braid was held carefully in Jimni's small hands, carefully, like something vulnerable. Silence settled over the mostly empty bus stop, pieces clicking together in an instant. "Ah, screw off Atlas. Her braid's done nothin' to you." "And what if I do it again?" "I wouldn't recommend it."Naturally, Atlas just tugged at one of the smaller braids in Jordan's deep brown hair, eliciting a sharp sound of shock for the oblivious child. People rarely knew what to quit till it was far, far too late. The rest was a blur, but Rhett's knuckles hurt. And ached, and if hands could sob or been scared of themselves, they would have done both. They got on the bus when it came. Atlas sat all the way in the back, not looking towards the Rowell kids. Sometimes it's hard to admit you've been hurt for your actions, and that maybe neither of you are at fault. The next evening Amni got a phone call from the school. After the other kids where in bed, Rhett's mother and grandfather sat across from him. Amni and Opa telling him why it was never okay to punch someone. But why was it okay to pull people's hair? Was it only just a matter of which side had better proof or representation? That's what it felt like. But why was Opa frowning? Justice was good. Rhett never did know if Atlas got told off for anything. He realized he did not particularly care to know. It ceased to matter. | " to call it a first implies many more " when you split me and my brother in the womb you did not divide us evenly |
Reducio
Rowell Family children order
1st-Rhett Joel Rowell
2nd-Jordan Reuben Rowell
3/4th-Jimni Reen Rowell
3/4th-Saffron 'Ronnie' Jude Rowell
5th-Jullian Rome Rowell
We both grow for our lives,
but you slaughter for fulfillment,
when is it my turn to be fulfilled?
1st-Rhett Joel Rowell
2nd-Jordan Reuben Rowell
3/4th-Jimni Reen Rowell
3/4th-Saffron 'Ronnie' Jude Rowell
5th-Jullian Rome Rowell
We both grow for our lives,
but you slaughter for fulfillment,
when is it my turn to be fulfilled?
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soliloquies of the woodland
Coding this as a possibility for Jarden's 3rd year ency !!
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'Hm, perhaps not' bit of coding
#60618d
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 ────────────────────────────────────── Coded by Graci Laren
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'Hm, perhaps not' bit of coding
Reducio
This was meant to be a fun way of navigating from post to post, but it looks a little clunky
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#60618d
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soliloquies of the woodland
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 ─────────── Dream Moons, Rain Moods, Very Introverted, And Even Maudlin. ───────────── Coded by Graci Laren ⛯ |
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 If you have forgotten water lilies floating On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade, If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance, Then you can return and not be afraid. But if you remember, then turn away forever To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart, There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies, And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart.  | ⛯⛯⛯ |
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