Changes in Croydon
| xxxxxxxx | The young Valentine girl is, indubitably, a severe and dour sort of child. A straight, poker-faced girl who involuntarily knits her eyebrows on everything she deemed nonsensical. However... There are times—times that occurred perhaps rarer than a blue moon—that the dark pools of her eyes are wide; inquisitive and wide as saucers, like a cat's, itching to push an unsuspecting soul over the edge; her limbs flailing, electrified by an unknown source of excitation, this liveliness was reminiscent of the long, forgotten days spent in preparatory school, when schoolteachers adored her eccentric nature her ability to learn quick compared to other snotty kids, which garnered her numerous star-shaped stickers the teachers stuck on her chubby arms and cheeks for a job well done. They were the source of her pride, warmth that swelled her old, little heart. In those times, there was nothing out of the ordinary in the way her long, noir curls were untamed and disheveled, only that her entire person ticked all the boxes where she could be regarded as the child of the wilderness. The lost child of wilderness, indeed. With her hair parted to the side unevenly from swinging around; a ferocious smile almost splitting her face in half; one of the thin sleeves slipped down her shoulder as t&e front of her cotton dress was smeared with soil and dirt from laying face down on Eddy's and Gertrude's lawn, bare knees scraped red from kneeling down on the pavement with nimble fingers entirely white from chalk; her usual pale skin donning a particular healthy tan from playing under the sun— and speaking of the humble sun peeking through the clouds and thick mist blanketing Croydon, the girl stare up at the sun in short periods of time, quietly challenging it for a staring contest, silently hoping the star would turn away instead of her. “Coward!” A melodious and triumphant laugh would pierce the air, for the sun shied away from the fierceness of her gaze, hiding behind the comforts of oh so many shapeless clouds. The sun only lurked around these parts, and the children born under the turquoise filter—like Aurelia—are foreign with its luminous and basking glory and therefore it surfacing is always met with apprehension. One of them is Aurelia, of course. The girl is the favourite daughter of the sun, though. Younger Aurelia used to draw figures of sun on the pavement with her chalk in assorted colours. She had read that day that ancient people—especially ancient Egyptians—performed rituals in order to summon the sun, or only to appease and worship it. Textbooks did not disclose the step-by-step procedure of the said ritual [since it did involve human sacrifice] but improvisation was not exactly off the table. Freckles bloomed in her cheeks, she was slick with sweat and... Nothing happened. The aforementioned times of giddiness and childishness almost never reared its head, esteemed non-existent from somewhere in her being—but not this deliciously warm, summer day. There is always sweet innocence in her little heart, very much protected, and not completely shredded by the cruel blades of life. |
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   STA 4 ♥︎ EVA 10 ♥︎ STR 3 ♥︎ WIS 8 ♥︎ ARC 7 ♥︎ ACC 8 |
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Last edited by Aurelia Valentine on 31 Jan 2026, 05:12, edited 1 time in total.
[ the golden girl; the harshness of such warm light ]
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.
Changes in Croydon
| xxxxxxxx | There is a tall man—poised and utterly perfect—standing by the doorway. Perfect, since this supposed apparition appeared in all suddenness, partly blocking the the glare of light coming from outside. The soft beams appeared like it surfaced from the form of his being, making one's eyes squint. This specific angle would make anyone entirely unrecognisable, for by then, the shadows would seek refuge, for protection, and when it was not immediately provided they shrink as small as possible and therefore shrouds something to anonymity. This is the case for the said anonymous tall man. Anyone would be jealous by this imagery. Well, no. Perhaps a 50% of the majority would perceive this divine. The soft beams of sunlight surrounding the person could be mistaken for powerful and luminescent wings, the visible dust particles serving its purpose as the mark of holiness, a halo. The wind chimes dangling by the porch, caressed by the breeze and producing aimless tunes, warped into harps instead as it announces his presence. One would look away from the intensity of his gaze but the acknowledgement can be regarded as a blessing. The rest, another 50%, would perceive this in lieu of some sort of an harbinger of evil. The soft beams slowly slipping, dripping from the edge of his person could be a metaphor of blood alreacy spilled, the said visible dust particles an indication of unwary souls already stolen, embracing him and flitting about—a threat to anyone who could see. Aimless tunes interpreted as the blows of a horn or a trumpet, blaring with alert as the sounds reverberated against the walls of one's ears, leaving them cautious and vigilant. His gaze would be perceived red as wrath, contemptuous and spiteful that one would be unable to stare away. In summation, just a replica of Randall Flagg, “The Dark Man” from The Stand, written by Stephen King; capturing that essence of evil and air of superiority. The young Valentine girl felt neither of these things... although in some other times, a combination of sorts starts to form. The vision of the said mysterious man only occurred to her during summer. Whenever it did, the girl always assume that there was, indeed, a tall man standing by the doorway, however, the memory proved itself elusive to be actual genuine, a part of her life that happened. One would call this such an unremarkable dream to be remembered in such great detail, nevertheless, Aurelia subconsciously made it her own as it is reoccurring, something worth to anticipate for. She is not scared of it despite the aura of the person entirely shrouded with a cloud of mystery. So much so that it always garnered a spot to their usual topics during breakfast. Cordelia—her mother—is unusually quiet regarding this matter, especially when she is an acclaimed prattler around the neighbourhood, as she talks wittily before her mouth could even follow. Aurelia thought nothing of it, however. “Lia, honey. You should go outside and play. Stop burying your head in books.” A scoff escaped her pursed lips. The young Valentine is currently splayed over the cold, marble floor, the part of the house where the carpet could not reach. A particularly hot, summer day; an average person would endeavour for a cold relief and in Aurelia's case, she chance upon the marble floor. Floor time, baby. Books and tomes are cracked open, scattered about and surrounding her splayed form on the floor. This could be reimagined as reenactment of virgin sacrifice, what with the scriptures already prepared to be read and executed, as commencement of the aforementioned ritual. A morbid thought, a result of Aurelia's present obsession studying— “Remember Sammy? She continued to ask about you these past few months. How about you consider meeting up with her one of these days?” Samantha “Sammy” Coolidge is one of the few acquaintances she accidentally made back in her former school. They were both introverted and had an affinity with History, and this was something which solidified their bond. Although Aurelia deemed them utterly alien to each other, there is more to their relationship than meets the eye, as the girl is adamant on labelling herself completely friendless. It is not to appear cool and untouchable, only that isolation provided comfort to her neurotic mind. Difficult enough as it is. “I am thoroughly submerged in summer homeworks. There is so much to do in so small of a timeframe. Sammy will understand,” Aurelia shifted her body to the side, stretching her arms with a book she checked out from a public library near here. Deep brown eyes peeked over the cover to watch her mother primp and preen in front of the human-sized mirror. Cordelia is a pretty young woman, and it is only natural for her to sort of... weaponise it. The girl is fascinated by all this. The woman is only going to work, not to a pageantry. Regardless, who would not be awed, as Cordelia is no simple beauty, with her light blonde wavy locks and silver-green eyes? Reaching that age where one is becoming conscious of one's appearance, impression, and bearings, Aurelia cannot help but think of how genetic lottery treated her unfairly. An ugly duckling, she thinks, except the supposed transformation should be long forgotten as it will never happen in a million years. “I am worried about you always locking yourself up from the world.” Silver-green met her deep brown ones from the mirror, making her turn to the other side with a frown, preferably her back directed at her mother to show hostility at the topic at hand. Discussions about her social life and her tendency to be hermitic made her uneasy and utterly defensive about it all. This is nothing to be concerned about as she perceives this current state of things entirely amiable and pleasant. She is snug as a bug here! Why change that? “I could give you money so you can shop with Sammy—” Another audible scoff. “We are living paycheck to paycheck. Do you mean I should spend something we don't have—” A knock on the door. They paused. Cordelia walked towards the door with her steps light, eyes sending daggers in Aurelia's way, which made the latter roll hers. This is one of her gestures to imply that their conversation did not end there, therefore it will be continued later. The hell it will continue. With the sudden quickness she inherently did not possess, the young Valentine sat up from her position and immediately collected her books and tomes in lightning speed. A flurry of long, noir curls and frog-printed pyjamas she was; as she hated most in the world—or one of them—is unprecedented visitors, visitors who forget themselves and their manners, imbecile cretins who are incapable of announcing their visit ahead of time. Ridiculous, as this should be given. The spillage of harsh light coming from outside caught her attention, and she turned when she did not hear her mother utter a greeting. It was quick, but so slow. So slow... oj contrary to her little heart skipping a beat as soon as she saw the enigmatic tall man she had been seeing in her dreams during summer, and summers before that. Standing by the doorway—like he is, particularly at this present time. Shadows still shrunk against his being as though it fears to be left behind. In this angle, Aurelia could not see anything identifiable, and yet... “I know you.” There is a positively stricken look on Cordelia's smooth and pale face. That moment, the girl imagined particles of sand entrapped in an hourglass, for no apparent reason. Just like the glare of light, it spilled down the bottom in the lightest of ways; an indicator that Aurelia is running out of time. Seconds immediately blurred into nothingness as everything is, again, forgotten. |
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STA 4 ♥︎ EVA 10 ♥︎ STR 3 ♥︎ WIS 8 ♥︎ ARC 7 ♥︎ ACC 8 |
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[ the golden girl; the harshness of such warm light ]
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.