06-05-2018, 01:42 AM
[align=center][div style="max-width: 600px; text-align: justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9pt;"][color=black]Mare never did like the weather in Europe. Cold, rainy, sunless. Just a miserable place in general for someone as inherently miserable as she. Staying in Old Ireland with her mother's family was just... horrid. Ireland itself is a beautiful place, but she oftentimes found herself daydreaming about the vast golden fields of prairie grasses back in North America. Flat land filled with nothing but plains and bison and cows and feral horses for miles and miles. Sun is Mare's greatest friend. She loves the sensation of warm sunlight radiating through her tired bones. Suffice to say that Griffingate's location suits the young woman better than her residence prior to the rebellion and the suffering. It's nice enough here, but Mare is not fond of the city. She prefers the openness of the countryside, but she makes do with parks and green spaces where she can find them. The only thing that could make life in Griffingate better is if her parents made it through the rebellion. Or Aoife. She'd take her younger sister's annoying babbling over this crippling loneliness any day.
A wide yawn splits the woman's plain features. Wild brown curls tied back in a ponytail which does nothing to tame its volume, and a lean frame adorned by loose-fitting jeans and a red flannel are all that is visible from a distance as Mare casually climbs a tree. And why is she climbing a tree? No particular reason. She's just bored. Bored and jobless. Bored and jobless and sad, but who isn't these days? So scaling this old oak seems like a good alternative to proactive work. It's not a particularly difficult endeavor. Five minutes and some scraped palms and then she is sitting on the lowest, most stable bough. Climate change has killed off most of the planet's biodiversity at this point, but there are still plenty of birds and small rodents who call the park home. With nothing else to do, Mare retrieves a small sketchbook from her back pocket and begins to doodle a hazel grouse. It's a small, rotund bird with lots of fluff. Perfect for mindless, heavily stylized sketches. Reality is shitty enough that Mare cannot be bothered by drawing realistically. Was that too emo? Yeah, probably. But it's not like she has any friends or family to tell her that.
She yawns again, idly scratching some point on her scalp more as an effect of deep thought than possessing any actual itch. Striking heterochromatic eyes peer down upon another park creature, unaware that some weird, lonely girl is perverting their likeness into her sketchbook in the form of lazy doodles. She sighs. Still bored.
A wide yawn splits the woman's plain features. Wild brown curls tied back in a ponytail which does nothing to tame its volume, and a lean frame adorned by loose-fitting jeans and a red flannel are all that is visible from a distance as Mare casually climbs a tree. And why is she climbing a tree? No particular reason. She's just bored. Bored and jobless. Bored and jobless and sad, but who isn't these days? So scaling this old oak seems like a good alternative to proactive work. It's not a particularly difficult endeavor. Five minutes and some scraped palms and then she is sitting on the lowest, most stable bough. Climate change has killed off most of the planet's biodiversity at this point, but there are still plenty of birds and small rodents who call the park home. With nothing else to do, Mare retrieves a small sketchbook from her back pocket and begins to doodle a hazel grouse. It's a small, rotund bird with lots of fluff. Perfect for mindless, heavily stylized sketches. Reality is shitty enough that Mare cannot be bothered by drawing realistically. Was that too emo? Yeah, probably. But it's not like she has any friends or family to tell her that.
She yawns again, idly scratching some point on her scalp more as an effect of deep thought than possessing any actual itch. Striking heterochromatic eyes peer down upon another park creature, unaware that some weird, lonely girl is perverting their likeness into her sketchbook in the form of lazy doodles. She sighs. Still bored.
JOLENE, I'M BEGGIN' OF YOU
"please don't take my man" — crow — she/her — characters