clara "why are you booing me i'm right" oswald (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
makemeasong) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
westwhere2022-12-10 07:36 am
makemeasong) wrote in westwhere2022-12-10 07:36 am
the snow falls down, it's a magnificent signt
WHO: Clara and you + any closed starters as requested
WHEN: December
WHERE: Around the inn and the grounds
WHAT: Shenanigans, direwolves, bathhouses, and more
WARNINGS: Will change if needed, but for now none
β π΅π’π π¦ π‘βπ βππππ
β π΅π’π π¦ π‘βπ βππππ πΌπΌ
β π‘βπππ’πβ π‘βπ π€ππππ
β πππ‘ββππ’π π
β ππ¦π π‘πππ¦ ππππ
β ππππππππ ππππ
β π€πππππππ
WHEN: December
WHERE: Around the inn and the grounds
WHAT: Shenanigans, direwolves, bathhouses, and more
WARNINGS: Will change if needed, but for now none
β π΅π’π π¦ π‘βπ βππππ
Once Clara finds a routine at the inn, a fair amount of time is spent in the kitchen. It's the warmest there, and she promises to go out and gather things for their meals. A sudden influx of people is no small thing, and Clara's nothing if not helpful. Keeping busy helps her thoughts stay focused instead of wandering toward feelings about her time with the Doctor. She never wanted him to know how he died, but at least Red's assured her that he shouldn't remember. That's enough to keep Clara from worrying the Doctor might try and do something to stop her from saving his life, because she knows he would if he could.
In the kitchen most mornings because it's easiest to gauge what might be needed, she's glancing over the list and hums, calling out to the last person to add something.
"I don't see a number on the black trumpet mushrooms. How many, or should I forage with my heart?"
β π΅π’π π¦ π‘βπ βππππ πΌπΌ
Red-cheeked from being outside, Clara bounds into the kitchen with her basket overflowing, setting it on the counter to let the cooks pick through. There's a hearth with a fire and a stool which seems quite cozy, so she helps herself. A bucket of beans is thrust at her and she's asked to shell, so she does, happily. Some of her favorite memories with her mum were in their kitchen, and Clara starts humming a tune to herself from home, a random one she used to sing to Artie to help him sleep.
There's a second stool for company and she doesn't hesitate to smile softly when someone drops by.
"Feel sort of like a happier, better-taken care of Cinderella, sitting here." She knows it's 50-50 on if the story is known or not, but she's happy to tell it.
β π‘βπππ’πβ π‘βπ π€ππππ
Clara's found the wooliest of scarves and borrowed it for her trips out during the day. She's vaguely aware of the danger of wolves, but she has her new sword with her—not that she knows how to use it properly—and it's tucked in her pocket. She didn't understand at first, but it's convenient that it's only large when she puts the hilt of it in her hand. The rest of the time, it's pocket-sized.
When she hears the crunch of snow behind her, Clara stops and turns her head to the side, listening.
"Hello?"
If it's wolves, her plan is to just sort of...run, but she's also betting wolves aren't so loud if hunting. Fingers crossed.
β πππ‘ββππ’π π
Quietly thanking the ancient Romans and Greeks for this idea, Clara sinks into the warmer waters of the bathhouse after taking a quick dip in the cold. It's the first time she's truly relaxed since before she was even pulled into this place. She'd begged for the Doctor's life, been granted her wish for him to live, and after a few minutes of relief, the man she knew was gone. A new face, a new set of rules that included pushing her as far away as possible without actually telling her to go. Then Clara was here, no time to breathe in between. River's assured her it gets better in time, but if people really don't remember anything about this world when they go back to their own, then what? She'll lose the hope she has now.
It's much easier not to think about it, though her aura's a little more hued toward a pastel blue, just the slightest tinge of sadness. So much happened in Serthica that her mind wants to shut it all out, box it up and ignore it.
Hair messily pulled up in a ponytail, she's up to her neck in the water when she hears footsteps and opens her eyes. Finally, her chance.
"Do you know they charge an insane amount of money to use the bathhouse in Lancashire? Of course, they call it a 'spa' and offer massages, but still. It's water. No need to try and make it something fancier than it is."
β ππ¦π π‘πππ¦ ππππ
Has she ever been great at skating? No. Is she attempting it anyway? Yes. She's not wobbly, but she isn't that fast either, taking her time making loops around the hard ice. The last time she'd skated was with an ex who'd literally skated away after she'd dumped Clara. It's funny now, in hindsight—she can't even remember why they broke up it was so long ago.
She's smiling at the memory when she's suddenly knocked off her feet, not by someone bumping into her, but because something hit her feet from below. Struggling to get up, her eyes widen in alarm as through the opaque ice she just barely sees a shadow.
"No, not today."
She absolutely is not getting involved with anything terrifying, but she can't quite get her feet under her again. Managing to make it to her hands and knees, she doesn't look up; instead, she's still staring at the ice as the shadow continues, making her wonder how big, exactly, it is.
β ππππππππ ππππ
Clara didn't even have a chance to register what was happening before it was, pulled in by a group she doesn't know and given very loose rules for a drinking game. 'Where's the water?' is new to her, shot glasses full of clear spirits, and some with water. It takes her a few tries to pull out a convincing lie, but by then her throat is numb anyway. After four shots, she's pleasantly warm, and her laughter cuts through the air. Her eyes light up and she reaches out to pull in someone simply walking by, a light touch on a wrist, dimpled smile beaming upward.
"Can you bluff, and can you bluff well?"
β π€πππππππ
[ ooc: hmu with anything your heart desires. CR comment is here. I'll match prose or brackets, whatever you're comfortable with. Reach out on discord @ lifewasawillow#5524 or PM! Quite willing to do a ton more, but if I keep writing prompts you'll all have a novel to pick through, whoops. ]
no subject
[ Vanessa's patience for hearing stories isn't what it once was, but she can understand the sentiment. For reading, she has a certain fondness, and the suggestion that she somehow hasn't heard of Poe might be insulting if she hadn't had to illustrate the year of her arrival. Departure?
The thought of Clara carrying on reciting poetry to others in a fashion that Vanessa herself is fond of is a bit comforting, and not something she should be surprised by. Clara's shown poetic leanings before now. ]
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demonβs that is dreaming, and the lamp-light oβer him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
[ Her gaze stays ahead, one hand in her coat pocket while the other lets the small carcass hang at her side, the limp creature gently bumping her dark skirts when they take a steeper incline. ]
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor...shall be liftedβnevermore.
no subject
Brilliant. I love teaching that one around the beginning of autumn, it fits with the season. It's always easiest to kick start a semester of poetry with something that keeps them on the edge of their seats. Learned my lesson, never start with the "boring" first.
[ She uses air quotes, because never would she find any of what she teaches boring. ]
You won't know this one quite yet, Frost didn't gain traction until the later part of your decade, but this one seems appropriate for now. [ She gives it a moment, not shy at all, but unsure about reciting the whole thing. That thought doesn't stop her, of course. ]
Whose woods are these I think I know. His house is in the village though; he will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow. [ She recites the poem in its entirety; it was made into a song she had to sing once in school choir for a holiday program, though she hardly remembers how the tune went. Still, it helped her remember the words. ]
no subject
The mention of Frost draws out a bit of a soft smile. She recognizes the name thanks to the Doctor, though this poem is indeed new. Vanessa takes it in quietly, and her smile does dissipate the more she listens.
It's times like these that Vanessa wonders if she really is so transparent, or if she merely has a habit of late to stumble upon perceptive individuals. She gives it a moment to sink in before responding, though not for the personal impact. Vanessa would so often rather keep that to herself. ]
Perhaps you can teach me something, then. Any poetry from beyond my own year? It would lend me the opportunity to surprise the Doctor, if only once.
[ He would probably already know anything she might recite, but he might be surprised it isn't from before her time. If nothing else, perhaps she can discover something new that he likes. ]
no subject
Can't pass up an opportunity like that. Let's see.
[ She'd taken a contemporary art class in college, after uni, and she thinks back through all the Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou she read. But she settles on neither. ]
Langston Hughes was a brilliant American poet. He wrote mostly about issues regarding race, but all of his words were impactful. I remember one poem that I made a copy of and stuck in the edge of my mirror so I could see it every day, called 'Dreams.'
[ She hasn't recited poetry in a long time, it feels like a muscle being stretched for the first time in a while, and it takes her a few paces to be sure she remembers the entirety of the short poem. ]
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
That's from somewhere around the 1920s. Can't remember the exact year, though.
[ She exhales so that she can see her breath, watching it fade to nothing. ]
Dreams have always felt fragile to me, you can never hold onto them as long as you want. But I like this poem.
cw: dead animal
That one will stay between us, then.
[ She'd rather take care with Clara's dreams, whatever they may become. Vanessa understands well how easily they can collapse and become memories.
They're nearing the final trap, and this time when Vanessa crouches to lift a branch, there lies a rabbit caught in a wire trap. For this creature, dreams are certainly dead and frozen.
It may be difficult for Clara to see from a distance, but Vanessa can tell that the poor animal struggled a bit longer than it should have, given the scattering of pink snow underneath the bush. It must have have noticed the trap a moment too late and tried turning around instead of running through. Better for it to have died in ignorance with a broken neck.
It must have been too choked to call out. Vanessa knows the sounds a dying rabbit can make; it's almost like a small child crying out. Bone chilling. It should have lured a predator, but she can surmise the struggle must have been silent. Poor thing. To die without a voice. ]
It isn't always a clean death. Such is the way of things.
no subject
No. I mean yeah, you're right. Such is the way of things.
[ Instead of thinking about her mother's death (which is coming up more often on this planet than it ever has in her life), Clara nods at the rabbit. ]
I feel like the next step in the process is skinning? But that's just my best guess.