Marina Bernadette Beauvais

Hey, I'm Pantha, a Person of Very Little Consequence. Simply put: if anyone has any questions regarding Marina, Danni, the Alliteration Association, or Dino, please don't hesitate to ask them below! Just...umm, please be gentle? xD

(Questions about me and my roleplaying are also fair game, by the way, though the above request also tries to apply.)

Summary: Just a drabble to commemorate me finally finishing the Silver Tree.

It has been years, so many years, since they had seen the face of God.

"So many years that some people are beginning to forget, to turn away from the truth," her grandmother had said to her, the night she left for somewhere across the vast black waters, wider than the largest lake (but never, never, larger than the sky). "We must leave before it's too late. Some are already enthralled, are using cowardly ways." The old woman made a disgusted face, spit on the lacred ground. "Like snakes, all of them. They have forgotten the ways of the wolf! Subtle, savage! But never cowards. Are you sure you do not wish to leave?"

It was tempting, she would admit. But she had to hope, had to keep believing, had to do her duty. Lose hope in Him, and stop guiding his people? Never. Never. The notion was as foolish as horses eating meat. The day she lost all hope, the day she gave into the ruin that slowly crept up onto her beloved city, twisting it into a shadow of its glory even more, mocking it, was the day she would finally lie on the earth, waiting for her brothers to take her.

That is why she was here, with a crowd that seemed to get smaller every time they gathered; and, even then, so many had such hostile eyes. Cowards, she remembered. She would never forget that. Never. Snakes in the grass, trampled underfoot by great steeds, and beheaded by the wolf's sharp teeth.

In front of her, the head shaman steps forth, raising his gnarled hands up high to the roof, and an errant thought escapes the carefully constructed bundle of her mind: thin glaze is not sky, and cold gold is not sun.

"Let us give thanks, and let us pray..."

~~

Marina wakes up in a cold sweat and with tears in her eyes, whatever caused it melting away from her memories like snow in spring as she searches for her rosary.

Yes, all of them.

( Wally )
~~
( Allie )
~~
( Quent )
~~
( Gar )

Note: these aren't the exact contents of Marina's wardrobe, at least where dresses are concerned--she's not made of money. Instead, this is a general gist of what she would wear, in what shades, etc. Everything else, though, is fair game.

( Blue Dresses )

( White/Cream-ish Dresses )

( Grey Dresses )

( Other Dresses )

( Shoes )

( Archaeology Get-up )

( Accessories )

The only concession to cheerfulness in the darkness of the isolated cottage is the mailbox, leaning haphazardly in the soft ground. It is of a brilliant sky blue colour, a shade that would be instantly recognizible to people of Marina's kind--one half-expected to see horses rearing defiantly, or perhaps a stylized orange sun, both glowering at the rare person who made their way up the path from dank, silent corners. It would certainly fit with the Frenchwoman's occupation, after all.

You would be correct, though you would not know it; it was not visible to the eye. But, regardless, one wouldn't be thinking of such things when stuffing their load into the battered old mailbox that belonged to a notoriously paranoid woman living at a notoriously out of the way locale.