not_the_last (Cassandra de Rolo) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_the_last) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2023-09-11 12:48 pm
not_the_last) wrote in come_sailaway2023-09-11 12:48 pm
wake me up when September ends [OTA + closed prompts]
Who: Cassandra de Rolo, OTA + closed prompts
When: September
Where: Around the Serena Eterna
What: Flowers and their curious effects
Warnings: Game-typical angst; further content warnings in headers as they come up. The prompts below are occurring in no particular order over the course of the month.
1. summer has come and passed; the innocent can never last
Vivid purple-blue and yellow pansies nod at her from where they've twined up the banister along the stairwell, almost brushing her shoulder as she hurries by.
Later -- well, Cassandra isn't in large crowds very often these days, is she? But someone at the buffet on this particular morning may overhear the murmur you don't need more than one slice; someone in just the right part of the Promenade a little later may overhear there's a clear path to the stairwell if he comes this way; someone passing by Sundries in the next five minutes may overhear still need to talk to Valdis about the gun.
2. ring out the bells again, like we did when spring began
In a corner of the library there's a spreading cluster of the tiny white flowers of baby's breath, looking sweet and harmless.
On a comfortable chair not very far from that point is a pile of cloth that might, on closer study, resolve itself into a dark grey skirt, a white blouse, a blue and grey patterned waistcoat, and a leather belt with a bag attached on one side and a sheathed rapier on the other. The pile is oddly arranged, as though the person wearing the clothes had vanished from inside them while still sitting there; as though to support this image, a pair of sturdy brown boots is on the floor in front of the chair.
On top of the pile is a two-inch-tall Cassandra, bundled in in the stiff and voluminous folds of a dainty silk handkerchief, struggling to press buttons on a phone that is now bigger than she is.
(The screen currently reads ERIN ITS CA)
[Note: this prompt is not closed to Erin! Anyone is welcome to happen upon tiny Cass while she's trying to text.]
3. drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are [closed to Phil]
A patch of poppies has sprung up on the rooftop that's one of the Serena's highest points, where few can climb. With the number of passengers that can fly, that's less a guarantee than it might be, but Cassandra still seeks solitude up there every so often -- and today, that means she falls asleep there, with vivid red petals pooled around her dark head.
In the dream she's twelve again, lined up with her brothers and sisters in their finery, excited about the visiting strangers and the welcome feast that's about to begin.
4. seven years have gone so fast
Wildcard! If you want to talk to Cassandra at a point where she is not affected by flower nonsense, feel free. Message me here or on discord if you'd like an individual prompt.
When: September
Where: Around the Serena Eterna
What: Flowers and their curious effects
Warnings: Game-typical angst; further content warnings in headers as they come up. The prompts below are occurring in no particular order over the course of the month.
1. summer has come and passed; the innocent can never last
Vivid purple-blue and yellow pansies nod at her from where they've twined up the banister along the stairwell, almost brushing her shoulder as she hurries by.
Later -- well, Cassandra isn't in large crowds very often these days, is she? But someone at the buffet on this particular morning may overhear the murmur you don't need more than one slice; someone in just the right part of the Promenade a little later may overhear there's a clear path to the stairwell if he comes this way; someone passing by Sundries in the next five minutes may overhear still need to talk to Valdis about the gun.
2. ring out the bells again, like we did when spring began
In a corner of the library there's a spreading cluster of the tiny white flowers of baby's breath, looking sweet and harmless.
On a comfortable chair not very far from that point is a pile of cloth that might, on closer study, resolve itself into a dark grey skirt, a white blouse, a blue and grey patterned waistcoat, and a leather belt with a bag attached on one side and a sheathed rapier on the other. The pile is oddly arranged, as though the person wearing the clothes had vanished from inside them while still sitting there; as though to support this image, a pair of sturdy brown boots is on the floor in front of the chair.
On top of the pile is a two-inch-tall Cassandra, bundled in in the stiff and voluminous folds of a dainty silk handkerchief, struggling to press buttons on a phone that is now bigger than she is.
(The screen currently reads ERIN ITS CA)
[Note: this prompt is not closed to Erin! Anyone is welcome to happen upon tiny Cass while she's trying to text.]
3. drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are [closed to Phil]
A patch of poppies has sprung up on the rooftop that's one of the Serena's highest points, where few can climb. With the number of passengers that can fly, that's less a guarantee than it might be, but Cassandra still seeks solitude up there every so often -- and today, that means she falls asleep there, with vivid red petals pooled around her dark head.
In the dream she's twelve again, lined up with her brothers and sisters in their finery, excited about the visiting strangers and the welcome feast that's about to begin.
4. seven years have gone so fast
Wildcard! If you want to talk to Cassandra at a point where she is not affected by flower nonsense, feel free. Message me here or on discord if you'd like an individual prompt.
no subject
Her hand is shaking, gripping the edge of the plate she's carrying as she makes for the exit.
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Both the tiger and Darcy's projected voice offer a low growl, which is indictment enough. Too animal to play well with others, but tigers aren't meant to growl at their prey, either, they're no bark and all bite. What an odd, malformed thing.
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Without turning toward Darcy, Cassandra says aloud, overlapping her own voice: "I am not going to engage in another pointless quarrel with you."
(Her unspoken voice is unsteady with frustrated anger and misery; when she speaks the same words aloud, her tone is cool and impassive.)
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"Shut up. You're not better than me. I don't buy this shit. You're a coward and that's not my fault."
You can't have them- layered low under her words, don't deserve- don't- haven't earned-
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And what don't I deserve? snaps Cassandra's internal voice. You won't say it to my face but I'm the coward -- And interrupting herself again: Don't be a fool, what does it matter what she thinks of you, just get out before this goes worse, and in yet another overlap, Oh bloody gods, shut up, she can hear this --
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I do fucking hear you, Darcy snarls in her head, parasite parasite parasite parasite-
Phil will be upset when he-
Always more important things, wolf from the door, wolf from the door-
"There's something wrong with you, kid."
"Shut up. Run away if you want."
no subject
Phil will be upset --
The next thoughts aren't verbal; or rather, any verbalized thoughts are drowned out by the imagined sound of shattering, as of someone hurling glass or porcelain dishes against a wall to break them, one after another.
(It's worked before, when she has needed very badly to stop thinking something in particular, lest it be overheard.)
"I decline to let you start another fight with me over nothing. You can stop denying your actual grievance with me or you can leave me alone."
And to the tiger, before she can think better of it: "And you may keep out of this, sir."
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"SHUT UP-" she squawks, "STOP IT STOP IT-" whatever win Cassandra was inevitably going to get over her with her words is shunted very quickly to the least of Darcy's concerns.
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I didn't mean to -- / Don't make excuses.
Subdued but very level: "I apologize for the noise; it was unintentional. Shall I repeat myself?"
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It doesn't go away. Even the silence doesn't calm her down, it builds in anticipation like waiting for that next crash again, for the raised voice, for- where is it where is it I know it's coming where where where-
"What was your plan, bambina? You yell at her and she backs off from what's yours?"
won't take me seriously now- think I'm nuts-not-safe-can't-take-care-of-myself-
"The world is run by people like this. You care, you already lost."
Darcy doesn't ask her to repeat herself. Darcy is gone.
no subject
Tch. That was careless of you, dear girl. Something odd about that thought; it's in Cassandra's voice, but -- is it?
No. Shut up.
The tiger, she realizes belatedly, hasn't gone anywhere. "And what do you want?" she asks it, sharp with unhappiness.
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Tigers don't purr, so it doesn't, but he does grin.
"Darcy made sure of that."
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Very neutrally: "I don't imagine your business with Darcy is any of mine, sir."
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And the tiger shifts to an older looking man with his hair slicked back, in a suit patterned in snakeskin. A couple of bullet wounds go right through him.
"Ghosts haunt, bambina. You stay away from her, or you end up like me."
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Ghosts haunt.
Very low: "Who are you?"
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A tilt of his head. In his mouth, still, the long canines of a big cat. A molar at the back of his mouth glitters in gold.
"You want to know my name, you ask her. You know she's still here if I'm here, right?"
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... Then why don't I hear her thinking?
"I don't know any such thing," she says evenly, "but I'll take your word for it. Good day, sir."
And she turns to set her plate back on the buffet table with a tiny precise click, apparently no longer interested in the single slice of ham and the egg-sized dinner roll.
no subject
When Darcy finally stops dissociating, she slinks off, the tiger at her heels once again.