To turn was a labor, so instead she merely backed into the nearest shelf, clearing the door as she did so and ever so slyly concealing the moment where her feet did not quite agree with instruction and she had begun to topple backward thanks to her own momentum. Adjusting her grip on the tomes in her arms, Mel steadied her breathing and flashed a sunshine-y smile, at odds with her Victorian waif aesthetic. "Jigano." Peeling herself off of the shelf she stood up as straight as she could, wavering uncertainly on her feet. The walking stick was nowhere in sight, a silent vote of confidence the witch had cast for herself.
She looked different when she wasn't all wadded up on the floor and shredded half to ribbons. As she had regained her autonomy and taken to exploring the Sanctuary, Mel's interest in her appearance had returned, everything about her from the waist length mop of dark hair to her water-stained leather boots was looking rather chipper and clean, even the drab beige and gray clothing looked rather cheerful. All it had taken was a bit of careful seam work and adjustments. Tucking the legs of her pants into knee-high boots and cuffing the sleeves of the tunic almost made her look, could we say, stylish? Nothing, however, detracted from the pink scar jagging across her face or what the mind could imagine lay beneath the black fabric patch. She'd taken care at least to stitch a staring stylized eye into it, a cheeky thing of silver thread salvaged from what had remained of the cloak. Was it humor? Was it aesthetic? Was it both? Did it matter?
At her left hip hung an empty scabbard secured about her waist and thigh, the belt (some artifact of her former life) looking quite worn but still up for the duty of holding up pants and carrying things her hands couldn't be bothered with. The clasp an eerie mirror of the gazing eye worked into the patch wrought in silver. Image was important to the witch - that much was evident - but these things were all she had left after the river - things she did not recognize but had obsessively poured over, attempting to suss out ever last scrap of the person she might have been. That she had taken such attentive care of them was no surprise. The books in this very library had even helped her to remember some parts she'd forgotten, but once she had truly started the repair and maintenance, even the complex stitching that had gone into her clothing, seemed strangely natural. That, too, she held close, both delighted and grieving for the things she simply couldn't make out. There were details and hints, but nothing that painted a clear picture. She wondered, even, if she might have been happier all that time if she couldn't remember these fragments of someone that, by now, had likely been laid to rest... or worse, forgotten.
By now, she was over it. She was good - that's what she told herself. She was moving forward. Mel offered the books out for Jigano to see, though did not offer to add to his own collection. "The nurses told on you, if you were meaning to be sly. Months later I thought you might like these back. I had questions, though. For you, if you're not busy." Hugging the books back to her chest she cocked her head to the side, eyes darting from his elbow to his hand to his face as he retrieved the key, not once blinking. There was a delay, her thoughts scattered for a moment before coming back together, her good eye lighting up in realization as the metaphorical thought train screeched back onto its rails. "How did we get here?" The question was sudden, followed by rising color in her cheeks, wondering if she had been so impulsive and forgetful before. Was she really such a ditz? "Sorry - if you have time, you know."
She looked different when she wasn't all wadded up on the floor and shredded half to ribbons. As she had regained her autonomy and taken to exploring the Sanctuary, Mel's interest in her appearance had returned, everything about her from the waist length mop of dark hair to her water-stained leather boots was looking rather chipper and clean, even the drab beige and gray clothing looked rather cheerful. All it had taken was a bit of careful seam work and adjustments. Tucking the legs of her pants into knee-high boots and cuffing the sleeves of the tunic almost made her look, could we say, stylish? Nothing, however, detracted from the pink scar jagging across her face or what the mind could imagine lay beneath the black fabric patch. She'd taken care at least to stitch a staring stylized eye into it, a cheeky thing of silver thread salvaged from what had remained of the cloak. Was it humor? Was it aesthetic? Was it both? Did it matter?
At her left hip hung an empty scabbard secured about her waist and thigh, the belt (some artifact of her former life) looking quite worn but still up for the duty of holding up pants and carrying things her hands couldn't be bothered with. The clasp an eerie mirror of the gazing eye worked into the patch wrought in silver. Image was important to the witch - that much was evident - but these things were all she had left after the river - things she did not recognize but had obsessively poured over, attempting to suss out ever last scrap of the person she might have been. That she had taken such attentive care of them was no surprise. The books in this very library had even helped her to remember some parts she'd forgotten, but once she had truly started the repair and maintenance, even the complex stitching that had gone into her clothing, seemed strangely natural. That, too, she held close, both delighted and grieving for the things she simply couldn't make out. There were details and hints, but nothing that painted a clear picture. She wondered, even, if she might have been happier all that time if she couldn't remember these fragments of someone that, by now, had likely been laid to rest... or worse, forgotten.
By now, she was over it. She was good - that's what she told herself. She was moving forward. Mel offered the books out for Jigano to see, though did not offer to add to his own collection. "The nurses told on you, if you were meaning to be sly. Months later I thought you might like these back. I had questions, though. For you, if you're not busy." Hugging the books back to her chest she cocked her head to the side, eyes darting from his elbow to his hand to his face as he retrieved the key, not once blinking. There was a delay, her thoughts scattered for a moment before coming back together, her good eye lighting up in realization as the metaphorical thought train screeched back onto its rails. "How did we get here?" The question was sudden, followed by rising color in her cheeks, wondering if she had been so impulsive and forgetful before. Was she really such a ditz? "Sorry - if you have time, you know."
