( elle is testing ! )

[le afrique]

The feeling that rattled Kassiopeia's insides ever so slightly had waned completely by the time she had realized who had bumped into him. Peia and Troy were good friends, despite the fact the both felt somehow responsible for each other's current state of demise. Kassi glanced up at Troy with smiling eyes once he confirmed that he was unharmed. She was the size of a human adolescent, despite being nearly six hundred years older than the average teenaged human. Regardless, the girl could never recall physically hurting another being, let alone someone of Troy's stature. "Me? Oh. No, I'm just fine," Kassiopeia laughed lightly, as if the idea was a foreign concept to her. She placed her hand atop of Troy's assuredly. Despite their delicate and small persona, mermaids were quite difficult to harm (physically-- emotionally they're extremely sensitive creatures). Her skin, soft as it was, was much stronger than you'd conclude by means of a first touch or glance. The bones of a mermaid, too, rendered her from being easily harmed. In truth, mermaids were hard to successfully slap around. Though neither of these factors defended her against the clumsiness she encountered with her two awkward legs. "Troy, how was your show?" Peia inquired happily, giving the unicorn's hand a small squeeze before letting her arm swing back to her side. "The children always make me smile," Kassiopeia explained with a loving sigh. She was aware that Troy didn't care for his act, but the mermaid wondered if he ever enjoyed the company of the children, the way she did. Or at least admired the curious attention. "I love it when their eyes light up and they muster up the courage to stroke my tail," Peia continued joyously. She reached to touch just below her hip bone and then looked back up at Troy. "Sometimes the older ones touch me right here, to try to see if I'm wearing a costume or not. Humans are so funny, don't you think? They must really love touching your horn, Troy, and your mane. It's so lovely, just like the color of seafoam." She stopped speaking quickly, her mouth still hung open. Kassi's face turned much more serious a few seconds later. "But once, there was this little boy, and he grabbed at me right here--" She stopped to point to her mid-thigh. "He plucked out one of my scales and shoved it in his pocket! It hurt something awful. The scales are the most delicate part of a mermaid, you know." It was comical, the way she failed notice that she was talking an overwhelming amount.


Kassiopeia had managed to hold her tongue just as soon as Troy continued. Peia didn't think much about food. Human food was so unsatisfying that the simple task of eating had become somewhat of a chore. There were a small handful of foods she truly enjoyed. Recently, apples and pears had become favorites. Popcorn, too, was a fun treat. On occasion she would sneak off to the seaside to get some real food. Seaweed salad, perhaps. Kassi contemplated her level of hunger before deciding that it was true. Her human body was hungry. It was a feeling she often overlooked. There were so many interesting heightened human emotions that distracted her from the important things. Like feeding herself. "I haven't eaten yet, but. I suppose I am hungry. Oh, and you must be hungry, too. I don't imagine sugar cubes hit the spot," Kassiopeia chimed melodically, allowing Troy to lead her any which way. She felt an immense amount of trust towards trust the man. Oh, yes, Peia had seen him standing in the outskirts of her customers at her evening show. Peia had stolen curious glances at the look of rage that distorted his face as some of the men whispered obscene things amongst themselves. The mermaid felt substantially more at ease with Troy there, lurking in the background. It amazed her that the unicorn could feel no bitterness towards her whatsoever. In fact, she still couldn't help but remain unconvinced. Kassiopeia recalled the day she'd met Troy. She'd played the tragic scene out in her head nearly a million times. The guilt of it all had kept her up at night for nearly a year after the escapade.


It had been the most breathtaking spring morning in Ireland. Mr. Trout had escorted Kassiopeia off circus grounds for the day and promised her a day at the beach. Despite the lousy company, Peia never passed up a swim and had climbed willingly into the back of his automobile. They must have been in the vehicle for all of fifteen minutes before it lurched to a sudden stop in a vast field. Kassi caught herself on the dash before tumbling forward, towards the wind shield. "Mr. Trout?" Kassiopeia inquired curiously as he fixed a rogue curl that had loosened during the stop. The ocean was still far in the distance. Mr. Trout ignored her curiosity and reached under his seat to pull out a small white cloth. "There, there, Kassiopeia. We'll be off to the sea soon. I just have a little surprise for you, hm?" Mr. Trout comforted, almost too nicely. Peia, naive as she was, hadn't noticed. "A surprise? What is it? I love surprises," Kassi repeated excitedly. Mr. Trout nodded in confirmation and reached over to her with a handkerchief in his hand. He pulled her hair back and tied it over her eyes. The girl heard him exit the automobile and pace to the passenger side. He opened the door, took her hand, and led her to an obscure spot in the middle of the field. With wild flowers at her ankles, she obeyed as Mr. Trout led her to kneel down on the dewy grass. She reached to feel around the circumference of her spot, admiring the tingling of the blades of grass as they brushed past her fingers. "Now, my little mermaid, what I'd like for you to do now is to sing one of those pretty little songs of yours for me, alright?" Mr. Trout said firmly. He leaned over and clamped her shoulders with his large hands, stood behind her and whispered fiercely into her ear. "Now, hurry." Kassi stared blindly ahead, her fingers itched to pull off the handkerchief and see what the fuss was about. He sounded anxious. Flustered. "A song? What song? Mr. Trout... I don't really feel like singing..." Kassi's previously excited expression had all but fallen and she shifted her weight uncomfortably in the grass. She felt him tense as he squeezed her small shoulders. "What song? I don't care what song-- 'I'll See You in My Dreams', 'Come Josephine'-- anything, just start singing now or you won't see the ocean for a very long time," Mr. Trout blurted quickly. He then released her shoulders and tottered off somewhere (she still couldn't see a thing). Kassiopeia sat silently for a few moments before clearing her throat and resting her bum on the grass. I'll See You in My Dreams. Kassi knew that song quite well, actually. "I'll see you in my dreams... hold you in my dreams. Someone took you out of my arms. Still, I feel the thrill of your charms." Peia sang hesitantly at first. With each line she sounded more and more sure, but still she sang ever so softly.


It had taken all of five minutes for Troy to trot forth to investigate the source of the music. Kassiopeia had heard something in front her, but out of uncertain fear she continued singing. "Lips that once were mine, tender eyes that shine... They will light our way tonight. I'll see you in my dreams--" Peia had stopped abruptly as she felt a soft muzzle of brush past her fingers, and the hot exhale of a creature inches away from her. A horse, perhaps? Her fingers shook with nervousness as she reached out in front of her and placed a small hand on the muzzle of the horse. The pleasant feel of Troy's nose, much like a peach, made her smile slightly, but it faded once her hands continued searching. Her fingers had slowly traveled up towards the forelock of the horse. In her limited experience with the beasts, Kassi knew that they much liked to be rubbed near the beginning their mane, right between their ears. Kassiopeia's nimble fingers had been wandering slowly, hesitantly, before they came upon a curious thing. Square in the center of the creatures forehead was a sort of horn, thin and soft to the touch. It reminded her of a shell. Her fingers had begun to study it carefully, and with her free hand she reached to pull off the handkerchief, slowly, slowly. Peia was staring a unicorn right in the eye. And then the chaos broke out. Trout pushed Kassiopeia away and backed the majestic creature into a horrendous metal trailer, hooked it to the back of his automobile and then they were on their way. Peia cried the entire way back to the big top.


“A teaaa partyyyy~” Kassiopeia had caught herself thinking back to that meadow once more, even then, five or so years later (she didn't much care for keeping track of time), as she stood contemplating breakfast with the very same unicorn. Shaylee's sing-songy voice had caught her attention. She'd perhaps only looked distant for a moment, but snapped completely out of it. "Of course! Tea sounds perfect. I love it. Have you ever tried it with salt!" Kassi nodded with a smile. She looped her arm in Troy's and turned to see Shaylee nearby, the little fairy who consistently made her laugh. The two were like children together. The fairy's tea parties were a treat, and she happened to keep a salt shaker on hand just for Peia, if she decided to attend. Sugary tea made her stomach lurch, but salty tea was a soothing beverage! Although, Kassiopeia had acquired some strange looks at the spectacle. Troy, always so serious, let out a mimic of Shaylee's singy-song voice. It caught her off guard and made her face light up the way the sun's reflection broke out across the surface of the sea, into a million little pieces. "Troy, you're too good at that," Peia let out a bubbly laugh, the kind that reminded you of a wave washing up a beach. Oh, what would she do without the other performers? T'was a fixating question.




i'll see you in my dreams! LOL. .-. cheesey song, BUT it IS legit 20's.

[le afrique]

sweat shops have made me shifty, like a ninja with speed i'm nifty.
i hope i live 'til i'm fifty, see my city go from gritty to pretty.



First sentence will be bolded, big and colorful. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Integer non lectus non erat ullamcorper dignissim a eget odio. Etiam quis turpis eros, vitae luctus dui. Maecenas at rhoncus quam. Nulla vitae elit ipsum. Proin sit amet nisi nec augue venenatis fermentum viverra nec purus. Donec interdum est nisi. Morbi id mi quis diam fermentum cursus. Nam posuere felis a felis tincidunt id viverra lacus placerat. Vivamus sit amet tellus et magna fermentum auctor non id urna. Sed eget massa eu velit ultrices aliquet commodo quis nisl. Curabitur blandit pellentesque dolor, vitae sagittis orci iaculis ac. Vestibulum non tortor eget lectus convallis viverra. Integer consequat dui nec nunc viverra consectetur. Mauris quis ante diam, in hendrerit arcu. Donec faucibus lectus nisl. Nullam sed magna nec mi dictum consectetur. Morbi adipiscing libero sit amet velit ullamcorper eu consequat sem placerat. Sed vel risus nunc, scelerisque mollis nisl. Suspendisse vitae ipsum nisl. Ut lacus lorem, tincidunt ut venenatis vel, fermentum ac odio. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Etiam enim quam, aliquet eu tincidunt vel, iaculis quis tortor. Donec ipsum nulla, tempus sed molestie vitae, pharetra ac augue. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Duis non felis purus, a lacinia elit. Nulla pretium sagittis ornare. Curabitur non mi vel libero porttitor laoreet. Cras fermentum facilisis faucibus. Donec sed ullamcorper odio. Morbi vehicula mauris ut lacus pharetra a vulputate erat vestibulum. Aliquam erat volutpat. Sed interdum orci et ligula sodales nec posuere lorem dictum.

words, biznitch.
thoughts, biznitch.

[le afrique]

one day i wanna be a star, so I get to hang in a bar.
i'll go to vegas with the playas, just to forget my scars.



First sentence will be bolded, big and colorful. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Integer non lectus non erat ullamcorper dignissim a eget odio. Etiam quis turpis eros, vitae luctus dui. Maecenas at rhoncus quam. Nulla vitae elit ipsum. Proin sit amet nisi nec augue venenatis fermentum viverra nec purus. Donec interdum est nisi. Morbi id mi quis diam fermentum cursus. Nam posuere felis a felis tincidunt id viverra lacus placerat. Vivamus sit amet tellus et magna fermentum auctor non id urna. Sed eget massa eu velit ultrices aliquet commodo quis nisl. Curabitur blandit pellentesque dolor, vitae sagittis orci iaculis ac. Vestibulum non tortor eget lectus convallis viverra. Integer consequat dui nec nunc viverra consectetur. Mauris quis ante diam, in hendrerit arcu. Donec faucibus lectus nisl. Nullam sed magna nec mi dictum consectetur. Morbi adipiscing libero sit amet velit ullamcorper eu consequat sem placerat. Sed vel risus nunc, scelerisque mollis nisl. Suspendisse vitae ipsum nisl. Ut lacus lorem, tincidunt ut venenatis vel, fermentum ac odio. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Etiam enim quam, aliquet eu tincidunt vel, iaculis quis tortor. Donec ipsum nulla, tempus sed molestie vitae, pharetra ac augue. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Duis non felis purus, a lacinia elit. Nulla pretium sagittis ornare. Curabitur non mi vel libero porttitor laoreet. Cras fermentum facilisis faucibus. Donec sed ullamcorper odio. Morbi vehicula mauris ut lacus pharetra a vulputate erat vestibulum. Aliquam erat volutpat. Sed interdum orci et ligula sodales nec posuere lorem dictum.

words, biznitch.
thoughts, biznitch.

[le afrique]

sweat shops have made me shifty, like a ninja with speed i'm nifty.
i hope i live 'til i'm fifty, see my city go from gritty to pretty.



Cyria couldn't remember life without Dominigo. In fact, the pages of her life had never been written without him. It started nearly two decades ago in the biggest favela in not only Rio De Jainero and Brazil, but all of South America. Rochina. The only place Cyria would ever refer to as home. It was a bitter excuse for 'home,' considering all of the welcoming and warm thoughts that came to mind at the mentioning of the word. Rochina met none of the expectations of home. Safety? Forget about it. Family? Only the one you make along the way. A bed? On a good day. Cyria was born into a family, two people strong. Her and her mother lived directly above Dom and his grandmother, in a shoddy apartment building. In the beginning, their friendship was based off nothing but pure convenience. The spunky Nina Alvares was a seamstress in the dodgier part of Rochina. She spent twelve hour days working for little more than ten centavos an hour. Keeping up with the rent was a constant battle. So, what did Bernadette, the opinionated old lady from downstairs offer to do six days a week? Take little Cyria into her hands and let her play with her timid, orphaned grandson, Dominigo. Cyria could recall summer nights that felt at if someone was holding a blow dryer to her face, but the air as usual was thick and humid to the point that her sheets felt damp and her hair clung to her face. Miserable, miserable heat. Her mother would be passed out on their lumpy twin mattress and a five year old Cyria would crawl across cool cement to the corner of their room, lift up the vent and whisper Dom's name ever so softly. When he'd reply, they'd spend the night talking about childlike things and listen to relentless gun shots in the distance. The next three or so years that followed were a constant struggle of survival. Cyria was six when her mother never bad it home from work one night. The girl was taken in by Bernadette and for a while things were perfectly well. Up until two years later, when the elderly woman passed away peacefully in her sleep. From then on the two had been sheltered by the unforgiving gang that ruled the favela. It would entwine them to a lifetime of debt, made up for only by service to the most notorious gangsters of Rochina.


Regardless of what you may be thinking right now, Dom and Cyria didn't have abnormally tragic childhoods, by favela standards. In fact, they were what you'd consider 'average.' Take for example, a boy named David, or 'Davi,' as she and the others liked to call him. The lonely boy had wandered into their lives around the age of fifteen. He despised talking about his life before the favela, but still, seeing a branco all alone in a Brazilian slum raised some questions. Regardless of his hesitance to share his story, Davi and the street kids were fast friends. Cyria in particular, made it her personal mission to take Davi under her wing and teach him the way of the streets. The boy was a fast learner. Since he had walked into her and Dom's life, things had far improved. The mob had even purchased them a teeny one room apartment, 'fit for royalty,' Dom had said. At that point in her life, however, Cyria couldn't have cared much for the apartment, which she considered little improvement to the tin roof tops they'd been sleeping on previously. At least then she could see the stars (the girl was hard to impress). No, no. Cyria was far too distracted by Davi. Her eyes were bright for him and she went where ever he bid her to go. It was a seldom thing to find someone who made you feel safe and good, so when Cyria found it, she held fast. But if there was one thing the girl had learned on the streets, it was that things rarely stayed perfect for long. Perfection was a lie, in fact. It visited like a welcomed guest that decided to pack up and leave all too soon. The flame that had preoccupied Cyria and Davi for so long had burnt out a few years later as a result of a vicious fight. It was then the two went their separate was, each hitting the slum life hard, but in very different ways. It was a lucky thing that she would always, always have Dominigo.


Except, perhaps, until now. An older, wiser Cyria Alvares stood in a tiny brick apartment, gazing at her reflection thoughtfully in a dusty mirror. The sound of a futbol game on a television set (affectionately referred to as a P.O.S.) echoed through their two room abode. The girl, now woman, had changed much since her days as a street rat. Her long wavy hair was once a rich brown, just like everyone else in Brazil. She'd bleached it out to a vibrant white-yellow, but still dark locks shown threw in a few areas, including her roots. Perpetually tanned hands pulled her hair back, so she could clearly see the green eyes staring back at her. One thing that stayed constant in her ever-changing appearance. A thief had to be careful of being recognized, didn't they? "Ahh, s**t!" Dom's familiar voice failed to surprise her. Brazil had lost. "Good, now that that game is over you can come out with me tonight," Cyria shouted at him in their native tongue, Portuguese, as she rubbed dust off of the mirror in front of her. She shook back her hair and leaned forward, then lifted a mascara brush to her thick lashes. Once she was finished she lazily rolled her eyes at the sound of Dom's overly amused laugh. "You're mad if you think I'll step out there, Cyria," Dom replied curtly. The two could not see each other from their stances, but the walls were thin and a door was all together absent from its threshold. Privacy was a foreign concept in their world. "You know Sol and his dogs will be keeping their eyes peeled for me. Besides, I have business." Cyria could hear the TV click off and Dom wander over to the bedroom that they were forced to share. He crossed his arms and propped himself up in the door way, watching as his 'sister' struggled to slip on dark pink heels. The man let out a short laugh at the spectacle before dropping down on the bed, which creaked absurdly and looked as if it would collapse from under him. That, too, was a P.O.S. "Well that's just a shame," Cyria said regretfully as she inspected her completed outfit in the mirror. "I set you up on a date with Remmie tonight. Looks like she's getting stood up." It was a rotten lie, but Cyria couldn't let her dearest friend stay home and sulk on a Friday night. It was simply immoral. She clapped her small hands and turned to face him, bending over ever to slightly so she could inspect his appearance playfully. The sun was nearly set and it lit up the room with an orange glow, like a wild fire. The young woman recognized the serious look on her brother's face and took his handsome face in her hands. "You can't avoid them forever, Dom," Cyria reminded him gently as she looked into his dark eyes, illuminated by the sunset out their window. A dog barked from a far, and children played loudly in the streets below. Moments later the man drew a lengthy breath. "Yeah, yeah. But I can try, eh?" A quiet laugh from both parties was shared before Cyria stood up and took her purse from the end of the bed. "So, come to Rafael's after you finish your business, yeah? And I will protect you from Sol and Davi," Cyria said defiantly as she began to walk out of the room. "See you soon, Cece."


- - -


Walking through a favela was a perilous task, regardless of who you were or how long you had lived there. The labyrinth of alleys were a dangerous thing and her mother and Bernadette had filled Dom and Cyria with little trick to remember how to get home. For example, looking to the cliffs. Memorize a part of the cliff and use it as a guide, as if you were following the north star to Bethlehem, her mother had told her. The only reason Cyria didn't have to pay attention as she walked down a narrow alley was because the bar wasn't a long haul from her home and she had walked the distance countless times. Each sharp turn was engraved in her mind, like a reflex. Her heels clicked gently against the cracked and crooked cement, and she weaved her way around groups of street children. The ones she recognized greeted her, while the unfamiliar ones skirted by. One thing she noticed as a constant between all the groups that passed her was that they all looked genuinely carefree. Happy, even, despite the conditions in which all lived in. Cyria remembered that feeling well. It was a beautiful thing to not have to worry about anything except what was right in front of you, then and there. She missed it. "Hey, watch it!" A gentlemen shouted at Cyria as he stumbled passed, visibly drunk. Like all alleys in the slum, that was just as narrow as the next, and Cyria had to press her back against a graffiti wall to avoid the drunkard. "Vai ver se está a chover," Cyria snapped promptly as the man laughed and continued on his way. It was a risky thing to reply to someone, but Cyria rarely thought before she acted. It was all apart of living life on the edge, an outlook that she valued very much. Oh, how she loved the excitement of the favela. It was a constant battle of wits and survival of the fittest. Life was one big game, was it not? Despite the repulsiveness of the open sewers, the violence and the poverty, there was an overwhelming sense of unity that one felt as they walked through Rochina. Everyone was on the same page and there was something very beautiful about that. The woman had passed numerous groups of singing men, beggars, children, and rabid dogs before resting eyes on the bar ahead. The summer sun had set and just as she turned the corner to see it, the paper lanterns that hung between the rooftops outside. It was already crowded to the point where people spilled out onto the street. This stuffy, crowded, loud atmosphere was where she made a living every night. Preying off the men who asked her to dance, then shamelessly stealing their wallet. It was a shitty job, but the bills needed to be paid, did they not? Tonight she would take a break.


Cyria shouldered her way through a thick crowd of people and stepped into a stuffy bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the humid air and music pulsated through the chaotic atmosphere to the point where it made her itch to dance. It wouldn't be long before Remmie or Iza showed up, with Dom not far behind, but until then she had to find something to preoccupy her time. A drink seemed like a good place to start, so she continued to make her way to the back of the bar where a bartender was taking orders. Her eyes wandered the room slowly, as if she was memorizing the scene in front of her. Cyria's heart fluttered stupidly as her eyes rested upon a familiar young man. "Miss, what would you like?" No reply. Anger had begun to blossom inside of her as she watched Davi Abbott stand there, without a care. "Miss...? His look of indifference made her sick and she looked as if she could focus on nothing else. The bartender promptly moved on once he deemed her a waste of time. Cyria had long suspected that Davi was in charge of keeping an eye on Dom. If Dom even spoke about leaving, Davi would be ready, gun in hand. She had been waiting a long time to tell Davi off, but until now, she'd never gotten the chance. A smirk danced across her lips and she crossed her arms, confidently striding up to him, as if she would one of her victims. Cyria noted his look of absolute indifference, even as she stood in front of him. First, she would toy with him a bit. Once again, life was a game to her. He held a drink in his hands, but she promptly took it for him, finished it off, and set it aside. "Well, well," Cyria chimed softly, moving closer and closer to him and swaying to the music ever so slightly. She spoke in English, a language that he had painstakingly helped her learn when they were young. Regardless, she was awful at it. "I haven't seen you in a while." Cyria immediately ran her fingers up the expanse of his chest until her hands rested behind his neck. After carefully noting his reaction, the woman pressed her body against his, the way she would get close to a dance partner. Years ago, this action between the two of them would have looked normal. Perhaps Davi wouldn't have looked as pained, and Cyria wouldn't have been doing it out of spite. It was funny the way things changed. "What's the matter, Davi, baby?" Don't you like me anymore?" Cyria inquired sarcastically over the up beat music. It clashed with the coldness in the air that suffocated the two of them.


As far as Cyria was concerned, Davi deserved every ounce of sarcasm that he got. No one messed with her brother and got away with it.



the outfit. sorry this post sort of fails. ;~; 'vai ver se está a chover' means "get lost!"

[le afrique]

one day i wanna be a star, so I get to hang in a bar.
i'll go to vegas with the playas, just to forget my scars.



Favela life is s**t. This observation ran through fourteen year-old Dominigo Sousa's head as he stood in a gap of a tangle of buildings. His glistening bare back was pressed up against dirty wall, laden with suggestive graffiti. His chest heaved dramatically as he stared dead ahead at a makeshift futbol goal. It was constructed of three large tree branched, lazily nailed together with a pale green fishing net draped over the back. At that moment Dom wanted nothing more to nail the beaten ball between the posts. It was a rush to hear the swoosh of the net and the sway of the goal if you used enough force. He stood in what was unanimously deemed 'the futbol field.' A wide dirt clearing amidst a thick slum. Houses stacked one on top of the other towered over him, scraping a setting sky. The once-white futbol was still vibrant against the red dirt at his feet and the humidity mixed with his sweat and exhaustion was nearly to much to bear. His foot tapped lightly against the ball as he stole a glance at the water bottle waiting for him on the single bleacher that ran along the field and then a younger, darker haired, Cyria. She looked admittedly bored as she lay on her back, feet dancing sporadically up in the air. A plate of yellow rice and black beans balanced on her stomach and she scooped up the meal with her small fingers. Again the tip of his shoe tapped against the ball, making it roll ever so slightly on the flat ground before coming to a stop a few inches in front of him. He'd already finished his portion, but still his stomach wrenched with hunger. It was a familiar feeling in these parts. And all of the hunger, all of the shanty houses, and all of the obscene graffiti that surrounded him only succeeded in reminding him of one thing. That living in a favela was complete and utter hell, once you got over the excitement and the thrill of it all. Dominigo was over it. "Are you going to kick the ball or just try to move it with your mind?" Cyria inquired in their mother tongue of Portuguese once she had swallowed a mouthful of rice. Dom played little attention to her comment. It was all in good humor. The boy knew her far too well to mistake her slight snarky-ness for an intentional blow. "My feet hurt from running around Rochina all day."


Dom took a swift step forward, still failing to acknowledge the whining girl on the bench that he called his sister. He swung a strong leg towards the ball, kicking it right between the pathetic excuse for a futbol goal. Beckham would have cocked a brow. "Sousa shoots! He scor--" Dominigo playfully mimicked a sports caster, but stopped short as he watched where the ball plummeted straight into. There was a loud crash once the futbol soared through the air, through the thin netting, and smacked into one of the thin shutters of someone's window. Dom felt his stomach lurch as he heard a loud crack, watching as the shards and the ball fell to the ground. "Ohh... s**t..." Immediately he saw Cyria jump up out of the corner of his eye and heard some shuffling in the house. The crooked front door tore open and out stomped a lanky fellow who didn't look like he messed around. Within milliseconds little Cyria was at his side, holding onto his elbow and poking her head out from behind him to inspect the stranger. "Sorry, sir." Dom recognized the livid expression twisted on the man's face and grabbed Cyria's hand, leading her behind him a little bit. "Sorry? I'll show you sorry, you little s**t-- break my ******** window, huh? I hope you've got some money to buy a new shutter because I sure as hell don't." At the mentioning of money the two youngsters stiffened slightly. Of course they didn't have the money for new shutters. They barely had enough for supper that evening. "Run, Dom," Cyria whispered quickly as she slipped out of his hand and booked it through a narrow alley. Dom watched as the man's face twisted with more anger and he bolted down the stairs towards him. "Sorry!" Dominigo shouted back at him as he turned abruptly on his heel and darted off behind Cyria. It took him all of five seconds to catch up with Cyria, after all, he played exorbitant amounts of futbol and although Cyria was fast, she wasn't much of a match for him. As he began to run faster and hear the cries of protest from the angry man, he weaved passed Cyria and grabbed her arm, forcing her to run a little faster.


They had run until his cries were long gone and they were both gasping for air in a tangle on the cracked and damp cement between two houses. "Nice one, Pelé," Cyria had said a few minutes later with a weak laugh. Oh, Dom wished he could go back to those days. Sure, they were crap times, but they weren't nearly as bad as he considered things to be now. An older Dominigo Sousa stood with his palms pressed against a thick wooden table, the paint worn and chipping. In the center of the table sat a lonely ash tray with three cigarettes smoldering in the notches. Dangling above the table was a single bulb, the only source of light in the room. All the shutters were drawn. The owners of the other two cigarettes sat across from Dom, only he stood. Suddenly he reached forward and plucked his cigarette up from the tray, then pressed it between his lips. I'm a joke of a dealer, Dom thought meekly as he took a quick drag and stood up straight. He was too nice. The man let things slide, let people give him 'I owe you's', and then eventually forgot about them. This made him a popular choice among the druggies. "I can't let it slide this time, guys," Dom explained sternly, putting on his well rehearsed 'tough guy' face. If Cyria had seen it she would have fallen over laughing, but to nearly everyone else it was quite believable. "I'm down on my rent and I have people to feed. So, that'll be a hundred reals, Rico." Very valid points and both of them were very true. Dom had a rent to pay and he helped feed Cyria, as well as street children whom he'd befriended. Sometimes he gave Remelia and Izadora a hand if they ever needed it, but typically the two girls seemed to do pretty good for themselves. He rolled the cig between his fingers slightly before talking a longer drag and watching the expression on his customer's face's stiffen. "Look, man, I've only got fift--" The man named Rico began after he glanced at his comrade. Dom interrupted him with a loud sigh. "No. You look. I'd hate to see Sol get involved in this, wouldn't you?" Dominigo leaned forward and put out his cigarette in the ash tray, exhaling, his eyes flickered to the pair as his trail of smoke wafted over to them. Bringing in Sol was often a hollow threat. One that he used to get people to bend his way. Sol brought fear into the faces of the people. "He'd have my a**. He'd have your a**. But he'd especially have your a**. You know?" Dom continued with his tough guy act and rubbed his eyes tiredly and in annoyance. They'd been at this for an hour and it was more than obvious to him that he wasn't getting all of his money. "Let's call it fifty, then." The man named Rico jumped across the table and pressed a fifty into Dom's hands. He shook his hand thoroughly. "Thanks, man, I swear I'll have the rest by Wednesday, alright?" Dom waved him off with a look of anger. "Yeah. Sure as hell you will. Because if you don't? Sol's going to pay you a visit, Rico." And with that, Dom left.


He slammed the heavy door behind him and paused above a long flight of stairs. Being a d**k was exhausting, so he took a deep breath of the humid night air and scanned over the landscape in front of him. Rico's pad was near the outskirts of the favela, high on the cliffs and above Rio. It was a great view from where he now stood. The lights of the favelas surrounding Rio resembled the starry sky at night, which was one of the few things he enjoyed about Rochina, his home. Once his dark eyes scanned over the wide spread slum, they flickered to down town Rio, where the lights of clubs and the ocean occupied his attention. The high life. He had often wondered what it tasted like. Dominigo started down the steep stairs, descending into the labyrinth of brick homes. Perhaps he would wander down to the futbol field with his ball and kick the ball around a bit with his younger futbol friends. The thought was a comforting one that made him look forward to his evening. But then he remembered a previous engagement. Ah, the bar. No, Dom wasn't a hermit, but the man was in a sticky situation at the moment. News of the Brasil Futbol scout giving him an offer had traveled fast, and it hadn't been long before Sol was aware of Dom's lucky break. If Sol had his way, no one would have their lucky break, and his minions would be eating out of the palm of his hand for the rest of their lives. But Dom was different. His determination to close this chapter of his life far surpassed anyone he had met on the streets. It was the reason he played futbol literally every single day for hours and hours when he was a child, because maybe, just maybe, it would be his ticket out one day. And that day had come. Sol knew that he was thinking about leaving therefore Dom was doing everything in his power to avoid the gang at that point in time. It was a laughable task, however. If they were looking for you, they'd sure enough find you. Still, it was understandable to want to dodge Sol's and Davi's death stares. There was a high chance they'd be at Rafael's this evening, and so his excitement to see Remmie, Cyria and Iza was lost in the anxiety of possible confrontation. If Sol had his way, Dom would be pushing drugs for the rest of his life. The gang went through a lot of trouble to make sure him and Cyria stayed safe as youngsters. The debt for something like that was practically immeasurable.


Dom had been walking and thinking of such things and he passed numerous people in the streets, many of whom were gravitating to the music from Rafael's which filled the alleys and pulsed through the cement jungle. It was a matter of minutes before he was close enough to the point where the live music was ridiculously loud and overwhelmed his ears. It would be a somber occasion for him. Or so he predicted. Dominigo turned a sharp corner, knowing that as soon as he did he would be faced with all the excitement of a Friday night right in front of him. The bar would be straight ahead, warm yellow lights would blind him at first until his eyes adjusted and the people would swarm like bees to honey. Or like people to cheap alcohol. When he turned the corner all of those thing were laid out in front of him, but he failed to pay attention as he smacked straight into a small woman (every woman was small to Dom, for he was quite tall) whose face he couldn't see as she was turned away from the light. His face was immediately over come with great concern and he gently grabbed the girl's arm before she could even think to fall over. "My bad, miss. Are you alright?" Dom blurted quickly and apologetically. He still couldn't quite see her face until one of the club lights flashed over the young woman's pretty tanned face. A look of revelation came over him and he smiled brightly at her. "Remmie!" He gave her arm a gentle squeeze before releasing her. Apparently Cyria had set the pair up on a date, but Dom had since caught on to the fact that Cyria made it up to get him out of the house. The man had spent far too much time sulking about the defecting scenario, and although it always lingered on his mind, perhaps it would be nice to forget about it for a night. Assuming Sol wasn't there. "Did I miss anything good? Pleasant conversation? Bar fights?" He seemed genuine, though it was obvious something was tugging at the back of his mind as he scanned the thick crowd. Seeing Sol's face just might have succeed in ruining his night.

[le afrique]

A rush of heated panic surged through her as the scene unfolded. If she was Winnie, she would have probably been forced to sit down, and simply wait for a group of people to come to her aid, hold back her hair, and fan her pretty little face. Sibylla liked to believe she was a little bit more tolerable of the unpleasant than sweet, darling Winnie. So, instead of excusing herself and blaming the heat, the audacious young woman stood quite straight and took each sarcastic blow with unwavering poise. She did, however, resist the peasant-y urge to cross her arms and jut out her hip in defiance of Felipe's remarks. It was hard to prepare for any such a stance except for the one that came naturally to her amidst her obvious rage. Each snide, sarcastic comment from Felipe only wound her up more and more tightly. By the time he'd finished her hands clenched in sweaty fists. "Well I don't know what kind of scam you two are running, but you are either not very organized or you have your own agendas. I'd watch your back if I were you. She's a regular succubus." Her face burned a violent red both from the frustration and the embarrassment as she stood there, feeling out the delicateness of the situation. It was best to hold her tongue. Surely this would be enough for Jay to never trust her again. Kill her, even. Or worse, abort the mission (she exaggerates). Oh, the murderous thoughts were over whelming. Perhaps, if only they had been alone, a swift slap across the face would have satisfied her rage against the meddlesome, meddlesome-- whatever Felipe was. Then again, it would have been doubly satisfying to aim just a bit lower... In an instant Felipe had turned on his heal and scuttled off to annoy a group of fresh faces, she presumed. "Aye, the shadows," Sibylla replied dramatically, drawing out a lengthy end to each words. Ha! As if she truly feared this man's repercussions. As far as she could tell, Felipe was merely prattle without practice. However, if Bylla allowed her tongue free range, she would likely cause a scene. The young woman drew a brave breath and turned to Ranajay, looking duly bored with the entire situation.


Jay's reaction, though justified, hit her like a slap across the face. He made her feel small. Like she was a peasant! It made her skin crawl to be spoken to so plainly after such a long amount of time being treated as a princess. It was a bitter reminder to be booted off her high hors-- elephant, in such a way. It knotted her insides. "Since you like to tell him so much, you might as well tell him he's going to die soon! Oh, and that you're going to accomplish this task. By the end of this week, A'Sibylla." Sibylla let out a choke of a laugh, eyes wide with disbelief. Since when was he the one giving the orders? Who was wearing the tiara? "Well, A'Sibylla, will you be able to kill him?" The self-proclaimed princess couldn't resist the urge to cross her arms and lean forward, only entering his personal bubble ever so slightly. If they had been in the privacy of one of their rooms, she would have been far more lax than a princess ever dared to be. "Need I remind you who pushed the frail, sickly, Princess Reemelia down the stairs?" Bylla whispered lividly in their language, pressing a hand against the marble pillar as if to steady herself. "If you don't feel like getting your hands dirty, all you have to do is say so, Jay." Sibylla watched her old friend saunter off, in a similar and abrupt fashion such as Felipe's. And again, she was left pissed.


Sibylla turned ever so slightly on her heel and scuttled away from the pillar, only to bump into a sever a few steps later. The young man dodged her quickly and expertly, in order to not spill his tray of champagne glasses. The princess let out an irritated groan and flashed fiery eyes at the unsuspecting servant. "Excuse me," she snapped, pausing and looking over the tray before snatching up a glass. Bylla immediately pressed the cool glass against her lips and allowing the fizzy liquid to slip down her throat. "May I bring you anything else, princess?" When Sibylla shook her head between mouthfuls, the man bowed and took his leave. And then she saw it. Her heart flipped inside of her and her eyes widened as she lifted the glass. In the distortion of the foot of the glass, Bylla saw Jay's fist collide with Felipe's strong jaw. A disgraceful cough-snort sent her champagne to the back of the glass, and she held it away from her face in order to wipe her mouth with her free hand. The Myteran stumble back, as if confused and Sibylla, being quite a distance away, simple stared wide eyed and mouth open in complete and utter shock. On the one hand, she could have rushed over to Jay's side and made up some excuse for his rash behavior. Salvage the situation and all that. On the other hand... She laughed shortly in disgusted disbelief at what looked like a cowardly reaction from Felipe. "You mad beast! Get away from me!" Dear God. She rolled her eyes, as if in a reflex. "I'm surrounded by idiots," Sibylla near cried in Sarunan, shaking her head. After downing the remainder of her glass, she disappeared into the bowels of the castle.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

time skip soon, ya? O:

[le afrique]

sweat shops have made me shifty, like a ninja with speed i'm nifty.
i hope i live 'til i'm fifty, see my city go from gritty to pretty.



When she studied Davi just then, Cyria had come to the conclusion that he hadn't changed a bit. Despite the perpetual haze of cigarette smoke in the bar, Cyria could see that Davi was more or less the same as he was three years ago. The excitement of this fact made her cheeks flush slightly. It was almost like it was before. Before things took and unexpected turn for the worse. Perhaps if she paid less attention to his look of annoyance (or had more to drink), she could fool herself into thinking she was twenty-two again, when thing were that much easier. But then she looked into his eyes and realized thing had indeed changed-- for good. Davi's eyes were darker, and not simply because Cyria was hanging off him in mock flirtatiousness. It looked as if he had been through great ordeals and stress since they last had an actual conversation. As if he had seen thing, and done things, some of them absolutely horrendous. It was a hunch, but Cyria had heard heart wrenching stories of Davi's new life. Stories that had kept her up at night. All these thoughts had distracted Cyria before Davi not surprisingly pushed her aside gently (but firmly) by her arm. He was unamused and Cyria couldn't help but bite back a smile of sweet, sweet success. The song stopped as she watched Davi pull away and her triumphant smile faded as she felt a few pairs of eyes on her at Davi's snide remark. "That's really funny. You felt a little differently three years ago," Cyria leaned forward to whisper in his ear. The cynical smile crept back onto her face before once again fading as she pulled back to look him over. Before the young woman could study her previous lover any longer, he pushed past her, forcing her to press her back against a bright yellow wall to miss his stride.


But Cyria was hot headed, and definitely not finished with Davi Abbott just yet. She lazily leaned up against the wall with narrowed eyes, watching as he pushed his way through a thick crowd. All games set aside, inside Cyria was in a complete panic. Some days she would sit outside with the newer generation of street children and catch up on the rumors flitting about Rochina. They'd sit in alleys, each person taking up a damp, mossy step and stare up at tangles of phone lines between tangles of houses. "Well I heard something really bad. About that Davi, Sol's man," a young boy had jumped up to share with the small group. It was like a game to them. To see who could dish the best dirt. Cyria simply rolled her eyes, pulled a small girl named Teresa into her lap and began to braid her hair, soft as a child's typically was. Like goose feathers, Cyria had remembered thinking as the boys competed for the spot light. Her nimble fingers had froze at the mentioning of Davi. "You shouldn't talk about those things," Cyria chastised the boy with stern eyes. He disregarded her and looked to his friends. "He busted into some poor fool's apartment and beat him with a pool stick. A pool stick! Can you believe it?" Cyria's stomach twisted into knots, similar to the ones in the phone lines above them. She looked up and prepared to silence the boy. "If the guy lied he'd just hit him more until he was pretty much dead." The boys around him laughed in disbelief and although Cyria had opened her mouth to tell the cocky child to shut up, she couldn't find the words to say it. A hole had been punched in her chest as the boy continued to describe what Davi had done. "That's how my mom found him the next day. Pretty much dead." The boys let our more uncomfortable laughs of disbelief and Cyria glanced down at the girl in her lap. She finished the loose bread and held her to chest. It was a hopeless cause to shelter the little girls from such topics. Cyria knew. "I bet--" Cyria interrupted the boy loudly. "Enough, enough! You shouldn't gossip about things you don't know much about. Sometimes... things can be more complicated than they appear to us. Okay?" Cyria had lost a lot of sleep that night.


In the heat of the moment Cyria marched off behind Davi a few moments later. Oh, no. No, no, no. This wasn't over yet. She pushed her was mercilessly through a crowd of drinkers and dancers, breathing heavily with the unforgiving combination of heat and humidity. It only worsened as she moved out onto the alley, where the crowd spilled out onto the well-lit and narrow street. It began to rain lightly, as it typically did this time in Rio de Jainero. But it had been weeks since Rio had been graced with a shower, to everyone's surprise. It took her a few moments to find Davi again, and when she did she couldn't help but to nervously bite her lip. Iza was with him now, which was fine. But Sol stood not three meters away, shoving bills greedily into his pocket. Things were never good when Sol was near. Cyria paused underneath a strand of paper lanterns, which hung lazily across the alley. They were on the outskirts, as was Cyria, but she paused with uncertainty and watched Sol approach Davi. Dominigo and Cyria both knew that word had gotten to Sol about Dom's desire to leave Rochina. How could it not? They kept tabs on anyone who was anyone, and Dom was a man who owed a great deal of money and a great deal of service. A fear that had been blossoming inside of Cyria for a fair amount of time was just about to be torn open for everyone to see. The woman began walking towards Dom. No one was going to touch Dom. She'd simply have to make sure of that. Up until then, she had more or less left the fear alone, as if she was afraid to acknowledge it. The complete and utter truth of the matter was that she could lose Dom. And Davi could play a very big hand in that. "Dominigo Jairo Sousa." Cyria froze mid-stride, fingers pressed tightly in her palm. It felt like, for a split second, everything was moving slower. Hot, uncomfortable panic surged through her as she stood a couple of meters from Davi and Sol, simply staring, as if she'd been slapped across the face. She couldn't care less that the rain was dampening her floral dress, or her hair. Numb.


But that stupid numbness that had kept her frozen in place soon faded and when it did, Cyria quickly moved forward and grabbed Davi with both of her tiny hands, staring at him with wide eyes. Sol acted uninterested and Iza had taken it upon herself to distract him, it appeared. Within seconds she'd whisked him off somewhere before Cyria could even think to strangle him. Her eyes flickered to Davi. Davi, who was now in charge of roughing up the only person she'd ever really considered her family. Davi whose hands had done so many horrible things. All of the emotions and hate and fear that she had succeeded in suppressing for years quickly bubbled over as she pulled him off into an uncomfortably narrow alley. She felt sick. Livid. Heart broken. When her words failed her, the woman's first reaction was to use her hands. A strong, wet slap echoed through the alley, dark as pitch. The rain streamed down both of their faces and Cyria's chest heaved dramatically with indignation and surprise as she'd realized what she'd just done. But it had felt so good. Liberating, even. Yes, it was liberating! So, she did it again-- and it felt just as good the second time. "How can you criticize my life when you hurt people so much," Cyria yelled with a shaky voice. It was difficult to speak over the rain pattering against the tin roofs and the muffled music. The dry and painful lump and the back of her throat made it even harder to choke out the words. And she was indeed choking on them. "When you kill people." Cyria was face to face with a man that she'd grown to despise over the years, for no other reason other than that there was a huge part of her that had also grown to fear him. "I've heard of the things you do to people, Davi, and it makes me sick." She cried at him, taking a handful of his shirt in both hands. "Even the children talk about it. The children. They even know more about it than I do because I hate to listen." Cyria gave him a weak push into the cement wall a few meters behind him. It made her feel stronger, even as the tears threatened, just to take charge as he did nothing. "Because when I do listen to the stories-- I lose sleep at night. And then I learn to hate you. And to be afraid of you."


It was a challenge to pick out the emotions on his face, as it usually was, but the blackness of the alley made it even worse. Perhaps it was better that she couldn't see. Any form of emotion on his face would only serve to make it worse. To make her even more livid, if possible."You can't touch Dom. You can't touch him-- okay, Davi? Because I swear to God, if you hurt him, I'll kill you." Cyria snapped, once again pushing him as roughly as her small frame would allow, into the wall behind him. The sound of his back hitting the slick cement made yet another slap. Her fist were still balled up near the collar of his now sopping wet shirt. She gasped loudly for air, tasting the sweet rain water on her tongue when she looked up at him and released his shirt, leaving behind wrinkled circles in their place. The thought of losing Dom was one that she battled with since this futbol talk started to become a reality. She wanted him so badly to be happy, and for them to be together, but how could she leave Rochina? Dom may have hated it, but to Cyria, this was home. As she stood there, she somberly realized that at some point losing Dominigo, her brother, could eventually become inevitable. And that revelation horrified her. Because if she didn't have Dom, who did she have? Her knees felt weak and threatened to buckle. They shook with all the might of her emotions and she too pressed her back against the wall behind her. "If you kill Dom..." Her voiced trailed off and her rosy lips hung open in horror. The rest of her words wouldn't come out. They were lost somewhere inside of her. Tears began to roll down her tanned cheek and if the rain hadn't been so loud, Cyria could have sworn she heard her heart beating out of her chest. Her fingers reached up to rub and hide her watery eyes. "Stay away from us." Cyria ended quietly, morosely and angrily all at once. She could taste the salt of her tears and the rain all mixed together on the tip of her tongue as she spoke. "Just stay away from both of us."

[le afrique]

elle wants...

an ancient egypt role play
an el dorado role play
an inglourious basterds-esque role play
and and and
a tudor's court one.

[le afrique]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxlena sylvène arouetxxxx
THE JEWISH CAFE OWNERxxxxxxx


• lena
• twenty five
• female

• hard working
• independent
• over caring
• stubborn


le afrique

[le afrique]

text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text

"ohlala."

[le afrique]

text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text

"ohlala."

[le afrique]

text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text

"ohlala."

[le afrique]

General Blanchard,

On request of the President of the French Republic, you have hereby been assigned to lead his majesty's prison off the coast of French Guiana. As I am sure you know, this is a position of the up most importance. Dozens of countries send their most threatening criminals to the colony in order to keep their civilians safe. Attached are two tickets to the colony of French Guiana, one for you and one for your daughter, if you do so which to take her with you. The ship will leave Cherbourg on May 13, 1887. The inmates have already begun building your home on Devil's Island and we are certain you will find it very much enjoyable. It has been built to fulfill your every need on the island. I wish you the best of luck on your journey and even more luck starting a new life there. Best wishes to you and your daughter.

Regards,
General Francois Belfort



A young woman stood at the bow of a decent sized British ship, her stormy grey eyes were fixed on the silhouette of three rugged dark patches of land in the distance. Just as the men standing next to her were, she seemed to be captivated by it. They looked like nothing special in the dead of night and particularly uninteresting if you didn't know what you were staring at, exactly. Unfortunately, everyone there did. Dozens of teeny pin pricks of light dotted the blotches. A few of those lights flickered on and off with each gust of unpredictable wind. The distant sounds of waves licking up against a rocky coast could be heard as the ship sliced silently though the Caribbean Sea. With one more playful whip of the wind, Evaine Blanchard's dark blue hat was carried away and dropped gracefully in the black water below. She'd hardly blinked, for she was much more distracted by the breath of filthy sailors on her neck and the certain peril that awaited her on those three islands. "I 'eard you go mad wit' the heat wif'n a day or so," one man muttered, his eyes wide with fear. "Fool's story!" erupted the other men surrounding him. Evaine stayed quiet. "One thing 's true though, these waters ar' shark 'nfested." "'s true, I tell you!" yelled another boy. "Tha's why it's called th' Green Hell, mate. Not many o' men come back alive from th' likes o' that place." "Rubbish," Miss Blanchard chimed in, narrowing her eyes at the childish men around her. "Fantasies and child's play, gentlemen. It sounds like you've all been breathing in the gossip floating around your jolly ol' London." "Miss, this innit no place for a woman," a beastly man warned. "Aye, French er no French," the rest bellowed in agreement and a lanky man reached for one of Evaine's white-blonde curls. "We wouldn't want a pretty flower such as yo'r self walkin' 'round there all 'lone." Evaine's eyes widened at the gesture, she gathered her blue dress in her fists and stepped away from the men. The men tittered, most of them hurrying away to prepare to anchor. "Welcome to hell, mademoiselle," one of them whispered as they made their way below deck. "Your daddy should've left you 'n Paris." "Your captain should have left you begging for spare change on the grimy streets of London," she spat back at him, before gathering up her skirts again and ripping open the door to her father's quarters. Her hands shook with a mixture of rage and fear for what lie ahead of her. The door clicked shut behind her and she took a few seconds to glance around the room. In the corner was a bed, fit for a general and in the other was a large desk with an endless display of papers strewn about and even taking up space on the creaky floor. Lights from candles and lanterns flickered from a hot and sticky breeze coming in from the window. Evaine quickly walked over to the window and reached to close it just before the fog horn on the ship blew loud and clear and Evaine winced lightly. It was milliseconds after the horn had sounded that cages began rattling and men on the island began howling back at the noise, as if they were a pack of wild animals baying at a harvest moon. Four continuous shots were fired and almost as if a music box had been clicked shut, all was silent.


It had been one month since the ship had landed on Devil's Island and if Evaine only knew what going mad with the heat felt like, she'd be able to tell you just how close she was. The island was small, wet, and thick with fruit trees and vines. Her home was the only safe haven from the constant showers and blazing sun, although she spent little time kept up in the house. Instead she spent her time in the fruit orchards and playing in the small fields with the worker's children. Her father was always busy and often spent his time on Royal Island, so in the evenings she found sanctuary in that lonely house between the pages of her books. In the first few weeks, Evaine viewed Devil's Island as her very own Garden of Eden, but not too long after they'd docked, Evaine had began to see why this region was called the Green Hell. It rained at least a dozen times a day. Some of these rains lasted for hours and were near tropical storms, others were a mere sprinkle of dew, but no matter what time of day it was, the grass was always wet and water dripped from every branch in the jungle. Her house (aside from the farmer's and maid's homes) was the only real home on the island. The officers lived in bunk rooms together on the other side of the island, where the prisoners were kept. Evaine's father had gone to great heights to make sure those filthy brutes were a far distance away from his daughter. Evaine had lived there for about a week or two before she saw what happened when you didn't listen to warnings on Devil's Island. Two worker's children had snuck out at night to go for a swim and the entire island has awoken to frantic screams. There were still streaks of blood in the sand by morning. The picture of two dead boys floating face up in the water was engraved in her mind. Evaine vowed to never set foot in those waves as long as she lived on the island for fear of sharks sinking their teeth into her unsuspecting self, just as they had done to the two young boys. Approximately 223 inmates were held in the teeny barracks on Devil's Island. Each one held a bed (if you hadn't done such a serious crime) and a drain for you to do your business. Solitary confinement cells consisted of virtually nothing but dirt floors and were made to be black as pitch. However, if you were really bad (for instance, committed treason, murdered over fifty people, etc), you would get your own little stone hut, equipped with nothing but the clothes on your back. There you would spend the rest of your natural life. Since that was the case, a 5 meter by 5 meter stone wall was put up around the shack to provide a few feet for you to walk around a bit. Isn't that lovely? You can walk a circle around your shack when ever you please. However, there were only three of those shacks on the island. But no matter what kind of prison you found yourself in, rest assured each one of them was dripping wet and smelled of mildew. The officers didn't worry about anyone escaping because if they missed the men with their rifles, the sharks would certainly do the rest. Even the prisoners knew that, which was why few even considered attempting an escape.


Evaine was constantly told to stay away from the prison side of the island by her father and other officers, but she saw virtually no threat in going over there. All she had to do was scream and everyone on the island would be on their feet. It was a frequent practice of hers to slip on her silk robe when she couldn't sleep and walk along the shores of the island. Evaine would circle the entire island once (assuming one of the guards didn't stop her and tell her to return to her home), by that time she was usually tired enough to return to her bedroom. It had been another one of those nights for Miss Blanchard and she'd only walk fifteen minutes or so before spotting a group of officers sitting around a fire. They were playing poker, no doubt. The 'guards' laughed and hooted, slapping their knees at inside jokes. Evaine walked towards the group quickly, her eyes flickering towards the shack the men were supposed to be guarding. It was quiet and if she knew any better, she'd say it was empty. "Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted loudly in her mother tongue, over the men's jokes. They silenced and turned around to look at her. The fire crackled loudly and Evaine kept her chin high in the air. If there was anything she'd learn about this place, it was to stay strong, don't let your guard down and what ever you do, don't look weak. "Good evening, Mademoiselle," one greeted, closing his fan of playing cards. "Shouldn't you all be guarding something?" she mused, her face looking threatening and a few of the men coughed uncomfortably. "My father would—" "You can sleep soundly at night, Miss Blanchard," another officer piped in. "I would give all my years pay to see one of these men escape." "Besides, they've no where to run," another one laughed, picking up another card. He patted his keys with his free hand. They dangled loosely from his trousers. "They won't get any where without these." A young man gestured to the rifle next to him and looked up at Evaine with a sly smile. "If we miss them with the rifles, the sharks will finish the job." The men cackled with laughter, although Evaine didn't look so enthused. "Have a good game, men," she snapped coldly. Evaine couldn't tell you what led her over to the cell that night. Her feet made hardly any noise on the damp ground, so the men went back to their game and took no more notice. There was a lantern sitting on top of the stone wall and it bathed everything in a thin orange light. Next to the cell bars was a flat rock and on the flat rock sat a tray, with a green apple and a slice of oddly disfigured bread. A pair of flies sat happily on the loaf. Briskly, she shooed them away with her hand and wrapped her robe tighter around her body. Evaine grimaced when she noticed the hem of her night gown was laced in red mud. It was cool against her ankles. Miss Blanchard gracefully and slowly reached for the apple, wiping it off with her sleeve. Quietly, she slid her arm through the bars and held it out to who ever may have been inside. Her hand shook with uncertainty, but the quick glance at the officers made her feel more safe about sticking her hand in a lion's cage. She'd heard stories about the man they held in this barrack. Perhaps the most dangerous criminal on all three of the islands combined. A chill ran through her spine as the exhaustion that muddled up her thoughts began to dissipate. Evaine quickly began pulling her arm out of the cell. What on God's good name was that silly girl thinking? She could hardly say for herself.

[le afrique]

xxxx➽ HELENA ;; the mafia princess


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➳xxxx helena francesca montessoro
➳xxxx helena, lena
➳xxxx july 18
➳xxxx twenty four
➳xxxx female


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malicious && relentless && unpredictable && broken



Pure, shameless, joy was once a familiar emotion. For example, being young in Sicily, where the summers were long and the heat was unforgiving. Often I recall spending long days at the sea with my mother and her gentle chastises as I sullied my dresses in the waves. I remember my father being a mysteriously distant figure in my young life and crawling under his desk to surprise him, only to witness a brutal 'business deal.' At fifteen I fell in love with a handsome officer who spoke like a gentlemen and had the softest touch. We were engaged within the year. He'd treated me better than any man I'd ever known and my heart ached whenever he came near. On our wedding day, I watched as he and everyone I had ever loved was murdered, thanks to the enemies that came along with belonging to one of the most prominent crime families of Italy. I vaguely remember being senselessly raped by the man responsible for the death of my fiance, siblings, friends, and parents. Most vividly of all, though, I remember how good it felt to hold a gun up to each and every person in that b*****d's family and mercilessly pull the trigger. To ruin his life, the way he ruined mine, but with one drastic difference. I made sure he didn't survive. For years I have been kept awake thinking all of those things before I fall asleep at night, but ever since I was chased out of Italy by remaining crime families, I have dedicated my life to delivering justice to the wicked. This is precisely why the American west is oh-so-appealing to me. It is laden with heartless tyrants ready for a taste of their own medicine-- particularly the dusty town, 'Bisbrook.' For two years I've scoured the west for villains, but this Bisbrook is actually quite nice, dusty though it is. Between the masked stranger's outfit and the bandit bosses' group of rogues, it's difficult to foresee me growing bored in the near future. In fact, who knows? I may just make this a permanent residence.





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le afrique
odette yustman ;; #3D59AB

[le afrique]

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"ohlala."