She lifts her head from the earth where she'd fallen, cursing softly under her breath, and then pauses, looking about herself. Had she fallen at all? She doesn't remember. She doesn't remember anything.
This doesn't look like -- her head pounds. Wherever she just was, this isn't it. She doesn't remember anything, she realizes, even as she picks herself up and brushes herself off. Not getting here, not what she's meant to be doing, not even who she is.
Well. No, that's not so. She's Eponine. Her name is Eponine, and she's...it doesn't really matter, does it? Where she's from; what her surname is. What matters is that she's here, in what looks like some sort of labyrinth made of greenery. Which she doesn't mean to stay in. Even as she takes stock, she peers down both ways. They look just about the same, and upon testing, the hedges they're made of are thorny and not hefty enough to get a handhold on.
Of course, it would help if she hadn't so many layers. She's wearing a long, sheer chemise that peeks over the low scoop of an overdress and waist corset; puffs between short sleeves and laced bracers and flows freely under the dark red of the overdress. The bracers are trimmed in brocade. She's immediately sure that she's never had such beautiful fabric on her in her life.
Is that why she's in this place she doesn't know? Did she steal this? It feels like something she might do, but if she tries to recall, her head pounds so terribly that she thinks it might burst.
Somewhere there are people laughing, calling to each other, and Eponine lifts her head, alert. They don't seem like they're looking for someone, but that doesn't mean she won't be caught out if she looks like she's trying to escape. "Hello?" she calls out, instead, choosing a direction and settling into her clothing. Whatever does she mean she's never worn these clothes? She was born in fabrics like these.
Someone in a white dress, giggling, rounds a corner just across from her and she startles. "Wait --" she calls, and hastens across the intersection of hedges, running after her for a good several turns. The voices seem to grow clearer, more distinct, as if she's gone in the right direction.
And then she's made a turn and there's a deep, dark lake blocking her path. Or a deep puddle. Behind her, the hedges seem to have closed in, almost, thorny and threatening. There's no sign of the girl.
"All right," she says, and unlaces her boots, holding them in her hand, the dirt soft and cold under her feet, and steps toward the edge. As soon as she steps into the water, the whispering she's been hearing turns into a howl, like some devils unleashed all at once, wailing at her. Eponine doesn't know if she even believes in the devil, but she shrieks anyway, pulled down into the mire by what feels like terrible dead fingers, what looked like a shallow depth suddenly giving way under her feet.
I'm going to drown, she thinks, I'm going to drown under layers of glorious gown and it wasn't even my decision.
That's an odd thought, isn't it? She flails at the surface, floundering to get her footing. No! It's a moment before she realizes she's said it out loud.
[OOC: I spent FAR too long looking up medieval dresses and it's time to go to bed! I'll have teaparty Eponine on the morrow ;D]
eponine | les miserables (all media, but mainly the brick)
She lifts her head from the earth where she'd fallen, cursing softly under her breath, and then pauses, looking about herself. Had she fallen at all? She doesn't remember. She doesn't remember anything.
This doesn't look like -- her head pounds. Wherever she just was, this isn't it. She doesn't remember anything, she realizes, even as she picks herself up and brushes herself off. Not getting here, not what she's meant to be doing, not even who she is.
Well. No, that's not so. She's Eponine. Her name is Eponine, and she's...it doesn't really matter, does it? Where she's from; what her surname is. What matters is that she's here, in what looks like some sort of labyrinth made of greenery. Which she doesn't mean to stay in. Even as she takes stock, she peers down both ways. They look just about the same, and upon testing, the hedges they're made of are thorny and not hefty enough to get a handhold on.
Of course, it would help if she hadn't so many layers. She's wearing a long, sheer chemise that peeks over the low scoop of an overdress and waist corset; puffs between short sleeves and laced bracers and flows freely under the dark red of the overdress. The bracers are trimmed in brocade. She's immediately sure that she's never had such beautiful fabric on her in her life.
Is that why she's in this place she doesn't know? Did she steal this?
It feels like something she might do, but if she tries to recall, her head pounds so terribly that she thinks it might burst.
Somewhere there are people laughing, calling to each other, and Eponine lifts her head, alert. They don't seem like they're looking for someone, but that doesn't mean she won't be caught out if she looks like she's trying to escape. "Hello?" she calls out, instead, choosing a direction and settling into her clothing. Whatever does she mean she's never worn these clothes? She was born in fabrics like these.
Someone in a white dress, giggling, rounds a corner just across from her and she startles. "Wait --" she calls, and hastens across the intersection of hedges, running after her for a good several turns. The voices seem to grow clearer, more distinct, as if she's gone in the right direction.
And then she's made a turn and there's a deep, dark lake blocking her path. Or a deep puddle. Behind her, the hedges seem to have closed in, almost, thorny and threatening. There's no sign of the girl.
"All right," she says, and unlaces her boots, holding them in her hand, the dirt soft and cold under her feet, and steps toward the edge. As soon as she steps into the water, the whispering she's been hearing turns into a howl, like some devils unleashed all at once, wailing at her. Eponine doesn't know if she even believes in the devil, but she shrieks anyway, pulled down into the mire by what feels like terrible dead fingers, what looked like a shallow depth suddenly giving way under her feet.
I'm going to drown, she thinks, I'm going to drown under layers of glorious gown and it wasn't even my decision.
That's an odd thought, isn't it? She flails at the surface, floundering to get her footing. No! It's a moment before she realizes she's said it out loud.
[OOC: I spent FAR too long looking up medieval dresses and it's time to go to bed! I'll have teaparty Eponine on the morrow ;D]