♕ 3rd - video - waxing poetic

[skjalf]

[ elizabeth sits in the grass, with white roses in her hair and her skirts pooled about her. she looks thoughtful and placid to most, and only those who know her passably well may note an undercurrent of sadness in her features. it is there, but not readily apparent unless one has seen and interacted with her often.

her mother's absence and the hell that awaits her family in the future have not been forgotten. they hang like a great weight about her neck, and in the way her shoulders bow a little despite being straight and stiff otherwise. she keeps her eyes averted from the camera for now, as she speaks up quietly: ]

It all began upon a lovely day in spring
A maiden fair stumbled upon a King
Beneath the boughs of a mighty oak
Whilst two boys clutch'd at her cloak

And lo he came upon them there
Stricken at once by the maiden so fair
He gaze'd at her and she at him
Love-struck and helpless to its whim

[ she releases a long breath of air, and finally looks up at her comm device. her face still appears peaceful, as though the words and the act of writing them have had a calming effect. and perhaps they have. she effects a small smile, though, for good measure. ]

I think it a good beginning. What say you, Tranquility? Putting such a tale to words has been a daunting task, indeed.

I shall continue, and add more to it. But I must ask, are there such tales whence you hail from?

[ and if poetry is not your jam, elizabeth has another query. she holds up a plastic container (a stick of deodorant) and a glass bottle (perfume) and various other sundry items she has found. all sweet-smelling, all utterly confusing to a girl from the late middle ages. ]

And I must beg another query of you, if you please: what are these? What purpose have they?

[ anyone who knows her will see that this is only an attempt on her part to distract herself. sitting idle and stewing over the heaps of negativity life loves to send her fmaily's way has never been her thing. ]

Comments

[skjalf]

But if they are the same, why does it matter which are worn out and which are not?

[ it's not a glaring difference like say a silk gown and a see-through chambray night shift. if they're the same, it really doesn't matter.

though personally, it is still jarring to see the sorts of things women from the future feel comfortable wearing. perhaps one day she might become brave enough to try the new fashions for herself. but for now, she enjoys her (non blood-spattered) gowns thanks. ]

[trouvaille]

They aren't exactly the same. Still. I mean, I don't care.

( and half the time people can't actually tell the difference, so why would she? )

I miss my wardrobe. And my jewelry. And my everything, really.

[skjalf]

The the difference is not easily discernible, why should you? Besides, you are from the future. You may wear whatever you please.

[ a fact which elizabeth is at times more than a little envious of with these modern girls. ]

I miss my wardrobe and jewelry, as well. I.. am sorry you are stranded so far from home, Ilde. Truly.

Sometimes it is difficult for me to remember that not everyone prefers it here, as I do.

[trouvaille]

( ilde laughs, and it's - not the nicest laugh in the world. )

To a point.

( she can wear what she wants, to a point. in many ways, the rosy view of the future elizabeth has is accurate - in comparison to the past - but even a sheltered creature like ilde featherstonehaugh knows it's not as simple as that. even she's lived that it isn't so simple as the slow forward march of progress that every new generation wants to pat themselves on the back for. )

But, you know. ( a shrug. ) Here is where I am. I wear what I have.

[skjalf]

[ she stiffens, the kicking motion of her feet growing still in the water as she shoots ilde a startled glance. that.. is not a nice laugh at all. ]

Would you please clarify to which point you are referring to?

[ she nods then, smiling a little. ]

As do I. At times I find myself curious about more modern garments. But I do not know if I have the courage to try to wear them.

[ gowns are literally all she has ever known. ]

[trouvaille]

( a shrug, flopping back on the grass, hands clasped over her stomach, partially exposed between lace and silk; exquisitely unconcerned. )

There are still rules of behaviour. They're just-- I don't know, subtler. Sometimes you don't know they're there until you fuck up. Other times it's a bit easier to figure out.

They don't get enforced the same way, I think, or at least not everywhere. Depends on where you are and who you are. Freedom isn't-- unqualified or uncontested. Whoever you are.

[skjalf]

[ elizabeth follows suit and lies back against the grass with a frown upon her face. ]

Thus far I have heard only how much better society in the future has become. And conversely of how that has resulted in making the land sick.

When it is put beneath such a light, the future no longer seems to shine so brightly.

[trouvaille]

The future is just the continuation of the world, and the world is still full of people, and most people are still cunts.

( what an absolutely charming way of putting it, ilde. she closes her eyes, breathes out. )

The thing is that it's not about there not being bullshit any more, it's just that most of the time, there are more ways to get around the bullshit. It's all very nuanced. I don't know, I'm probably the wrong person to try and explain -- that.

I mean, what do I know? Oh, let me cry into my maid's shoulder about how hard my life is.

[skjalf]

[ such language on a lady's lips still shocks her. it's scandalous. but she finds herself smirking a little at it, rather than pointing out ilde's crudeness. what an alarming sign, that she is beginning to get used to and amused by said crudeness. ]

Many, perhaps but not most. Neither you nor I are likely to meet "most" people, after all.

[ elizabeth cants her head to the side to watch ilde closely, and smiles a little. ]

Perhaps you are not. You have not precisely had an easy time of late. Being a woman of means does not disqualify you from enduring hardship.

How nuanced has it become? Is all determined by silent cues, then?