Post by Deleted on Mar 19, 2016 14:59:31 GMT -8
Something I did for practice, nothing special. Should I continue it? 
The restricted confinements of her cell were trapping her within her own abyss. Usually, Branwen Motilf would take a shameful delight of being hidden away from the peering eyes of onlookers, with the shadows covering her every form, but today, and for countless days before, she has not. The cobblestone below her bare feet were cold to the touch, stroked by the icy frost of mid November. How did she know that? She didn't, she suspected. That's all Branwen had to do now, guess and wait.
You see, Branwen was no ordinary guttersnipe twenty-year-old, no, she was so much more important than the scoundrels littering London's streets. She hated to admit it, she had no desire to be important, but the recent incidents had revealed her deepest and darkest secret.
She was not from now, but from after. She did not belong now, in the middle of the Industrial Revolution, 1962, but instead her heart rest within 2020. The petite brunet was currently shackled to her surrounding walls. She was grateful they had not left her to rot, but instead gave her food to sustain herself, despite how little it was and how poorly it was made.
A white voluminous gown fell over her body, though it seemed more dirty-brown than the albaster white it once was. The foot of the gown lay torn, tattered and ruined, yet she made no complaint. Branwen lay her head back, eyes as brown as sweet chocolate still having that same mischievous spark of life. She would not let this destroy her, she knew, she was not alone.
She simply had to wait. Patience was the key.
The restricted confinements of her cell were trapping her within her own abyss. Usually, Branwen Motilf would take a shameful delight of being hidden away from the peering eyes of onlookers, with the shadows covering her every form, but today, and for countless days before, she has not. The cobblestone below her bare feet were cold to the touch, stroked by the icy frost of mid November. How did she know that? She didn't, she suspected. That's all Branwen had to do now, guess and wait.
You see, Branwen was no ordinary guttersnipe twenty-year-old, no, she was so much more important than the scoundrels littering London's streets. She hated to admit it, she had no desire to be important, but the recent incidents had revealed her deepest and darkest secret.
She was not from now, but from after. She did not belong now, in the middle of the Industrial Revolution, 1962, but instead her heart rest within 2020. The petite brunet was currently shackled to her surrounding walls. She was grateful they had not left her to rot, but instead gave her food to sustain herself, despite how little it was and how poorly it was made.
A white voluminous gown fell over her body, though it seemed more dirty-brown than the albaster white it once was. The foot of the gown lay torn, tattered and ruined, yet she made no complaint. Branwen lay her head back, eyes as brown as sweet chocolate still having that same mischievous spark of life. She would not let this destroy her, she knew, she was not alone.
She simply had to wait. Patience was the key.