(no subject)

[angela-edmunds.livejournal.com]

Angela sometimes goes up to the attic, searching through the detritus of another person's life to see what there is to find.

She certainly didn't expect to find a guitar up there. It's a nice one; and it's been in the case all this time. Despite at least one year with no real use, the neck isn't warped and the strings can still be tuned--though she's going to have to find some new strings for it, she's sure.

So she brings it out to her front porch, along with a glass of water, and plays around with it, slowly bringing it into tune.

(no subject)

[victoryisboring.livejournal.com]

Somewhere in the southeastern United States Mai has been keeping herself alive. It hasn't been a pretty existence: she's not precisely used to living on her own like this. Especially not in this world.

Her hair is a mass of tangles. Its once-glossy sheen dull an lifeless. Her robes are tougher than most people of her station would wear, which means that they're only torn and ripped and restitched together instead of completely shredded. In short, she doesn't look much like the girl who came through the portal.

All that said, no one who knows her would mistake her for anyone but herself. That arrogant set of her shoulders, and especially those shadowed eyes, give her away.

At the moment she has her over-robes off, settled across her knees, and she's neatly stitching yet another rent in the skirts. Her seven remaining blades are carefully laid out beside her.

Just in case.