erras snowspire —「d10. fin.」

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

  ERRAS SNOWSPIRE 

eighteen
virgo sun
snowspire

“ beauty is terror.
whatever we call beautiful,
we quiver before it. ”

— donna tartt, the secret history.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

---

I feel like I am the Paris of Snowspire.

That’s an old city I read about in a book once – suck on that fat piece of geological knowledge, Kaine – but the way they described it had always lingered: a city made of lights, illuminated from head to toe, so bright that it made the night seem like a secondhand dawn.

Not that I am anything secondhand. I don’t even wear those hand me downs they tell everyone is thoroughly laundered and are heirlooms from those who came before us, who left earlier than us. What’ll happen I catch something? A day with Mrs. Kim? I’d rather die. Anyway, it’s a scientific fact: eighteen year olds are disgusting. There’s a growing need for beauty and hygiene now, as we develop and get all horned up, but have you seen Ignis? I always shudder at the sight. Those dreary rags simply do not exist in my world.

No, loves, I make my own. Silk, gauze, hell- even the classroom curtains once. Everything is fabric and everything can be sewn together if you’re ambitious enough. And between my sketchbook, my needle, and my fabrics, there is no need for me to look anything other than original and on fleek. I am ambition. Everyone here looks like a yard sale threw up its guts on them, but I am the Capitol fashion show, I am the lights and the glamour.

Lovie’s the second exception, but only because I make sure she is well-dressed and fierce-looking. I would steal for her, had stolen for her, and I would hurt anyone who ever deem to hurt her. It’s important that I am the meanness to her kindness. That I am the havoc to her nurture. There are assholes out there who’d pull her sweet little bubblegum heart apart with no remorse- trust me, I experience the sick torture of sharing a class with one every day. If a guy whose name starts with A starts talking to you, here is a word of caution: run for the hills.

It is such a shame none of those charity-hungry assholes see Lovie and I. Like, are you even looking?

I used to spend whole nights preening for the yearly assessments. Now, I make sure I get my beauty sleep beforehand. Call me pessimistic, but maybe we’re way too grown up to be adopted now, too distinct and fleshed out and tailored to specific measurements. Less the sketching and the sculpting, more the suits and the busts. To be completely honest, which I almost always am, If I was some rich heiress whose husband just died, I wouldn’t adopt me too! Instead, I’d go buy maybe three closets worth of clothes and five vanity counters worth of glam. Better to look flawless than be an indentured slave for some baby. A fur coat won’t cry and go all goo-goo gaa-gaa. And can you imagine me having to change diapers?

Absolutely not.

Whatever. It’s fine. I am going to impress someone out there with my fashion and, with Lovie as my one and only model plus muse, we’ll both be out of here before Ratmas even. I’m counting my days. And I won’t look back.

Paris doesn’t need to care about any other shithole city.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

dars
we do be fin.

[dars]