Highwomen [Maggie x Marceline]

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

m a r g u e r i t e

***

Maggie did not paint memories with snow and ice.

Her mother had left sometime in winter. Had it snowed that afternoon? Maybe it was just frightfully cold in their tiny apartment. She’d been all of four or five when it had happened, so memories were more shades of things than fll color.

The sort of knock-down, drag out fight between her mother and father that had shaken the walls. She would hide then, in between the bookshelf and pile of stuffies, until the thunder and lightning had passed. Atop her lap would sit her favorite plush, a tabby kitten with beady eyes and a felt set of whiskers.

Perhaps that had been the irony in her familiar, when, seeing the ice-cat saunter toward her after the bloodbath, Marguerite’s voice had caught in her throat.

She’d never been allowed to own a pet. They were too dirty according to her father, and Harvard house never allowed them. And aside from all of that, there was the painful reminder that feeding them was expensive. Who would take care of them if they grew sick? At least her plush tabby never grew too old, either. She couldn’t have bared saying goodbye to someone she’d raised and loved.

Her mother had done of the benefit of slamming the door and never coming back, and her father hadn’t given her the time to say goodbye.

So, she resisted taking in the splendor of the furs as their branches came into view. She didn’t marvel at the way the ice hung down off their limbs. She didn’t stop to listen to the sound of a stream gurgling along in the distance.

The winter was a time of death and of sorrow; she would only give winter the silence and suspicion it deserved.

“Don’t go too far, Sierra,” Marguerite commanded the cat who padded along in front of her. Being as cats were, she did not listen, nor did she turn to watch Marguerite. Instead, she disappeared once again between drifts of snow like a shadow cast long in front of her.

Maggie sighed.

Her bag weighed too much and her neck ached. Ines had drifted into the darkness of the fold despite Maggie’s heeding they stay together (she’d have to keep a tight leash on that girl… a part of her felt that she was going to get Maggie killed).

A bird chirped. Snow fell and scattered in the distance. A crack of ice resounded and a soft padding of something against the earth.

“Who’s that?” Maggie offered no threats, no flashes of violence. She was too tired to take a life, though, hand against the handle of her blade, not too tired to defend her own.

[maggie collects items for maintenance]

[rolling for mount with lasso]
N9F2Mm2Q0C1-2

ELEGANT

1-2

[andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy]

Marceline is alone again — well, she has her spider. But she’s left Garnet, and somehow managed to dodge most people as she retraces her steps back through the woods. She’s jealous of his chariot; wouldn’t something like that be useful for her, Hal and Váli? With Váli’s foot, maybe finding their own reindeer is the way to go.

Marceline pauses, thinks. This forest, with its abundance of piney trees and plush snow, seems like a better bet for finding something like that than the barren wood they’d set up camp in. She flips open her satchel and digs out the rope she received from sponsorship. Time to give it a go. She wants to be useful — she’s a resourceful girl by nature, determined to adapt. She wants to prove to her allies from Seven that although she’s a city girl, she can hold her own in the woods.

She ties a tight knot to make her rope into a lasso, and looks down at her hands. Calloused, and strong. Her mother’s ring is miraculously clean, but there’s bruises forming on her knuckles. Her stomach turns. Marceline snaps her head up, away from her hands, looking towards a halfhearted, unreal goal.

Stalking through the trees, poised to pounce, Marceline is every inch the opportunist. But the terrain is alien to her. She isn’t as aware of everything as she would be back home; maybe that’s the reason for her unnatural lack of restraint; an overreaction or an overcorrection. Whatever it is, her elbow brushes one of the trees, and it reacts with a flurry of motion. A bird bursts through the snow, shaking the snow off the branches with a clipped yelp, and close by Marceline hears a crack.

“Who’s that?”

Marceline freezes, knife in one hand, rope in the other. Muscles tight, she creeps toward the voice. Marguerite. Maggie. Sick rises in her throat; the wound in her calf reflexively throbs.

“I’m not looking for any trouble,” says Marceline, searching Maggie’s face for a sign of something. Forgiveness, maybe? Not anytime soon, not from Maggie, herself, or anyone.

rolling for mount (with lasso)

p8MctXLNTl1-2

marceline catches a blizzard fowl!

table credit to napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. !

1-2