WHO: Esme and London WHEN: June 18th early hours of the morning. WHERE: The Village WARNINGS: None STATUS: Ongoing
Esme wasn't right since her brother had left the circus. She tried to be. She put on her bright smile, tried to keep her head up. Tried to be normal. But sorrow clouded her silvery eyes. And when she zoned out while painting customers faces, they'd become horrific, snarling beasts. Not her usual colorful, cheery work. Customers didn't complain. They thought it was intentional. But it scared Esme that she could no longer keep the line between her nightmares and reality clearly drawn. It was blurry now. Like she'd reverted back to the wolf lost in the wild. Scared and confused. Without even the comfort of turning back into her furry form and hiding until the world made sense again. It was no wonder the girl couldn't sleep.
She'd sat in her trailer, sketchbook in hand, looking out of the window. Smiling softly to herself when she glanced at the home of a friend and noticed the light blink out. She hadn't been social since Ty left. Hadn't dragged anyone out to do something silly and fun for no reason at all. She'd have to change that soon before people completely forgot she existed. Maybe she could find herself again in their memories of her. But that wouldn't be tonight, it was far too late for that. Her eyes slowly drifted to the clock on her nightstand, 3am. Most of the circus would be asleep, or at least in their homes by now. It would be quiet outside. Safe.
The small, slip of a thing padded through her trailer, grasped her pencils and with a muted creak, her front door opened so she could step out into the night. The wind wiping up her hair and making her white dress dance about her knees as she descended the few steps. Looking more like a ethereal noir movie star than a wolf. Everything was white. Save for the slight splash of color that was the daisies ringing both of her eyes from earlier in the evening.
There was no particular rhyme of reason to her path. She was just walking aimlessly until she found a secluded spot. Sitting herself down, cross legged and opening up her sketchbook to a clean page so she could start doodling. A B pencil held vertically between her teeth as she scribbled in some line work with a lighter tone. Wispy branches of young trees, a thick, tall old oak, forest floor dusted with wildflowers and blades of grass. The oaks roots pulled away from the earth by years of storms, reveling what could, to a trained eye, be a wolves den.