CATNIP KARTH. (stoutheart) wrote in emillion, |
Dressing up in a manner that was so unlike wearing her mother's clothes as a child was an altogether daunting experience. Having never had much opportunity to wrap herself up in anything remotely fancy growing up -- let alone these days -- Cressida was unfamiliar with the customs, and as such had difficulty choosing what to wear. Even so, she'd managed something presentable (or so her mother and sister had said), and with any luck, she wouldn't snap an ankle in her heels.
But an hour later, it didn't even matter what she'd worn.
Stepping out through the grand double doors as intermission commenced, the archer dazedly put one foot in front of the other, only marginally avoiding slamming into anyone. The first half had been-- there were no words. So rarely did she get chances to see such spectacles, not really for a lack of money, but rather an overall lack of interest. Training had always been the priority, if her calloused fingertips had anything to say about it. Now, though, now she understood the appeal. Awestruck and feeling slightly out of place, she glimpsed around for the sight of a familiar face, fingers curling self-consciously around the tip of her braid.