fourteen. | [voice] [Balling up her emotions is never a good coping mechanism. She should have remembered this from Camelot, but oh no. Gwynevere plays her roles to the letter, without wavering or doubting. Until she pushes herself too hard and falls from grace. Correction - falls hard.
Thus, bits of her temper have been seeping out in tiny spurts. So many emotions vying for her attention... The nightmares, at least, have lessened, but not to the extent that her sleep goes on undisturbed. This recent catastrophe - another failed attempt at chicken parmegana - is one more frustration to control and suppress.
Understandably, Gwynevere is too antsy to type. It's not like Gwynevere to tell people about her life (privacy has always been her speed), but she can't deny the need to let off some steam. So she logs on to the community. More likely to hurl her laptop than type in coherent sentences, she fiddles with the voice function. Carefully modulated, her voice gives only slight indications of her distress.]
Oh... Oh my. Just - just brill.
[A peal of soft laughter.] That is the last time I'm burning my chicken. I shall enroll myself in a basic cooking course as soon as possible. [A humming sound, as if she's mulling it over briefly. Then a sigh.]
This probably will not end well.
[Filter: Heimdall] [Filter: Mordred]
Thank you again for Saturday. The pancakes were as good as you said. And the ride was thrilling.
Do you think I could please [pause] give it another go?