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grindset) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
annexedlogs2022-09-06 06:42 pm
grindset) wrote in annexedlogs2022-09-06 06:42 pm
Entry tags:
closed;
Who: Harley + Viktor
What: not anthophobia
When: around 2:30 pm on... a day, after this
Where: a conservatory garden we totally made up
Content Warnings: none, will update if needed
At the birds.
The ones outside the gardens, fashioned by an expert hand, an artistic eye, sweeping forms of offcuts and scrap components beautifully arranged—three of them, larger than life and lively in their stillness, perched variously around the entranceway. Viktor sits in the shadow of an outstretched wing, feathers echoed in the fan of his hair.
He arrived around 2:15, without resentment for the wait; leaving early to avoid being late isn't an exact science. With the assistance of a local artisan's pushy seamstress mother, he's assembled clothes he's comfortable wearing: trousers taken in for his legs (and still a touch loose), a vest with modest embellishment, shirtsleeves tucked up to his elbows. No tie. Strap of a simple leather satchel across his chest. He looks neat and narrow and blends in well at this conjunction of districts—Magitech or Mage Sector, the conservatory's straddling foundation is the subject of debate—with leg brace and crutch and all. He is quite still on the bench, observing his own loosely bent wrist.
Prompted by voice or footstep or splash of colour, he says, "It's not so busy at this hour."
There's a bug on him, nipped waist and legs wire-thin, wearing stripes—that's what he's looking at. It flies away. He looks up.
"I checked."
Hi.
What: not anthophobia
When: around 2:30 pm on... a day, after this
Where: a conservatory garden we totally made up
Content Warnings: none, will update if needed
At the birds.
The ones outside the gardens, fashioned by an expert hand, an artistic eye, sweeping forms of offcuts and scrap components beautifully arranged—three of them, larger than life and lively in their stillness, perched variously around the entranceway. Viktor sits in the shadow of an outstretched wing, feathers echoed in the fan of his hair.
He arrived around 2:15, without resentment for the wait; leaving early to avoid being late isn't an exact science. With the assistance of a local artisan's pushy seamstress mother, he's assembled clothes he's comfortable wearing: trousers taken in for his legs (and still a touch loose), a vest with modest embellishment, shirtsleeves tucked up to his elbows. No tie. Strap of a simple leather satchel across his chest. He looks neat and narrow and blends in well at this conjunction of districts—Magitech or Mage Sector, the conservatory's straddling foundation is the subject of debate—with leg brace and crutch and all. He is quite still on the bench, observing his own loosely bent wrist.
Prompted by voice or footstep or splash of colour, he says, "It's not so busy at this hour."
There's a bug on him, nipped waist and legs wire-thin, wearing stripes—that's what he's looking at. It flies away. He looks up.
"I checked."
Hi.