open | in peace, may you leave this shore.

[coleader]

Who: Clarke Griffin and your lovely self.
Where: Here, there, everywhere.
When: November 24th
Rating: PG, probably.
Summary: Clarke falls down the rabbit hole.
The Story:

MORNING » BEACH

[ Clarke's first thought is the same one that has been running through her mind since she stumbled back to camp, bloody and covered in mud. Bellamy is alive. Octavia is alive. Raven is alive. She replays the thought over and over, but it never loses novelty. Clarke is no less relieved the hundredth time she thinks it than she was the first; she will never stop feeling so, she suspects, and every breath of hers will undoubtedly turn into a sigh of relief.

Clarke's second thought is— sand.

There wasn't sand on the Ark, the spaceship she lived on until she was nearly eighteen, and there certainly hadn't been any sand out in the woods the dropship to Earth had crashed into. Sometimes, Clarke thinks that she's experienced all she's ever going to — she has already seen so much more than she ever imagined, and it seems like testing fate to wish for more — but this, this is a fresh experience, sullied only by her confusion at how she stumbled upon a beach of all places. ]

Oh my god. [ The murmur slips out of her mouth, unexpected, before she can stop it. Clarke kneels down, pants already getting dirty, and takes a handful of sand, watching curiously as it runs through her fingers. She's read of it before, but no description in a book could have given her the vividness of experience that this does.

In fact, she might be gaping a little bit. ]

AFTERNOON » MANSION

[ Clarke is nothing if not inquisitive, even if she suspects those inquiries will lead her nowhere good. This feels too much like being kept in Mount Weather — there has to be a dark secret behind it all.

Carefully, slowly, she wanders the halls, eyes scanning the rooms for anything that could offer her information. To the outside observer, however, she looks a bit... worse for wear. She's certainly lacking the mud caked on her face, and much of the blood has been wiped away by her mother, but the only thing that can rid her of these scars is time.

There's a young, disoriented woman covered in cuts aimlessly wandering the mansion. ]

EVENING » FOREST

[ She doesn't trust a thing.

Clarke has been burned too many times by promises of warmth, food, and shelter. Although many seem to live within the mansion walls, even that is not a guarantee of safety. She eschews all reason, giving into her gut feeling of suspicion, and sets up camp outside the mansion. Still, she's careful not to stray too far, as she knows what things can lurk in the dark of the woods.

She lights a campfire, the smoke rising and billowing from the twigs. It's a well made fire, all things considered, and it's clear that this isn't her first time sleeping in the woods and it won't be the last.

There is one thing, however, she didn't account for.

Her stomach growls incessantly, protesting her resistance to eating or drinking anything offered at the mansion. She had managed to gather materials to fashion a slingshot from the mansion, if nothing else, and so she does; Clarke creeps along the edges, poised to shoot a stone at any small creature that happens by. (It isn't sophisticated, but it's all she has.) Unfortunately, she runs into someone else instead, her stone only nearly missing them. ]

I'm so sorry, I thought— [ It doesn't really matter what she thought, come to think of it. "I thought you were a squirrel" is no excuse. Her anxiety had made her trigger-happy. ] Are you hurt? I can help you, if you are.

Comments

[araneidal]

​[ Natasha just smiles at her. People are rarely simple or plain, the truth isn't, either. ]

We get used to it. People disappear as and when. There's little point trying to punch your way out of something. The Queen doesn't accept negotiation.

[coleader]

( so sorry for the wait! i burned out a bit. it's totally okay to drop this if it's been too long. ♥ )

The Queen, [ Clarke repeats, the words sounding a bit strange. Like they belong in a history book, not on her tongue. ] —of Hearts, you mean? Have you had dealings with her?