( gullible, foolhardy... what about just obsessively curious, chronically suspicious, and just perpetually out of their own depth with all the twists and turns and false footholds to be found on this ship? can those folks still apply to be questionably wrecked in the photo shop today? ...they can? oh, yay, swell!
clarke's walked and mapped the length of the ship enough times by now to be able to catch when things are out of place. pieces of paper stuck to the wall usually belong to stede bonnet on his matchmaking, crew recruiting, and therapist advertisements — some of which she's made a solemn vow to pull down on sight, and all of which she reads. so this day, passing by photos at sea it's the same old routine of scrutiny until the advert actually registers. then she's turning her gaze from the piece of paper to the internal design of the storefront itself.
what's new inside the doors is made plain and simple soon enough; there's an actual person sitting behind the desk, a new face whom clarke immediately turns to and addresses. )
So how's that work?
( for april's perspective, they may have spotted clarke's likeness among the photographs plastered across the wall before. not prominently featured, but a few lively snapshots here and there for anyone who deigns to really look. the time she'd climbed onto the outer side of the deck railing, backlit like a crappy titanic remake, and focus plainly stated by the deep lines of intent on her face — ready and determined to jump. sitting at a table in Windjammer, head in her hands and trying not to throw up after overindulging; a slightly emaciated apocalypse youth, coming off a self-imposed hunger strike and making the definitive mistake of heaping her plate full of chocolate cake when she could only stomach a bite or two of it. battered and wet, slimy actually, sitting against a wall next to a boy with purple hair and blood all over his abdomen; the two of them mirror images of exhaustion. passed out on a pool deck chair in a navy party dress, playing cards strewn about, like a full on renaissance painting of bad choices and futility. an action shot of being shoved off a plastic motorcycle replica in the arcade, eyes bright and half a laugh already painting her face, though not reaching the competitive determination in her eyes. sitting beside a corpse on the deck, head bowed in a silent moment of regret and seemingly covered in ink...
this shop never fails to scar, even without curses involved. )
girls on film
clarke's walked and mapped the length of the ship enough times by now to be able to catch when things are out of place. pieces of paper stuck to the wall usually belong to stede bonnet on his matchmaking, crew recruiting, and therapist advertisements — some of which she's made a solemn vow to pull down on sight, and all of which she reads. so this day, passing by photos at sea it's the same old routine of scrutiny until the advert actually registers. then she's turning her gaze from the piece of paper to the internal design of the storefront itself.
what's new inside the doors is made plain and simple soon enough; there's an actual person sitting behind the desk, a new face whom clarke immediately turns to and addresses. )
So how's that work?
( for april's perspective, they may have spotted clarke's likeness among the photographs plastered across the wall before. not prominently featured, but a few lively snapshots here and there for anyone who deigns to really look. the time she'd climbed onto the outer side of the deck railing, backlit like a crappy titanic remake, and focus plainly stated by the deep lines of intent on her face — ready and determined to jump. sitting at a table in Windjammer, head in her hands and trying not to throw up after overindulging; a slightly emaciated apocalypse youth, coming off a self-imposed hunger strike and making the definitive mistake of heaping her plate full of chocolate cake when she could only stomach a bite or two of it. battered and wet, slimy actually, sitting against a wall next to a boy with purple hair and blood all over his abdomen; the two of them mirror images of exhaustion. passed out on a pool deck chair in a navy party dress, playing cards strewn about, like a full on renaissance painting of bad choices and futility. an action shot of being shoved off a plastic motorcycle replica in the arcade, eyes bright and half a laugh already painting her face, though not reaching the competitive determination in her eyes. sitting beside a corpse on the deck, head bowed in a silent moment of regret and seemingly covered in ink...
this shop never fails to scar, even without curses involved. )