faderift | ( open ) and it's harder than you think

Entry tags:

( open ) and it's harder than you think

WHO: Saoirse Ceallach + open
WHAT: a catch-all for Justinian
WHEN: throughout the month
WHERE: Kirkwall, various
NOTES: none to mention, will update as needed

a — gallows' gardens

Saoirse has never thought herself as much of a green thumb. In Starkhaven there was no need to care for the wildflowers that grew in the valley that nestled the city nor what few managed to find root in the muddy alienage roads. They were there with or without help, and as it turned out, there was little need for botany lessons here in Kirkwall when these walls still housed a Circle. Yet as the weather has grown warmer, she has struck out, spreading her own roots as it were and attempting to learn some skills that might further helps those in the alienage. It always allows her, a mage mostly skilled in magic that attacked the life force of living things, to attempt new spells she hopes might be beneficial— not simply destructive.

Wearing a distinctive straw hat decorated in various, colorful wildflowers, Saoirse sits with a scrunched nose and concentrated expression. In her lap is a small potted but notably withered flower, hands cupped gently around it and a familiar buzz of magic in the air as she calls upon what little Creation magic she houses inside her. Mending wounds is much different than healing the earth and breathing life into withered leaves, yet she presses on with furrowed brows.

b — harrowing chamber

Although late the more traditional cleaning done in the spring, Saoirse has taken the lateness in stride and advantage of the warmer weather that summer brought. Perhaps the only true oddity is the location of her venture. The former Harrowing chamber is as she remembers it from her last visit in the later half of last year, a dusty and forgotten space. A part of her thinks that, perhaps, it is for the best that this place remain forgotten like there is a piece of her that might laugh if this place were to ever fall into the ocean.

Yet in her own attempt at healing from the venture in the Anderfels (not only physically but mentally and emotionally) that she takes another route. That is why, whomever might find themselves wandering near the forgotten chamber, might find the small elf in the midst of cleaning the room. Tearing down tattered pieces of cloth that were used to cover the windows, moving aside random assortments of junks or balanced atop a ladder and busily washing the dirtied windows.

c — alienage

It is a somber day in Kirkwall's alienage. Despite the clear day, splashes of black cloth can be seen either worn or on display on the small homes. One of the oldest residents, a woman who had survived long enough to see her great-grandchildren, has passed and thus the people mourn in their own way. Although they are all elves, traditions differ between alienages and Saoirse can only offer support as she can but mostly stands back as they prepare the body for burial. She keeps close to the Vhenadahl and gazes over the offerings on that have been placed throughout the day and the small candles burning in the dusk light around the tree roots.

In her hands is her own offering: a wind chime made of colored glass pulled from the nearby harbor. She remains at a distance for now, clutching the wind chime with eyes closed as she speaks out a soft prayer.

d — chantry relations' office

Although strange to be working in her with Herian's presence there was still work to be done despite her friend's deserved promotion. Currently Saoirse is working through the stack of letters that have come in either answering perviously sent letters, requesting assistance or letting them know of their thoughts toward the Inquisition. Most of lukewarm at best, some warmer but there a few that are quite chilly in making their thoughts or cases known about Inquisition presence in their midst. It is tiring in a way, after her last mission she had hoped more might be welcoming of aid to tend to the Chantry sites that might have fallen into disrepair since this fighting had begun.

"Perhaps there is a better way to go about this," she says in a half-sigh as the letter is laid to rest atop her small side table.

e — wildcard

For anything not mentioned above! Feel free to hit me up through plurk at kaldwin or through PM if you'd like to set up something specific.

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Hanzo wanders around in and out of the Gallows as often as he can, mostly because it's a means of him finding something akin to peace and comfort. The last few weeks have been interesting, to say the least, and he's desperate for some kind of peace, for something to do that will give him a few hours of relaxation and comfort in the wake of a kidnapping venture and his own investigations. The garden is good in that respect - it gives Hanzo somewhere that he can hide, more than anything else.

It surprises him when he comes across someone sitting with a dying flower in her lap and he pauses, struck for a moment, his eyes drinking her in for a moment. It seems so strange, to see someone sitting trying to heal plants with magic when he had only ever been taught of how dangerous and threatening it was. In his own hands it had been just that - it had been destructive, murderous, leaving blood covering his hands and panic in his heart.

He can't help the urge to step over, hesitating for a moment before he drops down to sit in a kneel, watching her for a moment.

"What are you trying to do?"

At first Saoirse does not note the approaching, unfamiliar face until he speaks and she looks up with curious eyes. For a moment, she tries to place him but ultimately finds he mind coming up blank but she nevertheless offers him a smile (warm but tired) and quietly looks to the flower seated in her lap with a quiet sigh.

"For bring life," she says simply. "To see if perhaps the magic from the school of Creation can mend plants as easily as it does skin. I have never had a talent for the former so I am rather lacking in this endeavor."

There's a long moment where all Hanzo can do is watch her as she tries to focus her magic on the planet. It's strange; he had always been taught to use his magic for something dangerous, to hurt and to kill, to maim rather than to heal. He doesn't use it anymore, keeps that secret close to his chest, but there's some uncertainty he feels when he looks at the plant. The spirits in his bow whisper to him, wanting to move out and see, and he shakes his head.

Not now. Later, perhaps.

"Life cannot be given when it is already gone," he leans forward, looking at the plant closer. "Skin and plants are not the same, are they? Perhaps it is a matter of adapting the magic to fit a plant rather than a person, with a different makeup."

"Perhaps though there is still some life that yet clings here," she says quietly. "And they are not the same, no. The idea is though but there is simply adapting it so it might work in my favor... in the plant's favor."

Then, she thinks, then they might be able to more easily bring greenery to the Alienage and to Darktown. Now there is only finding and breaking the cipher, a task easier said than done especially when one lacks more than the simple foundation to a school of magic.

"I have never been good at bringing life nor mending wounds though. My talents lay in magic that takes rather than gives..."

"Neither have I." Hanzo says it wryly, something like a smile on his face. Given the bow he walks around with and the daggers hidden across his body... Even after giving up his magic he is still a deadly force. His own magical strength had been equally bent towards pain and death, but he hopes that withholding his power might make him better rather than worse.

He wonders if magic can be used like this, to strengthen and repair plants. They can do it to people - healing magic is common enough - but he had never imagined it being transplanted over onto something more organic. It's an interesting idea, but it's one that he is nervous about trying to interfere with too much; he fears admitting his own magical power, fears what might happen if people discover that he is a mage hiding his magic. He has to bite his tongue.

"It is an interesting idea. Is this your first attempt?"

Quietly she continues to listen both to the man before her and to the hum of her magic in the air. It's a crackle of energy and a soft wind all together, weaving in and out through the Veil that she ever so barely sense at the tips of her fingers. Beyond that there nothing to sense within the plant she tries to mend. Nothing to grasp, to manipulate...

"Is it that obvious?" She asks with a smile and half a laugh, glancing up at him from under her hat.

"I am hoping that perhaps we might be able to discover something that might help bring some more life to the greenery in the Alienage and Dark Town. One that would take weeks to bring about rather than years..."

The feel of magic in the air is something that Hanzo is familiar with and, for a moment, he basks in it. It's been a long time since he was immersed in magic himself, since he felt the power under his fingertips and felt it burn his skin. Ten years since his last use and he can feel the reminder twist like a knot in his stomach. He wants to reach back for it, wants to feel the crackle of energy of his own strength, but he swallows the urge. It would be meaningless to give up now.

"Perhaps only because of your uncertainty." He doesn't smile, not quite, but it seems there's something gentler there.

"Have you considered speaking to those who tend the gardens? If you can understand how they encourage plants to grow and shape, how they aid those that are losing their strength without magic, perhaps you can then find a magical substitute. People do not need magic to heal but we still use it. The same must be true for plants."

"Perhaps," she muses lightly. "I could certainly see that. I am sure my old teachers back in the Circle would have likely said the same."

It isn't often that she associates her memories of the Circles with happier thoughts. It was hard when everyday she is reminded of the horrors, when she was living in the same halls where her worst nightmares breathed into life once roamed free. With a tired sound, she draws her hands back and glances around to the ground thriving around them in the warm weather.

"It is not a bad idea. Our latest gardener recently left for Skyhold and the one before her..." She cannot help but sigh in thought of Sina, and her passing. "I have been speaking with those in the Alienage though and they have offered me much guidance. Still-- there is much I need to learn and understand."

"All teachers criticise, no matter how adept their pupil. It makes them feel better."

It's not as if Hanzo's own teachers had been particularly kind. His studies in Tevinter hadn't been designed to encourage kindness or sweetness; he had been raised knowing he wold become the master of something akin to an empire, raised knowing that he was the best of any blood in the country, that his family were bigger and better and worth more than anything and anyone else. In hindsight, he can see that for the faux confidence it was, but at the time... He had drowned in the praise, in the pride, in the feeling of being worth something.

"That is true of anyone. No one can understand the whole world." Hanzo frowns and reaches out, hesitating for a moment before he glances back to look at the woman beside him. He doesn't want to interrupt her experiments, but... "May I?"

"And it can sometimes make you feel better too. As no matter how adept, how impressive your feats-- there is always much to learn."

She offers another small smile before her gaze shifts to the hands in her lap and curls her fingertips against the fabric of her robes. Despite the work this would obviously take it was at least a step in the right direction, she would just need to work harder and then perhaps there would one day be progress.

The question gets her attention upwards once more before she glances downward at how he has reaches out before nodding, pushing the potted plant closer. "Yes, of course."

"Sometimes," Hanzo agrees quietly. It's not necessarily true for his experiences - Tevinter teaching left affection to be desired, rarely given - but he's sure that other teachers were kinder. Fairer. The Shimada family had no time for babying their heirs and their sons, even if they were still young, closer to being children than anything else.

Perhaps in the future things will be different. Hanzo will never be a teacher of magic, not with the vows he had made, but he could teach other things. He had already offered archery. Perhaps scouting, knife play, other things that might prove useful. When he is older, maybe, when he has earned his redemption.

Shaking his head from his thoughts, he reaches out and places a hand on the pot. One lifts, touching the edge of the flower, resting back and waiting for the familiar feeling of his spirits to settle around him. He doesn't do much - and it's not his own magic, to say the least, the spirits of Honour feeling warm against him - but he wonders if it will do anything to help.

"... I am sure that you will find a way to save it," he says in the end, drawing his hands back. "There must be a way."

The weather's been nice (mostly), and Prompto's been itching to take advantage of the rescinded curfew. The past few months have had a lot of ups and downs, but he and Saoirse have pulled through them together and, to him anyway, they've come out stronger for it. Things got a little nuts after the tourney finished, and there's no telling what's on the horizon. Which is why he wants to spend as much time as he can with her now.

Prompto hasn't really told Saoirse about his plans for this date. He wants it to be a surprise, though he also knows that comes with risks. She might be busy, or not in the mood. But there's no way of knowing until he tries. Dressed a little nicer than normal, with a bouquet of fresh flowers, he arrives at her door, giving it a knock. He grins as he waits.

"One moment!" Comes Saoirse's voice from inside her room. There is the sound of shuffling, as if she is settling items aside before a chair scoots back and she hurries to the door. Needless to say there is some surprise on her face when she answers the door, not because of Prompto but rather for his unusual (though handsome) dress and the flowers in his hands.

Her clothes are notably more dressed down and her hair messily braided. She blinks once, and then twice before looking up to him with a slight tilt of her head.

"This is a surprise." She says but smiles warmly. "Are they for me?"

"You betcha." He hands them to her before leaning down and giving her a quick kiss on the lips. Flowers always remind him of Saoirse, and they always seem to thrive in her presence. That and he's an absolute sap, but what else is new? "You busy right now?"

Her smile only grows as he hands her the flowers and she lifts up onto her tiptoes, returning the kiss with a happy hum. Despite her tiredness and frustrations recently with her magic, she could not help but smile while he was near. Hugging the flowers close to her chest, she shakes her head and gives him another happy smile.

"You're just in luck because I am utterly free of all tasks."

And that right there just makes him beam. Perfect. Then Operation DATE NIGHT!!! can swing into full effect. "All right. Then you and me, we're going on a date. Dinner and whatever you wanna do for fun." He hopes she doesn't say no, that she doesn't feel like it or something. The weather's nice, and frankly they need a break. It'd be nice to just do something normal like this with her.

She blinks once and then twice before speaking: "A date?"

A date! Just the two of them. Quickly she looks to him and then herself realizing something very important but unable to hide neither the smile that breaks across her face again nor the flush of red to her cheeks.

"I... I have to change into something nicer," she says turning on her heel to hurry back into her room. "And fix my hair! I won't be long, I promise!"

For a moment, his heart drops at her question, and the almost blank stare she gives him. Oh crap, did he seriously-

Then she's beaming but off in a flash, something about needing to change and get ready. "Aw, but you look fine-" But she's already diving into her clothes, so he lets it go. "Okay, okay. So, there anything you'd really like to do?" he asks as he looks away to give her some privacy.

"I do not look fine, I'm a mess! You look fine." Comes her voice from somewhere in the depths of her closet.

The question at least mellows her brief flash of panic down and she peeks her head out, already adjusting the new top that she is wearing with a thoughtful hum.

"Well... I rather like dancing."

"Well, I don't mean to brag but..." He trails off teasingly, flashing a grin. Eh, he'll admit it, he can clean up nice when he puts his mind to it.

He's still very much looking away out of decency and to give her privacy. Sure, he's felt some of what's under her clothes in the past, but he hasn't seen much of it, and he's not about to creep on her now.

"That you do. We can totally go dancing. I'm sure there's a minstrel singing at a tavern somewhere around here."

"You are more than welcomed to brag," she muses. "Else I will brag for you."

Is she kidding? Who knows. Either way, she vanishes back into the depths of her closet with another thoughtful hum. If there was any concern about him seeing her then she doesn't show it when she pops her head out again now dresses in a more formal number and hair pulled down from its messy braid.

"Truly? I know a wonderful place, we'll have to see if anyone is playing there tonight while we are out."

"Hmmm. Maybe I should let you do it. You're way better at praising me anyway." Even if he's sure half of it isn't deserved. But he, too, phrases it as joking, lest he comes across as so vain as to expect people to brag about him. On his behalf, no less.

Women are amazing, he decides as she emerges, beautiful as ever and having gotten gussied up in like, a quarter of the time it took him.

"You bet. I'm not like, the best dancer ever but I don't have two left feet. Unlike Noctis." The human, he means. Pretty sure the cat doesn't dance. He holds out his arm to her (lookit him being all gallant, or so he likes to think). "Shall we?"

She can only smile in response to his words. Quickly, Saoirse lifts her hands to her hair and quickly fixes it in an up-do to keep the long hair off her back and shoulders-- taking the hairpin from her dresser to hold it all in place. She cannot help but quietly fret, not really having anything proper for a night out with a lover but rather nice "dress" robes from her time in the Circles.

"I could not imagine anything better," she says with another smile, taking his arm. "And I am not the best dancer either but as long as I am with you then I know I shall have a good time. We can be only decent dancers together."

This is... really nice, he decides as he leads them from her room and down the hall. To just be able to do this, going out together and having a great time together. It's been crazy lately, and he's looking forward to this, to being with her and forgetting about other things for awhile. The Inquisition is (mostly) good and it provides him a means to live and contribute, but it doesn't allow for much chance to be young people in the prime of their life. So they need to seize these moments whenever they can.

"Sounds like a plan then. And maybe grab a few drinks. I find it helps with the dancing, at least up until a certain point. Then it stops being dancing and just turns into drunken flopping around." Spoken like someone who has experience with it...

She pulls in close, pressing against his arm as they walk and she listens happily as he speaks with a warm smile on her features. It was really nice. Everything had been so... rough, so to say, since that day she kissed him in the snow. In a few short months there will be snow on the ground again and it feels like they have had to fight the world to get this little bit.

Well-- perhaps not the world but a demon, at least.

"Liquid courage then? It is for some perhaps," she muses. "But I have seen many that have fallen into dancing trouble with a few drinks under their belt."

"Guess it all comes down to how well you hold your booze." Which varies from person to person and he's found that some people are astoundingly unaware of how well they handle alcohol. Younger people, sure, he gets it. There's a learning curve. But the number of middle-aged men who proclaim they can hold their liquor better than anyone, only to wind up passed out in a corner five drinks later astonishes him. And it's not just a Thedas thing. Eos had its share of such people, too. Maybe it's a universal trait of peoples everywhere. "What about you? Outside of your birthday, I've never really seen you drink much. How do you hold up?"

"I suppose well enough," she says with a hum and leaning into his arm. "Drinking was frowned upon in the Circles, illegal contraband as it were. Doubly so when the Gallows was still my home."

Another small reason to be made Tranquil, she's sure. "Afterwards, although I spent many a nights in taverns and pubs, I usually kept myself sober to perform. I know my limit, thankfully. What of you? Did you and your friends enjoy them while on the road?"

Right. They wouldn't allow such a thing in the Circles. Too dangerous, at least as far as the templars were concerned. Or they just wanted to ruin everyone's fun.

"Eh, we didn't drink too much on the road. Sometimes we'd have a few beers or something, but with so much traveling and walking, drinking too much wasn't worth the hangover in the morning." Especially later on, after Altissia.

It was definitely about ruining everyone's fun-- which was just Circle life in general to a certain extent. Her steps light as they continue to walk, lifting their held hands into the air so she can twirl with a silly giggle once they are outside with the warm breeze of the harbor.

"We'll take it easy then," she says with a warm smile. "I want to spend as much time with you as I possible can tonight."

This part of Kirkwall is the part Brónach slinks through, softer than shadows falling for these are city elves but the despair of it is not unlike the Gray Quarter to shut them away only all of them, not just Azura's ash-skinned cursed children. But sometimes needs must, and today she's found herself where they decorate a tree.

She thinks of Whiterun, the Gildergreen, Danica with the curve of a blade pressed into her palms after the chimes of the temple.

This is no temple, and she doesn't know the traditions as she steps closer with muffled footsteps, the hood down among folk looking so like her. One is close enough, apart, away, a face glimpsed about halls the way that Brónach makes note of comings and goings, even if not to necessarily ever speak, old animal parts long since fixed (and not so long, some were not meant for the restlessness of beast blood) compelled to watch with wary eyes.

She recognises prayer enough to not interrupt, a tug that's - when do people come together anymore? - and clears her throat.

"What happened here?" More ragged than she'd want but this is the first time her voice has seen use, the rust hasn't been worked out of it.

The warm wind that works it way through the alienage, whistling through broken homes and across patched together roofs, her wind chime adding to the gentle noise that so reminds her of home-- of Starkhaven. The prayer has finished by the time the unfamiliar voice reaches her and she looks up with weary eyes, not brimming with tears but rather tired instead.

She does not recognize the woman that has spoken to her. For a moment, she clutches her gift before glancing over her shoulder a careful look to the lingering figures in the dirt streets.

"A passing," she says gently. "The alienage is mourning though also celebrating the life one of it's oldest and brightest members who passed in the night."

"How old is oldest for an alienage?" It's-- it's never not work for her to keep her voice level, but this place isn't what she would call healthy.

City elves might have more closeness to her than the Dalish who've lost their forests and instead travel, lost, abandoned, clinging to nothing but scraps and bones as a child might, but it's hard to stop her eyes from darting about the place, at faces seeming old before their time.

Younger than her. A good number will be younger than her and will pass before she's even hit her stride unless something strikes her down first, and it makes her swallow hard. "They don't do-- Chantry rites? Or is that elsewhere?" Not that she cares overmuch but she doesn't know, and should maybe piece together more of her understanding of the Chantry beyond Galatea and select others.

"To see her great-grandchildren come of age," she explains with a tilt of her head.

Saoirse cannot help but follow the unfamiliar woman's glance about. A part of curious what she might be thinking but denies herself actually asking and instead stands still, the river glass chiming as the wind blew softly around her.

The question is a curious one and she blinks before she shifts, glancing downwards one of the roads with a quiet hum. "That depends on the alienage. We all have our own customs and traditions... our own special rites to perform for the dead. I am sure that a Chantry sister might perhaps visit if they find time to bring themselves into Lowtown."

"I've seen girls and boys barely more than children to my eyes with children of their own." Now she finds her footing in pitching her voice soft as when a guard might come round the corner to find her, picks still in the lock. "I'm near forty," she adds (Iorveth jokingly called her child), "I expect that would make me wise, old enough to have seen some lot grown."

A peculiar grief to be witnessed behind glass at the elves here. Mortality fixed in them too but unknowing of how it came same as her, not railing at the trickery of men. A good age still in her youth. Down here where the homes remind her of Riften where the workers lived in the worst of it too, that can't help either. Not a mage to go about healing them.

It's a reminder again that the elves are split. Different. Not the groups of mer same as Tamriel. "They don't come, the priestes- the Mothers? Don't they have a duty?" Even if that god isn't there to listen, the woman dead there's still something real to be done here as she stares, mouth curling into half a snarl before she forces it flat. "What do they do here then? I hear more about the Dalish, books care more about them but I don't."

She listens with a soft smile, understanding and a bit on the side of surprised. Carefully, she adjusts her stance and sighs out gently through her nose. Her brows furrowed in thought.

"Sometimes the Revered Mothers might make their ways to the streets of the alienage to dispense advice or give alms," she explains. "Though without Templar protection they might keep their distance out of fear or some other excuse. It is not rare for the alienage to take care of alienage matters."

The question is met with a slight twist of her lips as she looks to the glass wind chime in her hands. "I am still learning the customs here, especially now in these times that I have not experienced in my time here. Although I lack the knowledge for the rites of Kirkwall, I can tell you of Starkhaven's customs if you wish."

"If there aren't mages, I don't see the need for a fool in a polished helm. They must be a fearful lot not realising it courts more trouble to approach with an open blade." There's never been much call for her to keep her opinions out of her voice, so she feels no need to hide her disdain at the idea of these women going about guarded in a place where she's seen so little evidence of the people carrying any arms of their own either.

The Gray Quarter too, that took care of itself even with the drunk Nords wandering through stinking of mead to howl abuse in the frigid Windhelm nights. A pity the Butcher had gone for women, not the menfolk.

"Alienages change so much? Some give up their ways when they leave and move on, pick up the practices of wherever they end up but most people end up holding to their ways." Realising she has to clarify since elves are elves, city or Dalish, she gestures at herself, the whole of herself, as unhelpful as it is. "I have my ways, Bosmer ways, I keep them. Dunmer, Altmer, they have different worship, different ways to live that they'll keep no matter where they go, especially now for the Dunmer. I'd hear about Starkhaven, I want to know more about the people here, these elves."

(And maybe because with her accent some people hearing her speak have half a moment of wondering if she's stumbled out of there and it gets confusing.)

"But there are mages, walking free and without chains. If they would call upon the Templars while the Circles still held strong then it would not surprise me if they would ask for extra hands and swords now." Her words are spoken lightly, almost wistfully and with a shake of her head. "After all, they do not know when a mage might strike out back against the folk they saw as their captors."

She hums in thought, lifting atop her tiptoes and reaching for a strong branch to tie her wind chime upon. Already the river glass begins to catch the high noon light and makes light, musical sounds as the wind once more blows around them.

"I can only speak of the Free Marches but much like the cities themselves, the Alienages in each city is of their own and reflects such. Though there are some things that ties us together as elves."

Carefully, she slips away and gazes upward with a fond smile. "Starkhaven is hugged by a valley, sitting along a river and all around there these lovely wildflowers. We weave them together, whispering prayers and well wishes, when one of our own passes-- gifts to take with them on their journey to the Maker. We also make trinkets from the river glass we take from the waters, many say it reminds them on the stained glass that decorate the Chantry buildings. They are all buried with them along with other personal items."

"Plenty humans. Very loud about all of it." Which-- there are always the Thalmor in the shadow of her voice, waiting, no matter what she has done, how far she has come. "If they haven't done it now, they won't. Maybe we don't live through the same things but I watched the people come to my home. Tell us the ways to be. Make us just so. Fold us into their ways. Had enough of us believing. If we were going to strike, it would've happened and they would be gone, no closer to achieving their goal." Bitterness is the hand on the back of her as if to push her down into the dirt of the alienage, resentment, regret.

Knowing that all you did was nothing, that it rallied no one, and that here she watches it unfolding again? Difficult to stomach. Her eyes close. She is in Skyrim. Danica. The temple of Kynareth. There is the Gildergreen.

Opens them to this world and living in the wrong skin. Another skin.

"Bosmer, Dunmer, Altmer, we all have our ways too.". Understanding, agreement when her voice won't be screaming. She follows soundlessly, the better for Saoirse not to see the look on her face at the use of flowers ( violation, the living wood, the Green). "You believe they go there to this one who turns his back and doesn't listen? Why the gifts? They can't take those with them. The Nords would embalm their dead with jars of things even jewels but they had mounds. And their afterlife is-"

A place she has been. Walked. Whalebone bridge swaying beneath her feet. How does a person ever explain?

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( open ) and it's harder than you think

gardens.

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wildcard - date night because goddamn it it's been long enough

\o/

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c; alienage

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