Hazel (En anglais, j'avais plus d'inspiration)

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Hazel (En anglais, j'avais plus d'inspiration)

Message par Hazel Thornberry le Dim 18 Jan - 22:57

Nom : Hazel Thornberry
Seeming & Kith : Fairest Flowering et Wizened Baker

Description : A little on the short side. Ni mince ni grassette, toujours souriante, difficile d'y résister. Tous les éléments de son visage étaient, séparément, incroyablement beaux, mais l'amalgame donne un fini étrange. Grands yeux vert pâle, cerclés de longs cils noirs, un nez fin mais rebondi, un sourire éclatant, de longs cheveux de couleur... difficile à décrire. Un étrange défilement de noir et de pourpre, indépendamment de l'angle de la lumière. Elle a la peau couleur olive, très clairement métissée. Elle porte toujours un sac messager fait d'un matériel étrange, une veste en laine qui descend jusqu'aux genoux, et une paire de bottes très robustes. Elle porte beaucoup de vêtements à motif floral et inclue souvent quelques fleurs dans ses coiffures.

I used to be a baker. Not that I’m not anymore. Just...not exactly the same definition of baker. Anyway, the point is, I didn’t live a very exciting life. I was always so busy. I had a tiny, plain house in a very quiet neighborhood, had a tiny, plain, inexpensive car and led a tiny and plain personal life.
It’s not that my life wasn’t interesting. I loved it. I was passionate about it. My bakery was my entire life. I had no time for family nor friends, nor romance, not even the slightest bit of time for me. Every minute of every day was dedicated to the bakery, the employees, the recipes, the deliveries, the requests and banquets and occasions of all sorts and, really, who had any time to stop and breathe?

Thinking back on it, I’m almost glad that everything played out this way. Would I still be in the same place? Would I have kept on like this, until I was unable to function anymore?
I do not think I wish to know the answer. One must not dwell too long on the what ifs and maybes lest they wish to lose themselves in the melancholy of infinite possibilities.

Here’s how it all changed. By a nightmarish Tuesday, overwhelmed by the amount of work left to do, running on barely any sleep and insufficient coffee fumes, I needed a break. Even robots need maintenance. I went out the delivery door for some much needed peace and quiet (you know how bakeries get, right? Hot and humid and crowded, if not by people, by pans and plaques and ladders of prep and premades), but never made it back to my ovens. Someone, or more like Something, had other plans. As soon as I set foot outside that door, I knew I wouldn’t go back. I was angry and upset and stressed about the afternoon batches of goods I could not deliver, and so I thrashed and bustled and tried to break free – but to no avail. Something was wrong. So. Very. Wrong. There were no thorns in my neighbourhood. No cliffs, no sea, no beaches nor fields of long, rustling fuchsia blades of grass. If grass that was.  Nor was I actually capable of trashing nor bustling nor breaking free; for I had no arms left to fight with, no legs to flee on, no mouth to scream out my despair. It was then that I gave up. Whatever had taken me would not be swayed into returning me to my busy yet tiny, plain life.

Thinking about my life, my bakery and my foolishness, the futility of it all, I started counting desserts. I recited the recipes in my head, as I had often done. Saw them in my mind, smelled them in the air, tasted them on my tongue. Sometimes, in bouts of boredom and cruelty, my Master would tear them out of my reveries and made a show of eating them around me. Then, eventually, the colors started fading, the taste turned to earth, and salt, and ashes, and the recipes faded.

From then on, the nights were long, but the days even longer. For it was day as long as my Guardian would see fit. And it would not rain either, for the Fae camped the endless beaches at all times. And oft I would wilt, for a flower without water can only last so long. And many came visit, for I suppose even the Wicked need a break, but not a thought was spared towards me. Relief would come in the form of high tides, softly brushing me by, barely enough water to sustain, and mostly full of unknown minerals that sometimes brightened, sometimes strengthened, sometimes poisoned me.
It was one such occasion that got me out. It hadn’t been night in weeks. I was all but dried up, tiring under the relentless sun, and the recent tides had brought nothing but death with them. All around me, the flowers and bushes turned brown, then gray, and shrivelled. A hunt would be upon the world soon, I could feel it in my roots. And so the Guardian came by, plucking the departed from devastated fields, making way for a new wave of plants of unfathomable beauty. And it came that She passed me, and judged me dead, or beyond help, for she plucked me out and casted me aside.

Then I fell. Through the long grass blades and the earth and the sand, and through roots and tunnels and caves, and through Thorns I had not seen since long ago. And then the ground.

I don’t know how long I was out. I might have been hours. Might have been days. You can never really know, anyway. It took me a while to realize I was out. I kept running and hiding, certain that She would realize the mistake she had made. But then came a night. And a second. And a fortnight came and passed by without any signs that She was back for me. And I hungered. I started prying for food, fruits or leaves or seeds that I could sustain myself on. I spent delirious days. Some of them I would not recommend. Keeping out of sight, I kept moving. Forward, as forward as possible in a hectic place like the Hedge, towards what I did not know. Would I want to go back to the life I had before? Could I handle it? Could I even make it out of here?
I had been there for what seemed like days, when I happened upon some kind of fair, I guessed. I kept my eyes open and my ears sharp and tried to figure if it was friend or foe. Turns out it was neither. As I got closer, I saw people come and go, and some weird, unknown forms were managing most of the stands. It became obvious it was some kind of market. It wasn’t the first I saw nor the last I will ever see, but it gave me invaluable lessons. Do not mention unnecessary details. Do not appear overly interested. Do not chat. Do not stray from the directions that are given. You do not need money, for most of them trade in much darker, unpleasant business.

I also discovered it best not to buy food items nor eat at the markets. Instead I prefered to learn how to tell the strange fruits and herbs apart. Collected the handy ones and the rare ones. Some I hadn’t tried, for rare fruits can bring unbelievably good things, but also deliver the most cruel of penitence. One day, after what I counted as my eight night out in the Hedge, I found one such fruit. I noticed some leaves poking out of the ground, of a kind I had not seen before. I pulled on them carefully, and out came something looking almost like an onion. Memories rushed back, of meals I used to prepare, minced pies and roasts and stews and it was too much, too fast, and I longed for home as I had not since my earliest days – and I took a bite, closing my eyes to appreciate the moment. If I did it out of the foolish hope it would taste of home, or some sort of desire that it might end the endless roaming, I don’t know for certain. But it didn’t taste of home, and it didn’t end me. Then I opened my eyes.

And I was out. For good.

Hazel Thornberry

Messages : 2
Date d'inscription : 11/01/2015
Age : 25

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