[arabella rosalie croftt]

wasted face that swallowed time ,

The musician’s aged fingers worked quickly across the little wooden flute, emitting an enchanting yet piercing sort of harmony that flowed smoothly but had obviously not been rehearsed. The elderly beggar man didn’t look as if he had enough air in his lungs to wheeze a thanks to the occasional passing civilian who dropped a few coins into his cap that lay upturned on the cobbled ground, let alone issue such a beautiful melody. Sitting with his browned and skeletal back against the filthy wall in front of a narrow alleyway, he would not have known that while most of the busy shoppers walked briskly past him without a second glance, there was one to appreciate his talent. Lurking in the shadows of the foreboding alley no more than a meter from him, Arabella Croftt listened dutifully. She stood with her own equally emaciated body pressed against the wall, her eyes closed and her neck arched backwards as she tried to imagine herself elsewhere. Aside from the occasional break in the walls of the numerous alleyways leading in and out of the courtyard, the location was entirely surrounded by the fortress of bricks.

Standing in the dingy alleyway, she was hidden from the market-goers that rushed past in blurs of dull colour. The courtyard was noisy with shoppers and stalls selling their goods, proclaiming them at the top of their lungs, and she was trying determinedly to concentrate on the beggar man’s music. Throughout her childhood, Arri had shown a great interest in music, much to her instrumental mother’s delight. Rosalie Croftt would take her daughter to the Royal Opera House, where they watched Arri’s favourite form of dance–ballet. Arri would lean right over the grand tier and gaze down at the graceful dancers performing Swan Lake or Cinderella, envying their beauty on the stage. She had announced to her parents that she, too, wanted to learn the art, and had been enrolled in dance lessons from a young age. The beggar man’s music was far different from what the orchestra played throughout the performances, but distanced from the loud, rowdy crowds of London, it was peaceful. The beggar man’s song ended, and as the final note chimed in finish, Arri opened her eyes.

She did not move at once, although she knew if she didn’t return to the camp soon the outlaws would grow anxious. She had offered to take up the errand of fetching food from the market stalls, with the outlaws’ five finger discount, of course. Being positively useless when it came to hunting and very nearly breaking her neck the last time she’d climbed a tree to pick an apple, she had been desperate to prove herself somewhat helpful. Usually when one of the outlaws left the hide-out, they would not go alone. Instead they would be accompanied by one or more, so if one was in danger the others could return to the camp and round up the others for a rescue, which came all too often for some of the more careless bandits. Arri, however, had refused to be escorted. She had insisted she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, thank you very much, despite her narrow escape in the churchyard just the other day. That was out of pure carelessness, and she vowed silently to herself that she would have to be more cautious. She was a wanted criminal now, and even as she tilted her head sideways and gazed out at the crowds, she could distinctly see her own face staring back at her from the wanted posters dotted about across the walls, pasted over previous proclamations of awards for the captures of other outlaws. She wondered vaguely just how much money was on her head.

Even now as she stood in the gloomy alleyway, the high walls shielding the sun that shone unusually bright that day, she thought back to those excruciating ballet lessons. Having always been a spoiled child, she had been astonished by the effort required for the art. It was the one thing she had ever truly strived for, and as her gaze moved to the cobbled floor of the alley, she pointed one small foot encased in the battered buckle shoes, tilting her head to one side as she observed the movement. Her eyes moved upwards, trying to observe the rest of her body, wondering just how dreadful she looked. These days a glimpse of her face was limited to a reflection in water, and despite the contorted ripples she had not been overjoyed with her ragged appearance. Her dress was tattered, her stockings laddered, the leather belt around her narrow waist seemed to be getting looser and looser as the days wore on and she had nothing to fill her stomach. The day was warm, but she still wore a thick, oversized cloak. It did not belong to her, but rather was borrowed from an outlaw for the sake of disguising purposes. The hood was pulled low over her face, so only the lower half of her jaw was visible, As she lifted a hand to check the hood was securely shielding her, she decided she ought to get a move on before the outlawed clan sent a rescue party and really caused havoc.

She stepped out into the positively blinding sunlight, unaccustomed to the brightness from the shabby alley. The beggar man had stopped playing, and had tipped the small contents of his hat into his hand. He was counting them slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration. Arri gazed down at him, and then clamped a hand over the leather money pouch attached to her belt. She poked a finger inside, believing it empty until she caught a hold of the single coin within it that she had managed to salvage from her old home before it was ransacked. Struggling to retrieve it from the stiff opening of the pouch, she held it in her bony hand for a moment, as if caught between a silent decision. The beggar man returned the coins to his hat, laid it down and began to play his flute again. Arri hesitated, and then dropped the coin into the hat. The beggar man paused as the otherwise insignificant coin clinked against the rest and he looked up at the girl standing before him. He seemed to take in her tattered garments and rouge like appearance, and his old, worn eyes crinkled into a grateful smile. In that fleeting moment, his eyes left hers and he continued to play.

Turning away from him, Arri lifted her head upwards so she could see beneath the heavy hood and get a good look at her surroundings. She needed a busy stall, one where she could sneak past unnoticed and retrieve her prize without being caught. As the crowds momentarily parted, her eyes locked on the fruit stall in the shade of the enormous tree in the middle of the courtyard, and she made her way towards it. Between the bustling throng going about their own business, she went undetected, and a small and slightly arrogant smile graced her lips as she approached the heaving stall. The owner was faced away, an orange in his hand as he shouted to the crowds, one hand curved around his mouth. This was too easy, Arri thought, and her nimble fingers reached out to seize an apple.

[wren antigone murrough]

Even against Wren’s callused and rough hands, the paper, yellow with broad, visible fibers woven, together, thickly, felt abrasive and stiff. It was not cheap paper, or unsatisfactory, but rather sturdy and useful. Wren would have felt awfully, pathetically, silly if she held a more graceful note between her rather ruined fingertips. Despite Wren’s attractive hands, which were small, thin, and delicate, they still appeared grimy and ruined against the pale sallow of the paper. Wren’s hands solidified her as a working individual, and she was proud of the brown muck, mostly filled with wet cellulose material, as well as dirt and sand, trapped beneath her worn and raw fingernails. Wren’s dark eyebrows pulled together with concentration, forcing Wren’s otherwise beautiful face into an expression of unattractive worry. Her blue eyes, currently pale and almost gray, focused entirely on a neat and stylish scrawl sketched over the paper. With two hands, one on each side of the sheet, the girl held the paper a few inches in front of her contorted face, as she stared rapt at the note. The words might have been written in incoherent gibberish; they appeared foreign and impossible to Wren’s eyes. Even with all her concentration focused on the slick letters, the girl remained incapable of understanding the language. Although she knew staring at the text, waiting for a desperate epiphany was futile and silly, and she must look ridiculous standing in the middle of the marketplace with a swatch of paper held in front of her face as she gazed at the words like she could look straight through them.

With an aggravated sigh slipping from between tightened, pursed lips, Wren folded the paper with a flick of her right wrist, and shoved the note, with a touch of malice, into the pocket sewn into her ill-fitting, large, and baggy, pants. Wren wore clothing far too large for her slight form intentionally; she attempted to hide the curves of her body, the ones formed by a small bust and a sloping hip-line, with piles and folds of fabric. To an extent, the tactic worked, as Wren did appear larger and more masculine than she did naked or tightly clothed, but she was still little and slight. The girl’s eyes relaxed, her eyebrows returning to their normal, subtle arch, but the tension only traveled downwards to her jaw, which was now clenched, paired with her tightened, nude lips, which caused her sculpted chin to quiver, in a small, negligible manner. Wren’s frustration was clearly illustrated in her face and reflected in her light, blue eyes. The girl stood in the middle of the marketplace, solitary in her stillness, as the world rushed passed her in flurries of violent movement. Keeping herself still while immersed in such movement proved impossible, so, after the note entered the pocket of Wren’s pants, she moved into the flowing crowd.

Despite the awkwardness of her clothing, Wren moved lithely and quickly, as if she was a small creature scurrying away from harm. As Wren had lived on the streets for most of her life, although not for the past few years, she knew the correct manner to navigate crowds. The course fabric of her garments, mostly her pants, hissed as she stepped through the crowd, but Wren managed to avoid being hindered. Wren had been sent to the market to run errands. It was her job to collect the items on the list and to deposit them onto the ship. Wren was unwilling to admit her illiteracy in front of the crew; she had taken the note with a nod of her head, and slipped from the harbor into the market. Surely she could inference as to the words on the page. Wren did possess a basic knowledge of supplying a ship, and she was aware of the items that were missing. Wren would probably need to invest in some limes; sailors always needed the fruit, as scurvy was difficult to avoid without the citrus, so she would buy some limes. Wren could tell there was more than one word written on the page, though, and she could not decide what other items to purchase. She would just have to return to the ship shamed, and ask for help. She might be punished for not completing her task. She would probably be whipped or beaten, but the beatings, despite the bruises and injuries they might cause, always seemed bearable in comparison to the ways Wren had been manhandled before her current position. She had learned to accurate to pain, and immense suffering almost always brought a positive outcome.

Cat-like, Wren pranced through the market, with one goal in sight. She knew what she needed to buy now, and with a purse filled with small, silver coins, she knew she was set. As for as income went, piracy provided moderately well, and Wren had plenty of money to finish her errands and, perhaps, to buy a trinket for herself, if she felt the need. Wren needed nothing for herself, really, except, perhaps, a small meal. The fruit stall was easy to find, as it was settled under a large tree, and Wren moved towards the stall with ease. Wren approached the stall from the front, eying the fruit with a critical eye. She must have appeared overtly critical, as the man began to press his product onto her, brandishing an orange in her face, and Wren smelt the fruit as it flew under her nose. The sharp smell tickled, and Wren felt herself begin to sneeze. As the action ripped through her body in a forceful wave, and as Wren sneezed, the man shifted his position, probably to avoid being contaminated by the ratty, sickly boy before him, and when he moved, Wren saw someone sneak away with an apple. Perhaps because she saw the woman steal, or maybe because the woman’s movements seemed highly out of character, Wren was intrigued. With a small shake of her head, scattering the short locks of hair all around her face, Wren pushed passed the fruit stand. In a manner avoiding detection from the vendor, Wren moved closer to the woman, turning so that she appeared to look the opposite direction.
“You know, oranges are better.”
Wren stated, as she gazed, without adverting any of her actual attention away from the other woman, at a nearby dancer moving gracefully in the middle of the courtyard. Wren hated apples anyway; they were tasteless and slimy, and Wren never understood the appeal.

[arabella rosalie croftt]

Admiring her handiwork (over-enthusiastically so, because she had only taken one apple and there were a considerably large number of mouths to feed back at the camp) Arri turned the smooth fruit in her hands, tossing it into the air once and very nearly dropping it in the process, only just managing to seize it before it hit the dirty cobbled floor. While her sense of aim was immaculate, her hand-eye coordination was appalling, and her cheeks flushed pink with private embarrassment. Despite the delicate shade, the contrast against her ghostly pale skin was almost alarming. Although having been in the great outdoors for some weeks now, she had not developed any darkening to her complexion, and her ill-nourishment had affected her skin in any case.

‘You know, oranges are better.’

The voice was so sudden, and so close compared to the noisy but somewhat distant sounds of the bustling crowds that the apple very nearly slipped through her fingers again as she flinched. She decided vaguely that she would offer the no doubt bruised apple to her least-fond outlaw, but in the mean time someone had obviously observed her thieving. Her seablue eyes moved to the stranger’s face, but he (for she naturally assumed that she was in the proximity of a young boy) was purposely looking in the opposite direction. Obnoxiously, Arri refused to rearrange her own eyelign, and for a moment she studied his face with curiosity. There was something about his delicate features that intrigued the seventeen year old, for she could not imagine the male’s face to be quite so dainty. Of course, Arri came from a world that expected men to be strong, lean and broadly featured, so her observations were rather biased.

At last she looked away, back down to the fruit in her agile but careless fingers. It was the first time in her life she had stolen anything, except for the truffle she had once pilfered from her mother’s chocolate box when she was about five. She’d felt so guilty after eating it that she confessed her ‘crime’ to her bemused mother, who had merely laughed and pretended to scold her. She wondered vaguely if the stranger beside her would similarly scold her, and perhaps drag her back to the fruit stall and demand she return it. But as the pair stood quite still, she did not suspect the rather shabby looking young man had any particular interest in Arri’s scrounging.

‘Grated over roast chicken and spiced with paprika and ground pepper, perhaps,’ she answered vaguely, averting her eyes from the apple once more and looking back at the stranger with a slightly suspicious look, as if she were trying to decipher what sort of person ‘he’ was, and feeling rather displeased when she couldn’t. ‘But it seems I lack the necessary equipment to make such. Particularly, a kitchen.’ She paused, finally diminishing her stares and watching the passing crowds with little interest. Before the stranger could respond, she asked abruptly, ‘What’s your name... sir?’

[wren antigone murrough]

Wren watched the young woman, for she had to be older than Wren, surely, toss the apple with the corners of Wren’s blue eyes. When the apple fell near the ground, Wren could not help but to turn her mouth upwards, favoring the right side, into a small, subtle smirk. Wren did not say anything about the action, but instead angled her head so that more of her face would be visible to the person to which she spoke. Wren could feel the other person’s eyes focused on her face, and Wren, as usual, wondered if the other woman could see through Wren’s disguise. Wren’s own face flushed crimson, from the attention, so Wren ran one of her hands through her rather short hair. Wren turned towards the table of fruit again, and her eyes narrowed into thin slits. The sun managed to cause an odd uncomfortable feeling, and Wren needed to shield herself from the light. Only a few seconds passed before Wren decided the stand did not possess the items she needed. Wren sighed again, although she was not truly disappointed. Wren wanted to investigate the other female, and if she needed to buy her listed items, she would have to dismiss herself.

If Wren had thought the woman did not fit into the crowd before, even with the woman’s tattered clothing, Wren’s suspicion was affirmed with the woman’s words.
“I’ve never had the luxury of eating an orange in that manner, but I promise citrus fruit is better plain.”
Wren spoke the truth, as well. Spices were a commodity only allowed for consumption by the wealthy. As Wren had lived in poverty her entire life, she rarely tasted spice of any sort, and while she traveled, isolated, on a ship for large stretches of the year, she hardly ever enjoyed meat any longer, at least, fresh meat. Wren also noted the other woman’s comment as a clue to the mysterious woman’s identity, as she might have, at one point, possessed the fiscal ability to afford such luxuries. To indicate that she was indeed joking, Wren twisted her mouth into a small, polite smile, and nodded her head in a tiniest manner.

Wren was pleased when the woman looked away, and Wren used the opportunity to push herself forwards into the crowd so that she was standing closer to the other woman and further from the fruit vendor. Because Wren was distracted by her movement, she was surprised by the stranger’s question. Wren blinked slowly, turned towards the woman again, and stuck her tiny hand out from her body, so that the other woman could shake it.
”You can call me Wit.”
Wren exclaimed, and the smile situated on her lips opened into a large grin. Wren automatically introduced herself as “Wit,” now. After two years of using the alias, the name came to her lips without any extra thought.
”May I ask your name?”
Wren questioned, and to accompany the inquiry, she raised her left, dark, sloped eyebrow. As the woman had asked Wren the question, it only seemed fair that the other woman should answer as well. Wren expected an answer and a handshake, as her blue eyes sparkled with interest and intrigue.

Wren then tilted her head towards the fruit vendor, and slid her eyes towards the table so that the direction of her gaze would be obvious to the other person.
"We should probably move away if you want to escape with that apple."
Wren suggested, but she did not attempt to move. Wren would wait for confirmation from the stranger before Wren actually stepped away from the stand. Wren would not be the one to be punished if the girl was caught, and even though only one apple would harbor no horrible punishment, the theft might draw attention to the other woman, or just create a dramatic scene.

[arabella rosalie croftt]

Arri’s eyes lingered on the fruit stall, the colourful produce a welcoming sight amongst the drab attire of most of the civilians and their shabby surroundings. Aside from the odd gypsy weaving their willowy bodies between the shoppers in their vivid performing costumes, London was not a strongly illustrated city. The choking smog that constantly hung in the air gave the dull city an impression of an inky watercolour, darkened with age. Arabella’s days of nobility consisted of extravagant garments and sparkling jewellery; tables laid with effulgent feasts and splendidly furnished rooms decorated with numerous portraits and paintings, comfortably lit by the ember glow of a constantly blazing fire. Although she had barely spent any time within the forests, the oddly stunning sights of clear dew on the ferns at dawn and butterflies of glorious detail fluttering between the Autumn-tainted leaves couldn’t begin to compare to the gloomy city.

Arri pulled herself away from her wonderings, returning her attention to the ‘boy’ to whom she now seemed companied by. He extended his hand with an utter of introductions, and Arri took it somewhat gingerly. She was unaccustomed to shaking hands, having always been taught to curtsey to a stranger upon first meeting them. Having said that, she wasn’t about to curtsey in the middle of the thriving courtyard to company that likely wouldn’t appreciate such extravagant means of introduction, and their equally grimy palms clamped together momentarily. His hands were not quite as smooth as they could be, obviously, but the delicacy of his hands did not go unnoticed by the observant Arri. The handshake was then broken as they released their fingers simultaneously. Upon querying her own name, Arri hesitated with even more apprehension than she had shown to the handshake. Rightly so, because it would have been more than foolish to offer Wit, as he had established himself, her real name. Especially as little more than a few meters away, pasted to the tree beneath which the stall stood, her name blared from the parchment in fierce capital letters. Her eyes darted to the wanted poster and back again, and with another brief tug at her hood, she was convinced it securely concealed her recognisable features and so did not pause any longer in returning the introduction, even if it was not entirely true.

‘Rosalie,’ she replied, when she didn’t think she could hold off a response any longer. She smiled quickly, mirroring Wit’s expression to ease the anxiousness etched across her gaunt face. Worry was something of a permanent asset to her features these days. Before the boy could take her nervously changing expressions into account, it seemed, he suggested they move away from the stall. The casualness in his tone that showed no disapproval or particular interest in her thieving eased the doubt of continuing the conversation rather than collecting the items on which she had been sent on errand for and leaving as soon as possible. Her eyes flitted towards the stall owner following Wit’s words. He was attempting to bribe a passing gentlemen with his ‘cheap’ prices and ‘guarantee’ of his delicious fruit, but his eyes were already scanning the rest of the crowds for someone who looked easily convinced. As if feeling Arri’s gaze upon him, he turned his head and for a brief moment their eyes met. Drawing her lips into thin line, her posture straightened rigidly and she turned on her heel with the air of a embarrassed guilt.

‘You’re probably right,’ she muttered in Wit’s direction as she moved into a sudden brisk walk, keen to put as much distance between herself and the stallholder as possible. Whether he followed or not was his own choice, Arri decided, although she was not ungrateful for the company and she was interested to know what had brought him here. Nevertheless, despite her curiosity, she didn’t stop until she had reached the middle of the courtyard, weaving between the busy shoppers as she did so and giving her hood another hasty tug. It was becoming something of a habit.

[wren antigone murrough]

Wren was actually surprised by the hesitance in the other woman’s handshake. The woman’s hand was rough enough, although not as much as a habitual worker, but Wren noticed the woman’s unease when she preformed the action, as if she rarely shook hands, or as if she worried about Wren’s hand being toxic or particularly dirty. Wren pretended that she did not notice the hesitance, and instead Wren kept the smile stretched widely across her face. No doubt resonated in her expression; she kept herself perfectly cheerful. Wren also noted the abnormal, as it was a long pause, time it took the girl to respond to Wren’s name inquiry, but the younger girl ignored the pause, as Wren understood the idea of keeping one’s name hidden and secret. Wren was a careful and watchful creature. She watched mannerism easily, and she read them with skill. Wren’s life on the streets heightened her personal senses, so the girl noticed the darting eyes of the other woman. Wren did not follow the shifty gaze with her own, however, as such an action would have been rude and uncalled for, but because she had noticed the movement, Wren also noticed the slight tug on the hood. Wren would not even have questioned the hood had she not seen the nervous action. The pirate chose not to mention her observations, but instead nodded her head, shaking her short hair again in a mess of dusty brown.
”It’s nice to meet you Rosalie; that’s a pretty name.”
Perhaps the woman, Rosalie, lied about her name, it was still lovely, and, well, Wit could not judge either way on the issue. She was venturing into the realm of raw speculation, which was not a fair place to reside when dealing with a stranger.

Wren watched the stall manager skeptically. She did not want to be caught in the middle of a scene between the man and this Rosalie, and yet, Wren was not ready to avoid the woman. In short, Wren was highly intrigued, and curiosity now controlled her motivations. Wren was not an overtly curious individual all the time, but this woman possessed some air that fascinated the teenager. Perhaps Wren had just been isolated from women for so long the idea of female companionship felt positively wonderful, or maybe, the odd attraction, which was not a sexual or physical attraction at all, but rather one made completely by innate interest, had another factor. Wren did take a few steps away from the woman, and closer to the stall, so if need be, Wren could jump in and distract the shop owner. She could easily act interested enough in some of his wares to allow the woman to escape with her stolen apple. Still, the whole process seemed like an awful lot of work for one stolen piece of fruit, so when Rosalie slipped away, Wren sighed in a relieved manner. The girl did not move. She stayed perfectly still as the beautiful woman pulled away from the crowd, but Wren’s blue-gray eyes, currently more gray than blue, so that they matched the color of the drab London air, followed the woman’s movements. After a few seconds, Wren slipped through the crowd herself, diving between the people bustling, until she was again next to the other woman.

”I’m often right.”
Wren explained with a gleeful tone when she reached the position of the woman. Wren stopped moving, and folded her arms across her chest in a manner of gaunt blockiness, which did nothing but highlight her tiny size and young form.
”You’re not very used to stealing, are you?”
The question had been bubbling inside Wren’s mind as she had watched the woman’s wayward march. Rosalie’s movements and hesitations ruined her reputation, really, as did the fact that Wren had seen the woman capture the original apple, which had not been the work of a seasoned thief. Wren was not a brilliant thief herself; true, she was learning to be a pirate, and learning well, but pick-pocketing, petty thieving and stealing were different than piracy, which was much less sneaky, and more stealing through raw force and skill in contact. Wren had lived on the streets long enough to learn to steal food. Especially as an orphan, she had stolen to keep herself well fed, but even after she had left Brigg’s orphanage, Wren sometimes took her food.

((I am so sorry this not only took so long, but also that it is so miserably terrible.))