Stop and Smell the Flowers|INACTIVE

[orla]

Dorian had been staring at the same rosebush for ten minutes now. He couldn't find it within himself to look away. Every moment seemed to reveal something new and interesting and gorgeous; the shadow of one rose on another, the delicate curl of a petal, the precise line of a thorn. He had a brief passing wish to draw them, a ridiculous whim- he wasn't much of an artist. Still, he'd have liked to preserve them forever. They'd die sooner or later.

There it was again, that horrible knowledge that nothing beautiful lasted. Damn the man that had convinced him of that fact- well. Hardly 'convinced'. More 'opened his eyes to'. It was undeniably real. Dorian had needed no convincing. The evidence was there, all around; people and plants and animals and even buildings and cities and paintings grew old and were then destroyed. Even music wasn't permanent; every last interpretation changed something, and who knew? It could be nothing like the original, and then that piece would have been destroyed too, forgotten, ignored. And as for damning the man that had shown him this, well, Dorian couldn't say that he meant it. In fact, he missed him, missed him terribly.

With a sigh, Dorian realised he was still staring and the roses, and tore his eyes from them, continuing down the little pathway at a steady swagger, back straight and head tilted slightly upwards. He wasn't bored, not at all, but he looked it, with his lips pursed in their usual position of a fashionably ennui-laden pout.

I outdo all these flowers, he decided, and he knew it was true; he looked excellent today, in his dark blue velvet jacket and white shirt, jeans clinging to him like a second skin. It had taken work, but he was confident that the flowers paled next to him. He ignored the next thought, which was but I won't always look this good and flowers always come back in the spring and walked onwards, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world.

[ricketts]

The weather was gloriously fine, and for a wonder the air in the heart of the city was pure and clear. That was accounted for by the fact that it was the kind of weather that introduced the spring time, and the people that ambled the gardens were idle. All but Henry. He passed through the atmospheres of natural beauty, of striking and highly coloured grasses and flower. In his hand he groped a lead and a bone-shaped squeaky toy, squeezing it so it gave forth a thin, shrill sound.

'Colonel, come on boy. Come here.' He craned his neck in every direction, looking more uncomfortable than ever; he remembered the purpose for which he had set out, and was sorry he turned the blind eye for even a moment.

In the apartment above Henry's lived an old man with a much beloved dog. Not exactly a pocket-pup was the labrodor. A sweet but energetic mongrel, who did not feel the effect of his or his master's age and leapt and played with the spirit of a puppy-youth. Throughout the weekdays, both in springs and winters, Henry would walk the dog for the old man and give no charge. He was rewarded for his troubles in the form of unrealized felicity knowing he was of use, and the old man was very grateful to his neighbour.

Henry didn't doubt that he liked dogs, just not when they ran away from him. He was quite fond of Colonel the dog too, who he had been walking for the last few months, and meant it possible to capture him.

'Colonel!' He shouted again, his eyes flashing as he made a high-pitched whistling sound and half-turned. 'Come on mate!'

Meanwhile, not very far away too, said dog was sitting on a walking path. Perfectly comfortable and watching all the strangers as they passed with big, alert eyes. Sweeping the floor with his waving, happy tail and deadpan face transfigured with holy curiosity. He tired of sitting there, as an unaware Henry continued to call his name and squeak his toy, and quick in his movements, prompt and decided, he leapt up and followed the next stranger with his tail wagging behind him. Cunning little awkward paws patting the pavement and smooth, yellow coat shimmering against the sun.


(That can be anyone. Whether it be Dorian or an opening for someone who is joining )

[edie]

Much as she enjoyed this city, oh so very much indeed, t'was nice to 'scape it. Least for a wee little while, anyways. And never by actually, y'know, leaving. To run run run away was an enticing thought, yes yes yes, 'specially at this time of year, when the snow was dead and the flowers were spring sprang sproinging out of the ground and the air had a distinctly midwestern flavor much like home.

Um. Not home, Puck reminded herself with a small frown, sitting cross legged on the still-only-very-kinda-damp-from-ice-that-didn't-really-want-to-say-goodbye grass. No, no, no. The little vegan house where she had once upon a time lived with little vegan Josiah and little vegan Oona had been her home, true, couldn't dispute that, oh no sir. Just not home anymore. She'd bestowed that on this city and her dear lord, yes she had, along with her heart. Couldn't run run run away from him, now could she? Didn't think so.

Which was why she was hiding from civilization in quite plain sight, right inside it. Parks mayn't be exactly like wild'ness, but they were as close as she could get, given-the-situation-and-all. The girl returned to her daisy chain after correcting that lapse in judgment, quite content. The butterflies looked like little fairies from far off, she'd noticed, so took care not to get too close. T'was the fault of magic; y'look only slightly too hard, and y'notice the trick. However much you didn't want to, 'cause magic was fragile like that and all.

There. There there there was a circlet of flowers fit for anyone with a small enough head. She grinned blissfully, and placed it on her very own. Knew she'd wear it 'til the daisies died and fell out, and then at that point she'd make a new one. Oh, quite fond of warm weather, she was. Puck stood, stretching like a kit cat kitty after a nap, careful to keep her crown in place. Then began to skip down the path, giving a wave and a giggle to anyone she passed.

Hmm. She hadn't been at it long, oh no sir, 'fore she noticed an oh so rhythmic pant whump swish whump pant. Not t'all the same as her own trip trap trip, not t'all. So looked around for the cause an' reason, whirled and gazed about, finally settling on a dog.

"Ooh," the girl cooed, sinking to the ground to pet the golden creature. "Aren't you a gorgeous one, oh yes you are, mister. B'lieve me, I know." The dog responded happily to her attention, making her a quite pleased little Puck, oh yes yes yes. Then the thought occurred. "Where'd'you come from, mister?" she asked, most wide eyed and serious.

He didn't respond, how unfortunate. Meant she had to raise her voice and ask, "Excuse me, oh so sorry to trouble you, good sir-or-madam, but I seem to have located your dog, oh yes, might I have the pleasure of locatin' you as well, please-and-thank-you?"

[orla]

A high, sing-song voice rose in the air. Dorian frowned; what an odd way to announce the finding of a dog. Odd and interesting. Curiosity sparked, he turned to search for the voice's source.

Oh, she was just gorgeous. She had to be at least eighteen, but there was something so childlike about her. Golden hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she had a daisy chain, an honest-to-God daisy chain, ornamenting her locks, like she were some kind of fairy. Well, that was just unfair; he couldn't live up to that, and in his velvet jacket and tight jeans, Dorian found himself feeling as though he were horribly ordinary. The more he looked at her, the worse it got. Dorian felt twin pangs of pleasure and envy stab at his heart; his delight at seeing such a pretty sight was mixed with cold jealousy of her perfect skin and hair. Still, he had to talk to her. He had no intention of trying to seduce her; somehow she was far too innocent-looking to be sexual, but her strange way of talking and the sunlight glinting on her blonde hair made conversation irresistable. Dorian loved friends, especially beautiful friends or clever friends or unusual friends, and this girl looked to be all three. He crouched down and ran his own slim pianist-fingers through the dog's fur. "He is a lovely creature, isn't he? Not mine, unfortunately."

He glanced up, giving her a faux-shy smile and stood up straight once more, offering his hand to the tousle-haired blonde (all blondes are so lovely; if only I were blonde). "Would you like some help finding his owner?" he purred, his carefully-learnt posh English accent soft and carrying traces of the same faked diffidence that clung to his smile. Nothing endeared oneself to a new acquaintance quite like vulnerability. "I am incredibly bored, and there's no better cure for that than conversation and new friends, don't you find?"

[edie]

She wasn’t really truly one for speaking to persons that chose not to respond—everything can talk, even flowers, just not necessarily to each other, more’s the pity—and seeing as this golden creature hadn’t told her of his master’s who what whereabouts, there was no more reason to talk to him, now was there? Didn’t think so, no sir. But she was free to go on rubbing his belly and scratching ‘hind his ears and giggle when his rough tongue licked her hands. Yes indeed. Even free to carry on a whisk wish wistful conversation with him inside her head if she so wanted to, and she so did, very much.

“Mister, I can’t help but notice you’re all alone in this enchanting place, which isn’t much a custom for your species.” “Yes, miss, you’d be correct there. Would you mind digging in a little harder? That bit’s itched for ages.” “Certainly, mister. Might I be so bold as to inquire why you seem to be masterless?” “Why, miss! Is it necessary, for every being to have a master?” “Well…I dunno. I have one, at the very least. So goes to figure you do as well.” “Hurm. Your logic is sound, miss. Now, if you please, could you move onto my belly?”

The girl’s musings were interrupted by the dog’s decision to move on from her hands to lapping her face, and the voice of a fellow admirer. There was something rough ‘bout it, but t’was like he was trying to cover it up with manners. Interesting. She was too delightfully engrossed in the curious sensation to search for the voice’s owner, but managed to chuckle a reply. “Oh, what a pity, sir. I’m quire sure whoever he does belong to, if he dos t’all, which seems likely, whoever does own him is very much a fortunate mister. Or ma’am, if that’s how it goes.”

Puck gently pushed the dog aside, with a grin and a silent Now, that’s rather enough, don’t you think?. Then looked up, only to find her companion a young gentleman, and her smile growing ever so slightly tight tight tight. But smile she did, which-was-the-important-thing-after-all’s-said-and-done-in-terms-of-courtesy oh yes. So the girl took his hand delicately and righted herself all proper like. She thanked him, with a cautious kindness, “Much obliged, sir. T’would be pleasant to have company in such a search, when the only persons who know anything are oh so disinterested in assisting, like this golden creature. Fine as he is."

Well. Well well well this mister was pretty, certainly, with a certain charm. His expression rather nice, and his tone of voice just so. Seemed the sort of person she’d take a liking to immediately, oh yes, naturally. But that was it; he seemed far too natural for it to be anything other than—what’d’ya call it, intentionally crafted and generally with large machines—artificial. Yes, this young gentleman seemed to be in charge of an artificial beauty that left her all chill, chill, chill. Least his sweetness seemed genuine, not something out of a pink packet he’d fancied and decided to take. Mayhaps he had that going for him. And who was to say that it wasn’t his own person’l magic? She liked magic, indeed she did, so seemed to her little reason that she might in time like this mister. Still. That was the problem again; why wasn’t she able to make up her mind as suddenly as was usual?

Anyway. She shook off her worry with a roll of her shoulders and a stamp of her foot and a distracting little laugh. “I’ve found quite a lot in my rather short time, but t’is true companions and great talk talk talk is key. Perhaps it will cure your boredom, sir. Very least, it shall beat off mine.” She bent down to scratch the dog again, giving her new acquaintance a sidewayslong glance. T’was going to bother her, him looking so polished ‘n’ all. Would have to do something ‘bout that, in order to decide friend or foe friend or foe friend or foe. And then she remembered her daisies.

The girl rose up, up, up, onto her toes, in order to move the chain o’ flowers from her head to his. Was careful not to touch him directly, oh yes indeed, some people are funny about that, yes sir. Grinned at the sight of them winking at her from his dark hair, and told the young gentleman, “Since t’is supposed we are to be friends, might I have your name?”

[sasha]

It was safe to say that Elissa Purcell stuck out like a sore thumb as she walked amongst the flowers at the New York Botanical Gardens. While everything was fully in bloom, blazing reds and royal purples bursting from emerald stems, she was wearing a black turtleneck over black, wide-leg trousers. The only pop of colour on her entire body was her rose red lipstick. Needless to say, there was nothing else rosy about her, and there hadn't been in a long while. She looked like the Botanical Gardens had during the winter: ashen.

She began to lose track of time as she meandered along the many paths of the gardens. That had been happening quite a lot lately. One day, she walked from her apartment in the Upper East Side all the way to TriBeCa, a good four miles. By the time she snapped out of her daze, she was at the Holland Tunnel and had absolutely no idea how she had gotten there. Three hours had gone by, and she didn't even know where they had gone. This memory lapse had almost induced a panic attack in the poor woman. It took her another two hours to manage getting back to the apartment.

Today was the same story, but she was in a different location. This time, she came to her senses by the roses. Although she wanted nothing more than to bypass them, she stayed put a mere few feet away. Like the flowers themselves, she was rooted to the ground.

Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed a rose by its stem. And then she squeezed. The pain didn't seem to register for a few seconds, and when it did, Elissa nonchalantly drew her hand back and examined the streams of blood winding around her palm. You are one masochistic freak, Dido, she thought bitterly, using Sychaeus's nickname for her. She'd tried to stop doing that, but she still clung to that four letter name. Alas, her mind was wandering again.

She'd vaguely noticed a man in a navy velvet jacket looking at the same rosebush. He'd moved on, though. Everyone seemed to.

After breaking rooted feet, she began to walk again. This stroll was cut short, however, by knocking into someone. She didn't look up. Instead, she looked down and saw a yellow dog.

(Whee first post. I miss the Botanical Gardens. T_T)

[ricketts]

The quietude of the gardens was a time supposedly of contentment, yet Henry was quick to sense the disturbing vibrations in the warm air. His mind obviously turning as he pressed through the people entering and leaving the garden. As he kept calling for the dog, squeaking the toy and making shrill whistles, no one offered to help him. They just kept walking, ignoring him and continuing to walk their own dogs. With tense expressions and a drawn mouth, he hoped his situation was not becoming poor. He kept looking with quick eyes, hurrying swiftly for there was much he was having to do. Jostling Henry on all sides were mostly young men and women accompanied by energetic, wriggling children of varying ages. It would have concerned him to see the premature lines forming in the youthful mothers' foreheads, and the gray settling too quickly into the men's hair, had he detached his eye from anything dog-shaped. Henry, who considered himself almost in the twilight of the twenties, he was just twenty three the other month.

Come on boy, jokes over now. He thought in a disgruntled voice, had he anyone with him he would have said it outloud. I can't go back to your master without a dog to give him.

Henry returned to the method of yelling out the dog's name. His rising voice elicited the dog's attention, stiffening and lifting his ears; taking a moment away from the nice attention he had been enjoying. Getting well tousled and caressed made him happy, like any dog. He recognized who was calling him, the young man who was kind to him and was fond of him. He roused at the other thin, high sound of his beloved bone toy, then romped and raced through the ground to Henry, who had managed to follow to the same path as he, within eyeshot certainly. He staggered onto his hind legs, like standing, and leapt on the young man he liked. Pushing his front paws against his collarbone and panting happily, sniffing curiously for his squeaky thing.

'Oof! Henry staggered himself, like mentioned the labrador wasn't a precious puppy. But he received the dog with apparent relief, catching himself by stepping back. He laughed pleasantly and ruffled the dog's hairy sides with his hands. 'Well then, heard me eventually didn't you ol'boy.' His laugh shrank into a small smile as the dog dropped off him, sniffing the toy in his hand.

[orla]

Dorian just couldn't stop smiling. The way the girl talked was just enchanting. He gave an embarrassing laugh as she set the flowers on his head; hippy chic just wasn't his thing, but he gamely flipped out a compact to inspect the new ornaments. "Oh, no," he said firmly, "you suit them far more than me, my dear." He took the daisy circlet off, winding the delicate chain around his fingers with interest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a daisy chain. It was amazing what you forgot as you grew older. The thought made his smile tighten just slightly for a moment or two. "Dorian," he said, just a moment too late to be completely natural, after his new friend had asked his name. "How about you- oh!"

Why, he was just surrounded by beautiful women today. The one that had just bumped into him looked less innocent; older and less carefree, even melancholy. She wasn't looking at him, but at the dog. "Sorry, ma'am," he said, his manners coming into play automatically, urged into action by a mixture of genuine concern- she really didn't look too happy- and shallow curiosity as to why she seemed sad. "Are you alright?"

Before he could pay any more attention to the two women, and dog had bounded away; Dorian stepped out of its path just in time, and mentally praised himself for keeping balance. Wouldn't do to look like an idiot in front of two rather lovely ladies- and one equally lovely man, who seemed to be the dog's owner. He gave the man a nod and a smile, before looking back at the girl who'd handed him the daisy chain, offering it back to her. "Well, that was an easy enough search."

[sasha]

Elissa continued to avert her eyes from the man she had bumped into moments earlier and kept her gaze fixed upon the dog. It seemed happy enough, even though its owner was nowhere in sight. Ah well, its human would find it eventually...unless he or she had abandoned it, just as Aeneas abandoned her. The blonde clenched her jaw and balled her fists, hoping no one noticed this sudden change in her demeanour. She felt a sting in her right palm where the rose thorns had cut her skin open, and blood began to seep through the spaces between her fingers. Why did every single fucking thing have to remind her of him?

Doing her best to regain her composure, Di finally looked up at the man she had bumped into. It was the man in the velvet jacket. Although he apologized first, she meekly responded, "No, I should have watched where I was going. It's...it's my fault." She paused, looked at him, then looked back at the dog, and, eventually, at her feet. This was a bad idea; she should have just stayed home to do her moping. The fresh air would do her some good, she'd thought. If there were any good to come from it, she was waiting for it to happen. All she did was sigh and look back at the man in the velvet jacket when he asked her that damn question.

After a few moments, she said with an unconvincing smile, "I, uh, yeah, I'm doing okay, I guess." Without thinking, she nervously moved to brush her light blonde hair from her face. She only realized that it was the hand with blood on it after she felt the sticky substance on her temple and forehead. What the hell was she doing?

"I...I have blood on me, don't I?" she asked flatly, not even noticing that the owner had finally found his dog. She needed to leave.

[edie]

Oh dear oh dear oh dear, dear, dear. T'was beginning to seem like she should've just stayed plain ol' Robin Goodfellow and remained in the country after all. Yessir, at this very moment the girl would kiss away magic and her lord and this city, just to be rid of this crowd that had quite suddenly grown up around her. And she hated crowds. Which might've been partially the reason why she'd followed him here in the first place, if-she-really-thought-about-it. So's to lose herself in the anonymous mass of strangers, 'steado of being part of anyone's history further back than "You're a bit young for this, arencha?" or "My wallet, if you please."

But still. The crowd had appeared out of the redorangeyellowgreenblue. First the lady had shown up, all pale and tragic and not looking where she was headed. Not polite t'all of this Madam Melancholy. And then there'd been the faint squeak squeak squeak that had sent the golden creature bounding away. She could've almost dealt with unintentional-or-not-it-was-regardless rudeness then, if the dog had remained off. Not what occurred in the slightest. No no no. He came back, and with a friend, with a plausible master, with a worried mister who appeared harmless enough, but who made four. Four people she knew even less than a teensy tiny teeny amount about, yet had shown up as sudden as a next door neighbor with a casserole dish. Christ, least that was familiar.

So. So this was the reason she'd gone all stagger like, swaying slightly to'n'fro. Rubbing her temples distractedly as they appeared one two three, and muttering quiet quiet quietly, "What's in a name? Plenty. And nothing, if that's all you know. 'Dog' but that's just a fact, no personality, not a proper name t'all. 'Madam Melancholy' something out of a children's book and not this city. Don't have a name for you yet, beg your pardon sir, and as for you, mister Dorian—"

Dorian. Who had given her a proper plenty name. Who had denied her gift, yet offered it back. Who was waiting for her to take it, and she hadn't noticed. Who still gave her a bit of 'ware and notcertainness. But who was the only recognizable brick in this innocent-enough-if-yer-not-trapped-inside-it wall.

"Thank you," Puck told him, with a bit more unease than she'd wished to express. Christ. Tried to chuckle, but only got out a slight cough as she took her daisy chain. "Beg your pardon, Dorian. I'm not generally so—well yes. Yes I am. Pardon."

She took a deep breath—calm, girl, calm. She could handle this, make it through this encounter that was just oh so intimate as to be terrifying. She could do this—oh dear. That was blood, wasn't it? Yessir, yes, yes, yes. Madam Melancholy had chosen to colour herself, she had, but in the least cheery of most all colours. Urgh.

The girl was staring, but of course; she'd had the sudden need to focus on something, anything, and was quite unfortunately focused on the blood blood blood. T'wasn't polite of her to be so. What sort of impression could she be making, in such a state as this? A poor one, yes. A lacking-in-general-charm one, certainly. A stupid one. Stupid.

"Madam?" she spoke up, brow furrowed in concern and ill humour. Didn't enjoy being stupid, not t'all. "The answer to your question would be yes, definitely, indeed, most unfortunately. So. Might I offer you a wee something to fix the. Er. Situation?"

With one hand, Puck offered the lady she'd prolly continue to call Madam Melancholy a definitively-large-and-rust-red-linen handkerchief. The other she chose to slip into Dorian's. Required some stability, she did, at the very current present. Pity for him he was the only bit she considered such, even if additionally artificial. "I'm called Puck," she said quietly, response to his half spoken and more than half forgotten question.

[hamlet]

Dorian is inactive. You guys can choose to godmod his exit from this thread, and ONLY his exit--nothing more, in order to continue this thread or leave this thread as unfinished. It's up to you guys.