01/08/99
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It ain't Miss Fyt ( - Inn, like anyone ever notices. - ): . . . .
msg#7402 Fri, Jan 8, 7:26PM PST
*Beauty. Everywhere was beauty, from the snow and frost in moonlight
to the sunrise or -set; the people that went by in the street or
shops or...wherever. Beauty, beauty everywhere and nary a drop for
her. But who cares? No one. Not even her, most of the time. No...
Prettiness was not to be hers, not in this lifetime. No... Shoving
the door open, she wanders in, emitting a low-grade aura of 'Don't
look at me, don't notice me, don't remember me...' And all the while,
grey-blue eyes dart hither and yon. They're hidden safely behind a
pair of normal little glasses, gold wire and fake-toriseshell frames,
correcting her myopia. She's nothing special, dressed in tatty, faded
blue jeans and a grey chamois shirt over top of another grey shirt.
All shades of grey, save for warm brown hair streaked on the right
with a warmer honey-mahogany red, and her boots. Her boots are
obviously important to her, as they're the only part of her that is
well kept up. The pretty hair is messy, tangled, falling down to her
waist and into her face, the jeans have rips in them, in somewhat,
ah, delicate locations, and the grey overshirt needs buttons and a
wash. The lights spark off of blue fingernail polish, and she looks
like she's been crying for a good while... She also looks like she
could use a friend, but you don't notice that, do you? Of course
not... Partly because you just don't -care-, and partly because
you're beautiful, and partly because -she- doesn't want you to. All
of this is moot, anyhow, as she's just... Disappeared...* **GONEIC,
not that she was ever -really- here in the first place...**
Fellious Warrior/mage, chainmail and longsword. (Outside): . . . .
msg#7426 Fri, Jan 8, 7:28PM PST
((What was that? A big entrance and exit all rolled into one? *S*))
*...And maybe she hadn't disappeared after all. Who knew, who cared? No one, really. Obviously. She stands there, in the big middle of everything, mumbling apologies to those whose passage she impedes, chewing on her lower lip with teeth that, if anyone deigned to look closely at, were yellowed and in need of regular brushing. This girl in grey, though, needed more than that... Her bleak gaze is restless, jumping from person to thing to creature and back, as if searching for something.... Or perhaps not. No. Here and there her eyes linger, staring at the graceful rise of a nose here; the arch and flex of a leg of that way; the smoothness of a curve, mayhaps a breast or hip, there... Male, female, human or cat or elf or wolf-man, it doesn't matter. She drinks them all in, this silent and morose figure, all the while sending up waves of - don't look at me don't notice me don't remember me don't touch don't look don't see don't - ...*
Just this girl in grey (... No one important.): . . . . msg#5374
Mon, Jan 11, 2:46PM PST
((*Posts, just to keep the C... centered or something*)) *...Really,
she -could- be pretty. There were a few impediments to that, and the
greatest one was her belief that she -wasn't-, -couldn't-, and
thefore would never ever be. Sniffling softly, she pulls herself from
the very woodwork (or so it seems) of the wall near the door,
slinking as quietly and unobtrusively as she can towards a table.
Naturally, she's angling for a table as far away from everyone else
as she can manage... And there's something like fear in her eyes, as
she scans the room. As before, the wraithlike aura that surrounds her
screams, in shades of greys and pale, icy blues,
don'ttouchdon'tlookdon'tseemedon'tjust-don't-... And she moves with
surprising silence. Not that anyone takes any note of her footfalls,
but really, anyone that square of body, blocky and stocky and
carrying adult-fat (as opposed to baby-fat, of course.)... No. She
should be far more clumsy than she is... But perhaps she's been told
this enough that she's directed all her efforts toward making sure no
one else notices... Ever. But not like it really -matters-, here,
where everyone else has such lovliness and so little time for those
less fortunate.*
Just this girl in grey (... No one important.): . . . . msg#5742
Mon, Jan 11, 3:09PM PST
*There. The safety of a table reached, she winces as the chair
scrapes and squeaks as she pulls it out. Great, just what she wanted,
attention... Sighing softly, she swipes at a thin tickle of moisture
near the bottom edge of her glasses, bites her lower lip -hard-, and
sits down. Hands grab at the side of the chair and she scoots it in,
face furrowing even further as the hopping motions seems to increase
the sound tenfold. In the noise level of the common room, though,
it's probably no louder than the next chair, and she really shouldn't
worry so much... Worrying is ingrained, though, so she continues...
huddling at her chosen table, head propped on her hand, eyes bright
with curiosity behind the curtain of her disheveled hair... It's a
hungry curiosity, and for just a second, there's the flicker of a
marrow-deep -Wanting-. Wanting to know, wanting to touch, to feel, to
believe... And then it's gone, banked and replaced by her continual
fear of discovery... Not that this little mouse has any reason to,
no, not -here-...*
It isn't Regia McGee, but just a girl in grey... (... No one
important.): . . . . msg#11772 Mon, Jan 11, 11:00PM PST
*They wander to and fro, back and forth, milling about like some sort
of highly fashionable, wonderfully happy, sentient stew of
dinoflagellates or something. Maybe not dinoflagellates, maybe...
Maybe dandelions, since they all seemed to propogate so quickly. And
she, her, huddled all dank and miserable in her chair, had half of
what was needed to bring new life into the world... Ninety-nine point
nine percent of the time, though, she discarded the idea of having a
child. Who was she, to think that she had the patience, the skills,
the -stamina- it would take to raise a kid? She was still something
of a child herself, and besides all of that, it would seem that her
body, though -built- for pregnancy and its attendant results, what
with the wide hips and the powerful legs hidden in the baggy,
tattered pants, it would seem that part of it had rebelled against
her hopes, her dreams, and Mother Nature herself...* (con't)
It isn't Regia McGee, but just a girl in grey... (... No one
important.): . . . . msg#12170 Mon, Jan 11, 11:42PM PST
*...If anyone bothered to look closely (not that they would, but
y'never know), scrutinized her face, they'd see it... Starting at her
temples, and just under her nose. Dark, as dark as the hair on her
head, each individual hair just as thick and luxurious as the
aforementioned hair... And -curly-. It's sprinkled sparesly along the
line of her jaw, down to her throat, this little mat of rogue hair...
There's a dark line of it along her upper lip as well, completing the
picture. Well, not quite. There's the relative flatness of her chest,
hidden behind the folds of grey fabric, her hair, and the edge of the
table. Her breasts were almost less than her own handful, and gave
great lie to the old saw about more than a handful being a waste.
What man ever saw a woman with that little flesh and longed to cup
it, weigh it, stroke and kiss and worship it? None, that she knew.
No, no... It took more than that, along the lines of about a pound of
fat each. Or less, perhaps... She always found a small measure of
comforting amusement in the fact that most males -adored- fat on
girls... It just had to be in the right place. And on her, she knew,
it was all -wrong-. But it didn't matter, not here, not now...*