May. 1st, 2023 07:24 pm
likeblueblazes: (Beautiful Ophelia)
#5 Chelsea Cloisters. Mailbox for Ophelia de Luce.


May. 1st, 2023 07:19 pm
likeblueblazes: (Lovely)
Voicemail and text messaging for Ophelia de Luce.
likeblueblazes: (With worshipful reverence)
A picnic at twilight might seem like a strange, fanciful notion to some, but Ophelia finds herself very much delighted by the prospect. Her graduation from Darrow High deserves to be celebrated, and to be celebrated in a style of her choosing. Daphne would say that it is Romantic of her, choosing such a dramatic hour for a small party. Well, Daphne isn't here, and she could keep her smart replies to herself, thank you very much.

Still, in the wake of her recent run-in with vampires, others might voice concern about Ophelia hosting a party as the light fades from the sky. But Ophelia has been taking her self-defense lessons at Off The Wall, and she's been working on said exercises from class at home when she has the chance. She carries a silver dagger hidden in a sheath under her skirt. She is much more capable than the naive girl walking around Darrow at night. Besides, she's set up the party in Petros Park, in clear view of the city surrounding the patch of green and the streetlights just flickering to life.

She has several blankets spread out, each one with a basket filled with cupcakes, macaroons, cookies, and other assortments of light desserts. She has several bottles of wine for the occasion, as well as plates, cups, utensils, and other necessities. It is not the fancy spread of some of the parties she's attended, by far, but it suits her purpose perfectly. She's not looking for a loud celebration. Tonight, she wants to hang out underneath the stars with some of the dearest people in the world to her.

She's uncertain how many people will show up, but she's excited, nonetheless. She's dressed in a summer dress the color of a starless night sky, and her hair is fashioned into a loose, french braid, entwined with silver ribbons. Once she sets all of the blankets up, she kicks off her fancy sandals, delighting in the cool grass between her toes. Jehan's influence, she thinks, for, once, she would have never dared to indulge in such an urge.

She smiles beneath the elongating moonlight and waits for people to arrive.

[ooc: Ophelia's graduation party! Tag in, tag each other, etc. New and old friends always welcome! Open for as long as it needs to be!]
likeblueblazes: (Thoughtful)
To say that the sheer scope of Off the Wall intimidates Ophelia proves an understatement; her eyes widen as she takes in the various people running, climbing, leaping, and crashing off of various obstacles. There is a sense of recklessness to their movements - a kind of recklessness that Ophelia envies, usually, from a distance. When Jax told her to seek a woman named Tris, she had no idea what she was signing up for.

Still. She steadies herself; she takes a deep breath, and she presses her lips together in determination. She needs to practice self-defense. If she wants to protect Flavia, let alone herself, she needs to be prepared to do so, no matter how unadylike it might require her to become.

Tightening her hair from where it hangs behind her in an uncharacteristic ponytail, Ophelia decides to hell with her nerves. Potential new threats aren't going to wait for her to maintain her composure. Shoulders squared, she ventures up to the front desk, ignoring some of the odd looks thrown her way for her outfit choice of a pencil skirt and a blouse.

A woman sits behind the desk, with short hair and a face that seems both young and wise all at once. She could be her own age, Ophelia thinks, taking in the sight of the other girl.

"Excuse me," she says, placing her hands on the edge of the front desk mostly to keep herself steady. "I'm looking for a woman named Tris? I was told she was really good for self-defense."
likeblueblazes: (Worried)
After nearly a week in the hospital, Ophelia finds herself released back home at last. Under certain conditions, of course. The doctors told her that she would still require extensive amounts of rest. They tell her that she is allowed to move around her own apartment, provided that she doesn't move around too much. Essentially, they place her on bed rest without explicitly stating as much, complete with knowing, damning looks. The de Luce-ness of such instructions infuriates her; she might as well be placed under house arrest, or so it feels to Ophelia.

Of course she exerts herself too much once she arrives back in her apartment; she has to call Miss Cordelia to inform her of everything, first of all. Miss Cordelia, naturally, insists on coming over and seeing Ophelia for herself. Ophelia endures nearly three hours of her boss mother henning her - from cooking for her to tidying up a bit in the kitchen. And then nearly another hour of discussing potential venues for the piano recital.

By the time Miss Cordelia leaves, Ophelia feels the weariness settle into her bones. Her neck aches from beneath the bandages covering it, and dizziness follows her every step. She ignores the medication they sent her home with, knowing it will only put her right to sleep. Instead, she makes her way to the piano, where she plays an assortment of her favorite songs, until a knock on the door interrupts her playing.

"Coming," she calls out, her voice still weak and ragged from her injuries. At the very least, a visitor should energize her. She hopes.
likeblueblazes: (Darling)
When Ophelia awakens on the last Sunday before school officially starts, she expects nothing of the day except to laze about in bed and savor her freedom before essays and thoughts of college begin to plague her every waking moment. She has today off from work, for which she is quite grateful. Perhaps she'll go to the local bakery for a sweet breakfast; perhaps she'll even knock on Jehan's door and ask if he will accompany her, if she feels daring enough. She blushes as she giggles, holding her pillow up to her face as though it might lessen said flush.

But first, of course, she has to actually move and get up from her bed, a task that seems especially herculean this morning. She sighs, lets the pillow drop from her face onto the floor before throwing the blankets back. She yawns, stretches for a good moment, before letting her feet onto the carpeted floor. Her typically tidy hair hangs loose around her, stray strands flying everywhere in the wake of sleep. Her nightgown, a simple, elegant cotton dress, clings to her as she makes her way to the door of her bedroom.

She's still considering her options for the day when she steps out into her living room. For a moment, she finds herself blinded by the sunlight streaming through the window; but then she blinks, and what she finds almost causes her heart to stop.

"Oh my God," she gasps, gaping at the sight of the familiar grand piano. Once held in the grand halls of Buckshaw, here it now sits, barely contained by the limitations of Ophelia's living room.

She's so ecstatic, tears tremble down her face as she runs over and traces her fingers along the edge of the keys, as though she had stumbled over a beloved childhood artifact. And really, this piano is her oldest, dearest friend; her equivalent to what Flavia has between Dogger back home.

All her morning possibilities forgotten for the moment, Ophelia hurriedly grabs her cellphone from the counter, texting all of her dearest acquaintances to come over; she, of course, texts Flavia first. Mindless of her own disheveled appearance and overwhelmed by her good fortune, Ophelia sits down at the piano to play, awaiting the arrival of her friends to share with them the wonderful news.
likeblueblazes: (Concerned)
When the storm begins, Ophelia is alone in her apartment, trying to convince herself that she isn't afraid. She jumps at every burst of lightning and the thunder reverberates in her bones; she paces around her living room, still sparsely decorated in the original furniture bestowed by the city. She is a de Luce, damn it all, and she is not allowing a stupid thunder storm to entirely interrupt her evening.

At a particularly loud crack of thunder, she all but leaps over the sofa, coming to land on all fours with a practiced grace she typically does not retain in her frightened state of being. She stands up abruptly when the smell of rain becomes almost overwhelming and she finds her ears filled with the conversations of her neighbors all around her, some of which make her flush from the language of them.

Another flash of lightning, and Ophelia catches sight of herself in the reflection of her window; her mouth drops open at the sight: her beautiful hair, once called the color of beaten honey, is now silver as the moon, and her eyes have faded from their once brilliant blue into a golden color. On top of that, she has ears like a dog protruding from beneath her hair, and her nails have elongated into claws.

She lets out a blood-piercing scream at the sight before bolting towards her bathroom at a speed as fast as the lightning outside her window. She almost rips the door off its hinges as she bursts inside, turning the light on and throwing her arms on the sink to steady herself. When she looks closer, she realizes her teeth have become sharper as well, and, if possible, she further pales.

Frightened out of her wits to the point where she is not thinking with clarity or reason, Ophelia turns again and runs, this time out of her bathroom and her apartment, slamming the door behind her as she leaps through the hallway and out into the storm-covered night.
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