with a hungry heart [zeke]

[venice]

[atrb=valign, top] “Oh,” Venice murmurs, shuffling closer to the tomato plant and crouching in front of it. She eyes the ladybug crawling its way up a leaf, short legs flickering back and forth underneath its body, and then lifts a finger to the leaf’s edge, the ladybug changing course and finding its way onto her skin. “Hello,” she greets with a soft smile, standing up fully and stepping over to the grass, where she bends to let the bug crawl onto a blade of grass. The ladybug’s wings flutter and twitch, but it does not take flight. Venice is careful when she shuffles away from it to finish up her work for the day, lackadaisically watering the last row of plants before stepping over to the toolbox she keeps on her porch and setting the watering can inside with a gentle clink. She lets out a breath of relief, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and carding her fingers through her bangs to get them out of her face. She’s not used to doing this much work -- though she’s been a rancher for the last couple of years, she usually leaves her plants in the hands of the weather. However, due to a recent, and, hopefully, a short drought, she’s been forced to do it on her own, lest she want to risk her livelihood by letting her plants rot. Though Venice certainly isn’t a fan of doing the work, she certainly likes the feeling she gets afterwards, the gentle flutter of accomplishment in her stomach. Despite her easygoingness, she does take pride in what she produces, even if the other ranchers of Sepalum may be doing better. Venice quietly enters her home, a one-room house with a single bathroom tucked into a corner and hidden by flimsy walls, and rushes to the kitchen sink to wash her hands and rinse the sweat from her face, relieved by the freshness of the water after spending the day in the sun. It’s already started to cool down outside, of course, since it’s nearing six o’ clock, but the rest of the day had been almost unbearably hot, the cloudless sky unforgiving, and if Venice hadn’t put on as much sunscreen as she did that morning, she would’ve been burned a strawberry red. Speaking of strawberries -- she’s hungry. All she’s had today is a piece of toast and a banana, and, well, she deserves more than that after working for most of the afternoon. Her stomach grumbles as if to agree with her. And although she usually doesn’t go to the Baccar Inn, she’s in the mood for something heartier than normal, something that will quell her hunger for longer than a handful of hours -- so, she decides she’ll go, pulling on a light jacket over her work clothes and heading over as the sun just begins to descend. The inn is almost always busy, consistently bustling with fellow residents and friends. At least, it has any other time Venice as been there. Today, for some reason, it’s quieter; there are patrons inside, of course, but the air is calmer, settled instead of riotous. Venice usually doesn’t feel out of place in the inn, anyways, but today she feels completely at ease. She shrugs off her coat, as it’s warm inside, and searches the tavern for a place to sit. Most everyone is with another person or a quiet group; there are more than a few empty tables that she could take, but Venice’s eyes end up being drawn to a booth in the far corner, where a boy is sitting alone, a plate of food already in front of him. Compelled, for some reason, to go to him, Venice meanders towards the back of the inn and slides into the seat across from the man, smiling kindly. “Hello,” she says, speaking as though they’re old friends, “it’s a lovely evening, isn’t it? We’ll be able to see all the stars when it gets dark.” Venice folds up her coat carefully, laying it down beside her before propping her forearms on the table and leaning forward to eye his food. “That smells delicious,” she says, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply enough that her chest noticeably rises and falls. She catches a waitress with a quick wave of her hand, “May I have what he’s having? And a water?” Venice grins at the woman’s affirmation and then turns back to the man across from her when the waitress walks away. “I hardly ever eat here. I never really know what to get,” she explains casually, toying with the lid of a saltshaker on the table. word count: 777 tags: ezekiel notes: still alive but i'm barely breathing template made by oxymoron! of back to neverland

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign, top][atrb=style, width:400px; padding-bottom: 20px, bTable]

[EZEKIEL L.]

[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable] Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand

[cs=2]   Ezekiel was no stranger to the oppressive heat of the blacksmith's shop. Working at temperatures ranging from anywhere to two thousand degrees was unkind to his hygiene and senses in itself. Given that the days temperature was anything but magnanimous, though, the red haired man left work in the early evening feeling ashamed and utterly disgusting. Soot and smoke smothered his face and arms, and the dull shining of grease in his hair must have made him appear an animal. Daily showers were no commodity, but a necessity at the very least. Sometimes he had to bathe twice. Laden with grime, he looked skyward as he made his way down the avenue towards his apartment, internally cursing the gods for such horrendously hot and cloudless weather. The cold water of his shower welcomed him not ten minutes later, and rinsed both body and soul of the day's stresses. When his muscles were less tense and skin began to shrivel like a prune, the man turned off the water and dried himself off. The quiet of his apartment seemed loud to him after being so exposed to the forge's continual din, and he uncertainly paced around his apartment, a towel tied about his waist. Next order of business was to find himself a robust, nutritional meal - but the only thing that his own kitchen offered him were slim pickings. With a sigh, Ezekiel turned away from his cupboards and retreated into his room to dress himself - into his trusty jeans, a button up, and a black blazer. He left the collar unbuttoned, disproving of the constricting nature of such a garment, and fluffed some of the remaining moisture out of his long red hair before tying it at the nape of his neck. His stomach was adamantly protesting his lack of sustenance, and with a disgruntled sigh the red-head left his home to its silence. The walk from the residential district to the Baccar Inn and Tavern was rather short-lived and no measure of strenuous, and the lounge welcomed him with sound of chattering patrons and clinking tableware that filtered down the street. The door didn't resist his entry - it even chimed a little, like it was happy to see him - and the man surveyed the current occupants, keeping tabs on open tables and booths that would suit his more private nature. It was usually a dismal thought, having to eat alone. But Ezekiel was no stranger to that, either. The regular blond, cat-eared waitress beamed enthusiastically at him in greeting and told him to sit wherever he liked, to which he could do nothing but nod. With a comfortable, self-satisfied smile he crossed the dimly lit room to a table in the corner, then took a seat. The tavern was somehow quieter this night, not rowdy like it usually was, and Ezekiel relished in this small grace. The atmosphere was exactly as he preferred it - it seemed fate had provided him the most suitable time and location for his evening meal. The blond returned a short moment later, tiny writing pad and pen in hand. She took his order - a timeless beef stew and beer on tap - with the same bright smile, then bounced away. Ezekiel rested his head against the back of his booth while he waited, and sipped on his brew when it was delivered. His food didn't take too drastically long to be made, though he wouldn't have complained if it had, and when his peppy waitress placed it in front of him, he said his thanks, then picked up his silverware. The dish was absolutely sublime; it was hearty, thick, savory and filling in ever facet imaginable. The man delicately savored a spoonful, internally scolding himself for not presenting himself with such a treat more often. He was nearly lost to the world, nestled in the corner of the tavern as he was; yet as he went back for another bite, a solitary figure appeared and slid into the seat in front of him. Wait, what? With his spoon hovering in front of his face, the red-head eyed the girl, confusion clouding his expression. "H-hi." He managed, lowering the silverware back into his bowl. They weren't familiar- did she think he was someone else? Ezekiel awkwardly licked his lips, shifting his eyes to avoid eye contact. "Ah- uhm- yes, it's... very nice..." His thoughts screamed at him. So what if it's a nice night, who are you?! He could only watch, bemused, as she folded up her coat and placed it next to her on the seat, before another bite of his food found its way into his mouth. He had no idea who this girl was - he had even less of an idea where she had come from - and he couldn't fathom what she was doing, sitting across from him now. What was he supposed to say to her? She just waltzed up and sat down in the middle of his dinner, interrupting everything, and- was he just supposed to start up some sort of conversation? Introduce himself? The man swayed his spoon back and forth in his stew, fidgeting. This was awkward. He knew he wasn't good with people, wasn't good with talking, but apparently she didn't. And who just approached a stranger like that, anyway? Was that even socially acceptable? Weren't most people just naturally cautious of those they didn't know? She didn't seem to care either way. When she commented on the dish, Ezekiel sighed and glanced desperately around the tavern, wondering if there was any way out. All he wanted to do was enjoy his meal in peace and quiet; alone, like he normally did, but... A wave of her hand brought the blond waitress back to the table, cornering him into his doom. The cat-eared girl nodded her ascent to bringing another order of stew, then winked at him before spinning on her heel and leaving. Does she think I'm on a date? The red-head internally groaned, reaching with his free hand for his drink. A few giant gulps was all he took to soothe the anxiety swelling in his stomach, then he set it back down and crammed another spoonful of food into his mouth. The girl continued to talk at him, and his cheeks erupted in flames; he was ashamed, embarrassed, and wholly in the limelight. "I don't, uh- I don't come here often either." He said after successfully swallowing. The man ate another portion of food, before the sentiment itself began to seem rude. She had just ordered and he was still eating - wasn't he supposed to wait for her to be served? Slowly, he placed his utensils on the table and resigned himself to drinking his brew while he waited, trying to determine whether or not he should attempt to converse with her. Driven by some indeterminable force, he decided small talk would be best, for both their sakes. "You, uh- normally eat home-cooked meals, then, I- I assume?"

words 1167 tagged emma! notes just praying to a god that i dont believe in??? bc this is long jfc??? IMSOSORRY

made by turtle of gs

[venice]

[atrb=valign, top] Venice has the decency to feel faintly apologetic when the man’s cheeks change color to a brilliant, splotchy red, but is delighted to hear him speak, his voice carrying clearly despite the nervous lilt in his tone. “Oh, you don’t?” Venice asks, cocking her head to the side in question. Her fingers still on the lid of the saltshaker, just touching instead of twisting, “Then I must be really lucky to have found you here.” Venice smiles at him, lips tipping upwards in pure sincerity, and finally lets go of the saltshaker, instead resting her hands in her lap. Her water is brought to her, then, set on the table with a small clink and a bright grin from the waitress, and Venice takes a sip as the man continues the conversation on his own, asking if she normally has meals at home. Venice shrugs nonchalantly, setting the glass back on the table and looking him square in the eye as she answers, “I’m not a very good cook. I usually eat things raw,” she explains, giggling softly to herself as though it’s something funny, “I own a crop farm, and all of the things I don’t sell, I keep for myself. I have to eat it quickly, though, or it’ll go bad,” she says, “just last week I accidentally ate some strawberries that had gone. I don’t recommend doing so; they tasted sour, like pickles,” Venice laughs to herself suddenly, “pickled strawberries! Can you imagine that being an actual dish? I like pickled cabbages, though, so maybe strawberries wouldn’t be too much of a difference.” The waitress appears with her stew after a moment, setting it down in front of Venice carefully. Venice beams at her, giving thanks, and then lifts a spoon to dip inside. After gathering a spoonful, she brings it carefully to her lips, blowing the steam away to cool it, and then slides the bite into her mouth. She breathes languidly through her nose as she swallows, eyes fluttering closed with the exquisite taste. “You have great taste,” she tells the man across from her, “this is just what I wanted,” she continues, already dipping her spoon into the stew for another bite. word count: 368 tags: ezekiel notes: CUZ I GOT TIME WHILE SHE GOT FREEDOOOM. anyways i liked your post it was great etc etc don't worry about the length! x sorry mine is like way shorter?? template made by oxymoron! of back to neverland

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign, top][atrb=style, width:400px; padding-bottom: 20px, bTable]

[EZEKIEL L.]

[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable] Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand

[cs=2]   Placing one foot outside of his apartment door had presumably been his first - if not the most fundamental - mistake; even just brushing the rubber pad ahead of his threshold determined his evening karma. If considered hard enough, such an unlucky course of events could have begun to spin even before withdrawing from the comforts of his own home - perhaps when he changed himself into socially presentable attire, or resigned himself to deserving more than instant, microwaveable meals. He wouldn't travel back far enough to regret showering, but somehow, somewhere, in the span of time spent between his shop and the tavern, something had gone terribly wrong with his thinking. Or so he liked to assume. Sepalum was a peaceful enough place, not often demanding too much from him in way of sociability. His occupation required a certain degree of communicative ability - but rarely did it meander away from anything professional, and Ezekiel thought that he very much preferred it that way. Not that the forge was a very popular place of interest; customers were regular, it was true, but it was far from being a front-and-center attraction, nestled near the mine as it was. With such hideous noise and heat, no matter the weather, he supposed that the conditions did little in charming its patrons. Those that sought after his services only did so when necessary, and he was otherwise left in peace to his craft. It might have been the very sentiment that Sepalum and it's residents typically allowed him his peace that made him presume a night in town wouldn't reap any consequences - but regardless of the source, he still found himself in a very inconvenient position. The tavern's ambiance shone a pale, dim orange in the space between them, and it only seemed to accentuate the girl's radiant amber tresses; he had to fight the urge to stare at every facet of reflected light, so he instead gathered the cold brew in his left hand and brought it to his lips for a hungry, desperate swig. A swift flick of his tongue wiped the foam from his upper lip and the red-haired man returned cup to the table in unison with the girl, stomach consumed with a pleasant, fuzzy whirling. His fidgeting having been momentarily satiated, he was left to the mercy of the silence that floated in front of him. And though it was dense like fog, he couldn't escape the woman's penetrative gaze as she gave him an answer to such a half-assed question. He thought he might have liked to curl up in that very corner, shrivel, and die; her directness and sincerity made him feel naked. The man only gave half-hearted interest to her following dialog - he still had no clue who she was - though she appeared to enjoy conversing despite anyones reservations against hearing whatever it was she intended to say. Given that fact, Ezekiel couldn't begin to fathom just how unfortunate the remainder of his evening would be. With green eyes flickering hesitantly between the paneling on the wall and her own visage, he sampled another sip of his brew, still patiently waiting for his guest to be served - though why he even blessed her with such civility, he couldn't place. Not only was his thinking flawed, but so was his sense of propriety, it seemed. He almost - almost - commented on the concept of pickled strawberries; not just because he wondered if putting the fruit through such a process would change its qualities to which he was allergic, but because it seemed outrageous in general. Ezekiel allowed the temptation to pass and mulled over the implications on his own, picking up his spoon and tracing circles in his stew while he did so. He ignored the arrival of the blond waitress and another serving of stew, fearful of receiving another suggestive wink, and waited a few moments longer as the girl tested the dish they now shared. Her genuine approval of it revealed a slight upward curl of his lips, and he took the opportunity to bring another spoonful to his own mouth. "Thank you.." Ezekiel muttered after swallowing, a powder of pink crossing his cheeks again. "It, uh- it is very good, isn't it?" The man twirled his silverware in the air, momentarily gaging her reaction before dropping his gaze to the table and serving himself another bite. For the sake of maintaining appearances and not falling into an even gawkier atmosphere, he fished for something to say - he knew he could ask her a single question and she would provide a few minutes worth of parley, if he worded it right. "Is the season treating your crops well? What do you, uh- what do you grow? Besides, uh- besides strawberries." The red head placed his spoon precariously on the edge of his bowl, then cleansed his palate with a wash of beer. An impulse to dispel the stress of introductions overwhelmed him, though the majority of such an appeal existed, he figured, because he wanted to finally familiarize himself with her identity. Before she had the opportunity to give more than one word of a reply, he blurted, "I'm Zeke, by the way," then returned his utensils into his hand and devoured more of his meal.

words 872 tagged emma! notes 'CUZ WHEN A HEART BREAKS NO IT DONT BREAK EVEN. how perf bc zeke's heart is being torn into pieces he feels so awkward im sorry.

made by turtle of gs

[venice]

[atrb=valign, top] There are times in Venice’s life -- moments that are few and far between, rare, even -- that she is completely at ease in an environment. This isn’t to say that Venice is not an easygoing girl, one that is almost outlandishly calm in any given situation, but she never feels the ironically abrupt settlement of peace unless the atmosphere perfectly suits her. Tonight’s visit to the inn, however, seems to be one of those times; even her company is soothing, despite a muted sense of discomfort with her presence, and this has only happened maybe a handful of times before, that a stranger has brought such an intense serenity to her attention, the weight upon her warm instead of wearying. Venice has spent enough of her life traveling to know that every person has something in them that is starkly different from the next; no one is precisely the same, despite the common misconceptions of society, where it is claimed that each human being is a carbon copy of another. Venice has never found people to be anything but unique, special in their own form, but there are very few whose personas seem to mingle with hers as opposed to simply existing next to. It is an interesting idea, to Venice, that people’s souls actively sought another’s out, that they choose your fate more often than your mind or heart. Venice is a very strong believer in the soul, trusts her first instincts wholly and never questions what they tell her to do. It may be a dangerous way to live, a way that some would not dream of attempting, but it seems to suit Venice just fine. Perhaps she is more intuitive than most, trusting to an extent but also wary, careful in a way that doesn’t usually show when she approaches. But Venice only approaches with purpose, intent; she feels that if she doesn’t, she’ll miss out on something, will defy what fate suggests, and she can’t see herself living that way, scared of transformation, of the things around her changing. Venice lives to change, must to do in order to learn and grow -- that’s what she’s been taught, in any case. Venice pauses in her dining as the man responds to her longwinded spiel, merely agreeing that the stew tastes as good as she’s said. A pink color tiptoes over his cheeks, nestles in the shadows cast by the tavern lighting, and Venice finds it strangely endearing -- it is such a feminine thing, perhaps, for a man to do, but it suits him, even compliments the red stripes tattooed beneath his eyes, makes them look brighter than the old ink, dulled from time, should. “Yes,” she agrees, “they have the most delicious recipes. I’ve asked the cook what they season their food with, but he told me he wasn’t able to say. I think he didn’t tell me because he simply isn’t talkative,” Venice rambles, spooning another bite of stew into her mouth, eyelashes fluttering with the heartiness of it, “I couldn’t possibly be angry with him, though. Some people are much more shy.” Venice allows a short silence to settle over the table, then, is even content with it. As much as she likes to talk, tell people stories, or talk about the places she’s seen, people she’s known, she likes the quiet, as well, likes leaving things alone for a while before they’re picked up again. It gives a conversation a much more rustic value -- antique, as though they’ve talked more than once, like they’re old friends. She’s happy, however, when the man asks about her farm -- he even goes on to introduce himself before she has a proper chance at answering, which almost catches her off-guard; she felt somewhat close to him the moment she took the seat across from him, didn’t even think about introducing herself. She suddenly feels as if she’s been incredibly rude. “Oh,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m sorry, my name is Venice. I should’ve said so sooner, Zeke.” She smiles at him, assuming she’s been forgiven, “That’s short for Ezekiel. He was a prophet. He apparently predicted the restoration of Israel in the Old Testament,” Venice remarks, pausing to have another taste of her meal, “Do you not like strawberries?” She asks suddenly, letting her spoon rest on the side of her bowl, “or is it you don’t like pickled strawberries? I’ve never tried them,” she says, “but I’m growing cabbages this season that I’ll probably pickle. As I’ve said, I quite enjoy them.” She lifts her spoon absentmindedly and stirs her stew, thinking, “It hasn’t rained much this season. I’ve had to water the crops on my own. I’m not really used to the work, so it makes my arms tired.” She pauses for a moment, eyes scanning Ezekiel’s build, “I suppose you do a lot of hands-on work, though. You look very strong,” she says, catching his eye, “what is it you do, Zeke?” word count: 834 tags: ezekiel notes: wow i actually have no clue what im writing template made by oxymoron! of back to neverland

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign, top][atrb=style, width:400px; padding-bottom: 20px, bTable]

[EZEKIEL L.]

[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable] Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand

[cs=2]   Usually, there was little to be done when he suffered from circumstances such as these. Even at a young age, Ezekiel was an anxious and nervous breed. When his father removed himself from the household and all that remained of him were pictures and old trinkets, the boy realized himself to be incompetent and uninterested in way of social interplay. His guide, his hero, his role model, was gone - and the loss came with two things: a deficit of any confidence or self-esteem, and a general cautiousness towards others. Given such a history of discretion, Ezekiel almost always subjected himself to a state of constantly fluctuating sensitivity; which rarely was dismissed by anything other than seclusion. In fact, it was such a established aspect of daily life, that feeling anything besides apprehension in the face of strangers was even more unsettling to him than simply being in their presence. "That's alright." He managed to interject after her own introduction, pausing to slip another spoonful of stew into his mouth. The sentiment itself - that she'd even forgotten to give her name - was entirely unfamiliar to him. Ezekiel himself was so antsy that he couldn't remotely fathom the concept of being comfortable around a stranger. Yet she had seemed so friendly when she slipped into the seat across from him; she even dared to talk like they were old friends, like they had known each other for a considerable length of time. The man assumed that average social norms and judgments were wasted on her - and the thought was somehow... endearing. Comforting, perhaps. A low sense of calm trickled over him, washed over his emotions and cleansed the edges of his mind. If she was as nonchalant as her appearances, he needn't be so uptight while graced with her company. He could finally take a breath of fresh air... and, he dared to admit, relax. But if he wasn't nervous, he didn't know what to feel; didn't know if it was appropriate for him to feel anything else. Ezekiel was so accustomed to responding in such a tailored manner, that any contrary reaction (quite frankly) frightened him; not to mention how it amplified his standard agitation. So was the paradox of his distress, it seemed. And it was in this vicious cycle of anxiety and calm, of perpetual confusion, that he found himself, sharing a meal with the girl apparently known as Venice. When she continued at length, explaining the origins of his full title, he stared at her from behind the curtain of his bangs, another serving of stew hovering halfway between the bowl and his lips. He was both astonished that she'd registered the nickname (most people didn't seem to make the connection - or at least, they didn't do so out-loud) and that she was enough of a collector of useless information to educate him about something so personal. All while doing so in an absent state of mind, no doubt. "Oh," was all he could bring himself to say, before bashfully drawing more circles in his food. Again, Venice spun more commentary and questions, and Ezekiel almost thought he had a chance to answer before words about "cabbages" and "pickling" fell from behind her lips. She sure loved to talk. At least she's staying relatively on-topic, the red head mused, lifting his eyes to study her as he brought another bite of stew into his mouth, listening. By now his bowl was slightly more than halfway done, and he then picked at a few vegetables, considering everything she had given him to respond to. It seemed a solemn assertion that Sepalum's farmers were experiencing a lack of rain, and a lack of sustenance for their crops. But nonetheless, he figured the work depended on factors that were typically unpredictable; and that the ranchers understood the stakes of playing such a game with nature. He was glad to hear that she was compensating just fine, aside from the suggested fatigue. All too suddenly he was aware of her eyes on his body, and he awkwardly sliced a carrot with the edge of his spoon, dropping his gaze in an attempt to hide his overwhelmed modesty. The meager morsel was stuffed into his mouth, and he bought himself some time to recover as he chewed it, green eyes still glued to the table. "I'm a blacksmith,

[/color]" the man said at last, carefully raising his attention towards her before he fidgeted with the remaining potatoes in his dish. Fuck, he should say more than that. "I, uh- I make a lot of repairs on farming tools." Another pause; another vegetable chewed. "Either that, or, uh- I get commissions for things. Custom orders. Just give me a piece of metal and I can make, uh- make just about anything you want." Talking was gradually becoming easier, and a small smile peeked at the corners of Ezekiel's lips as he set his spoon down against the rim of his bowl, then crossed his hands on the edge of the table. It was an ironic thing, really, for her to bring up a topic that he thought had passed entirely. But he couldn't see another option than to politely provide her with an answer to her curiosity. "You know, I'm actually, uh- I'm allergic to strawberries." The red head flickered his stare towards the wall, laughing a little. "My mouth goes numb and my lips start to burn. It's not, uh- it's not severe or life-threatening or anything, just uncomfortable, so, uh- yeah, I just try to avoid them...[/color]"

Ezekiel casually took up his brew in his hand, washing down the remnants of his meal from his tongue, though he had yet to finish the last remaining portions. It no longer seemed so bad, sitting here talking with a pretty girl over a meal. The tingling, slithering snakes in his gut had silenced a great degree, and save for a sliver of discomfort, all that remained around him was an air of serenity. He even thought that he could get used to this kind of interaction - strictly with her, perhaps, because he highly doubted he could handle anyone else sharing such philosophies. With an unburdened mind, he tilted his glass in his hand, pensive. "Venice." The red head mumbled, feeling the weight of her name on his tongue. It was interesting, intriguing; different, and somehow very rustic. Sentimental. "That's a pretty name. After, uh- a city in Italy, yes?" Ezekiel's green eyes sparked with something playful, and he eyed her as he sipped on his beer, wondering if she'd catch the reciprocation of analysis.

Nah. He didn't mind this at all.[/size][/td][/tr][tr][td]

words 1107 tagged emma!
notes ok now hes cool. maybe its the beer who knows. AND I CAN ONLY HEAR KEVIN BACON'S VOICE WHEN HE TALKS NOW WOW.

[/td][/tr][/table]

made by turtle of gs

[/center]

[venice]

[atrb=valign, top] A blacksmith. Venice tips her head sideways, studying him a little longer, and decides that it suits him. A perfect fit, she muses, idly chopping vegetables in her stew with her spoon, unintentionally mirroring him. It seems, as he continues to speak, that he does quite a bit of work outside of simply working in the shop, as well. Venice smiles at this, imagines Zeke shyly agreeing to do what he’s been commissioned to. Others must think him charming and sweet, lovely in a way that boys are not supposed to be, kindhearted and diligent and different. Unique in a way that others will never be. Venice allows herself to wonder, briefly, what his story is, who he was before, if he’s always been the same. There is something about Ezekiel that is intriguing, more so than handfuls upon handfuls of the other people that she’s met in the past. “Oh,” Venice says, grinning as he finishes his spiel and takes a bite of stew. “I make things, too. Nothing out of metals, but -- bracelets and things.” She props her elbows on the table and twists one of the beaded bracelets sitting on her wrist, red and orange and yellow; the colors of fire. “I think it’s relaxing. To just lie down on the grass and create something completely yours,” she says, eyes flitting between her bracelet and Zeke’s expression. “You must make more interesting things, of course,” Venice adds, goodnatured as she always is. She replaces one hand to her lap, fiddles with her silverware with the other before dipping the spoon back into the soup to eat. Venice blinks at Zeke’s admission, genuinely surprised by it; she’s never met anyone allergic to something so sweet. “Those are one of my favorites,” she tells him, pouting, “it’s a shame you can’t eat them. I wish there was some way you could.” She pauses, thinking. “Perhaps someone, somewhere in the world, is inventing something at this very moment that would let you eat strawberries no matter what. So that your mouth wouldn’t burn,” she says, eyes crinkling with her smile. She realizes that she’s being a little idealistic, but why shouldn’t she look for a bright side? Negative people never have very appealing auras, anyways. “Only if you wanted to eat strawberries, of course. No one would make you eat them, especially not if you were allergic. Unless that someone was trying to cause you discomfort.” Venice pauses, relaying what she’s said over in her head. “Though I doubt anyone would want anything bad to happen to you, Zeke,” she concludes with a soft grin, reaching up to brush hair from her face. A silence settles over the table, then, but not an uncomfortable one; Venice can sense that Zeke has become more comfortable with her presence since she’s arrived, has even steered the conversation on an occasion or two. This makes a sense of pride swell in Venice, a feeling of accomplishment swooping through her stomach and rising in joy. Though it is very rare that Venice has not been able to at least pull a smile from someone, she still feels lighter, happier, when someone seems to open up to her, no matter how subtly. “Venice,” Zeke says, repeating the name she’s given him. She blinks, wondering if it’s normal to like the way it sounds on his tongue as much as she does. She smiles, nodding at Zeke’s question, happy to be able to talk some more. “Yes; a very beautiful one. It sits in water and is widely known for its architecture, I’ve been told,” Venice says, smiling, “it got its name from the Veneti tribes. They ran away to the lagoons because of invasions in -- I think -- the fifth century.” Venice nods as if agreeing with herself. “I went there twice with my family; it was always mesmerizing. We used boats to get around. My father would always go off on a historical spiel of sorts, no matter where we went. I always thought it was very interesting,” Venice says. “Have you ever travelled, Zeke?” Venice asks, pausing to bite into a carrot she fished from the stock, “Or have you always been here?” She pauses, thinking. “I think this is a beautiful place, personally. It made me want to stop traveling. It was the first place ever to make me settle,” she says fondly, as though the memory itself is lovely. word count: 749 tags: ezekiel notes: tried so hard, and got so far, but in the end, it doesn't even matter. ALSO, i imagine venice sounding like karen o in this. template made by oxymoron! of back to neverland

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign, top][atrb=style, width:400px; padding-bottom: 20px, bTable]

[EZEKIEL L.]

[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable] Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand

[cs=2]   Since the arrival of his guest, the front door sporadically chimed in welcome to a handful of patrons, an indirect indication of the growing number of clientele, though the joint remained relatively mellow, compared to its usual atmosphere. Many of the newcomers crowded around the bar, disregarding standard levels of personal space in their thirst for liquor and relief from the days stresses without facing any obligation for extensive social interactions; unlike those gathered around the dinner tables. Lingering in between the walls of the tavern was a rather consistent level of chatter, a muffled hum that seeped into the darkening streets and diluted into his corner; tucked in the back, though, the sound was even quieter, muted somehow from the isolation. Ezekiel trained his eyes on the glass tankard of ale nestled in the curve of his palm, shining like polished bronze under the lamp above the table and crowned with a clinging layer of foam, weighing how much of it he'd had to drink. He supposed that the level of comfort that stroked his nerves could be attributed to the levels of coppery brew that now flowed through his system, if not for the very calming demeanor of Venice herself. It was an odd sensibility, he considered, to be as content with the precedents as much as he was. Even odder still was the fact that comfort was more alien to him than he would have cared to admit, even earlier in the day. With such a hectic and dynamic lifestyle, the sentiment was once a luxury he'd never had the luck or riches to afford. But now, in such a placid community, perhaps he needn't be cheated of such feelings. Ezekiel turned the cup in his hand, momentarily studying the ochre liquid, fancying how well it served him in social situations such as these. It sanded the abrasive edges of worry, frayed his anxiety, and consumed him with a low drone of relaxation that, all at once, he savored. A small fraction of him pondered the possibility of turning to such a substance more often, if only to condition himself in ways of friendliness. But, he should come to such terms on his own behalf, he supposed, and without the aid of outside forces. Alcohol wasn't healthy in excess, anyway. The man lifted his eyes from his drink as he returned it to the table with a delicate clack, politely giving the young woman his attention, appreciative of the discourse. Ezekiel couldn't help but mimic the gesture when she smiled - her enthusiasm was so endearing it was bordering on contagious - and one corner of his lips twitched slightly, only slightly, to offer her a peek at his growing admiration for such company. The red-head propped his elbows up on the table, enraptured and content enough to listen - he never really cared much for talking, anyway. He leaned forward with earnest as he soaked up her words, curious and finding an unfamiliar intrigue in her seemingly endless knowledge of even the most miniscule and trivial of things. He'd heard of the Italian city of Venice, was most certain it was a topic even vaguely broached in certain lectures in history and discussions of all places European. Ezekiel never had the pleasure of visiting the city and it's prized architecture, though. He could only imagine the glory of living in such a settlement; in an apartment above the canal, overlooking the lagoon. Gently, the man tilted his head to the left, nodding his head and echoing her own actions. He mused that her family traveled often, if her father was the touristy sort that she made him out to be - and it seemed that they were a rather well-off, close family, if they could afford such trips together. She was lucky, and he was happy for her. A spark of envy throbbed in the corners of his consciousness, subtly reminding him that he would never have the fortune of enjoying such treasurable excursions - with his father, a family, or otherwise. The red-head's green eyes glinted with a hint of bitterness, and fell to the table as he licked his lips, pausing to bury the realization and seal away the hurt that threatened to creep on him. With a strong resolution, he took up his bowl of stew again, and casually tilted the bowl to fish another bite from the little that remained. The man's dark eyebrows lifted curiously when she directed her questions at him, and he chewed on a potato, any immediate answer interrupted by both his own occupation and another course of dialogue. He nodded in agreement to her comments - Sepalum was a beautiful place, full of color and life, especially in the spring. "It is." Ezekiel conceded, scraping the last of the broth from the bowl and then snaking the spoon between his lips as he considered the implications of the course their conversation was taking. He wanted to answer her question, but he didn't feel the pressing need to get too personal - what did she need to know about him, anyhow? "Uh- no, uh- I've been here for two years." The red-head dropped his gaze, unsettled by the prospect of talking about himself. Given her natural curiosity and intimate nature - not to mention how nonchalant she was - he wouldn't be surprised if she had more detailed questions about his life. Ezekiel dropped his utensils and pushed them towards the edge of the table for retrieval, then laced his fingers together, biting his lip. He'd never grown accustomed to sharing personal litter with others, especially strangers, no matter how friendly they were. Hell, he rarely talked to his own mother. It appeared, though, that Venice brought something else to the table; some unknown variable, a quality he wasn't seasoned in, something that intrigued him and, in the deep recesses of his being, made him want to be understood - to be accepted. Ezekiel continued carefully, his uncertainty apparent as he snagged his beer into his hand, fiddling with the handle. The waitress walked by as he pondered his next words, and stole the finished dishes from the polished wood with a glowing smile and hopped away. "I was very poor growing up, so my- we- uh, we moved a lot. Sometimes it became too expensive, so we, uh- we had to find cheaper places to live.

[/color]" The red-head avoided Venice's gaze, finding some speck in the marbled cedar to focus his attention, already going through much effort to divulge as much as he was and fearful of any sympathy. Hastily, he swallowed a swig of his brew, seeking a reprieve in the leisure it brought, wondering if he needed to elaborate. His family had changed locations frequently after his father left, along with the majority of their income. For a while, he'd sent checks as a means of support, until his mother chased that option out of consideration with constant badgering for more money.

The man sighed, mulling over how he could possibly tell her his whole story and nothing at the exact same time. "So, uh- I guess you could say I've traveled." Ezekiel slowly lifted his eyes, offering a small, solemn smile, regretting casting a gloom over the conversation with his less than blissful backstory. But, uh- I couldn't tell you where I've been. Even I don't know. It was always for necessity. Never for pleasure."[/size][/td][/tr][tr][td]

words 1235 tagged emma!
notes IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AND ITS A NOVEL AND OMG. he's feeling poopy now bc he misses his daddy and he feels bad about it hes sorry too ok.

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made by turtle of gs

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[venice]

[atrb=valign, top] Venice notices, perhaps slightly belatedly, the subtle shift in Ezekiel’s expression at the mention of traveling with her family, the flicker of his eyes to the table, the vaguely stilted movement he made to tilt his bowl forward and scoop out what may be a final bite. Venice’s bowl is half-full, almost invisible wisps of steam appearing to her when she stirs it around; she worries, briefly, that she’s somehow offended him, but he answers her easily, almost efficiently. Venice hadn’t missed the upwards tilt of his lips earlier but it seems to be gone, now, perhaps only lingering at the edges of his mouth. She gazes at him with sincerity as he answers, smiling at the familiarity of the story. “Oh? So I have I,” she says, her smile firmly back in place. “I’m surprised we haven’t bumped into each other before,” she adds, pausing to think for a moment. “Though, I don’t suppose I left my farm much when I first arrived. I had to spend some time learning about the land. Then, of course, I had to till it, plant seeds...” she trails off, lost in her memories. She remembers being very tired for the first half of the year, here. Things seem much easier, now; likely because she’s become accustomed to the workload, but equally due to the frequent rain that keeps her from having to water her crops. Despite her weariness, of course, she had always been fond of Sepalum; its beautiful landscapes and beaches, the intimacy of the town, has always been a point of appeal for her. To Venice, it has always felt very simplistic in comparison to the cities of her travels. While they had been beautiful, full of century old buildings an art, Sepalum is the only place that has felt like -- like a home. It is perhaps silly to think of it this way when she’s only been here for two short years, but she can’t imagine leaving, now. It is a part of her, has carved a holding place for itself in her heart, which is something no place has done before. Venice returns her attention to her company, noting that his demeanor seems calmer, now, though still weighted. One of the waitresses in the tavern, a sweet one with a genuine smile, stops by to collect Zeke’s dish, smiling between them before heading back to the kitchen to put them away. Venice watches her for a while, smiles at the cook with the eyepatch when he turns and catches her eye, and then allows her gaze to return to Zeke, who begins to speak. What he says doesn’t surprise Venice as much as him saying it surprises her, but her heart flutters with fondness and, to a lesser extent, accomplishment in making someone feel comfortable enough within half an hour or so to begin talking about himself. He’s very closed off, she had perceived that the moment she sat down at the otherwise unoccupied table, but it seems that, perhaps, he wants someone to speak to. Maybe, she reasons, he doesn’t have anybody. Living here for two years and not having that, she thinks, must be difficult; something she, being an open-book, cannot fathom enduring. She thinks about saying something while he takes a swig of his drink, but she can’t seem to find the right words. She understands where he’s coming from, though not particularly to the same extent; while her family moved often, it was for pleasure, although she hadn’t had much growing up, either. Traveling as often as they did, it was impossible to maintain secure jobs; most times, they traded and sold trinkets they’d acquired from other places to sell in large cities. She realizes now, after being in Sepalum and witnessing the way of life here, that she had been living rather modestly, differently, compared to the rest of the world. She still isn’t sure if her travels made her more worldly or if they sheltered her, stopped her from growing up without worry of drifting away. Venice had never had friends growing up due to this, but she always managed to find people she could speak with and relate to. Being in Sepalum, she realizes, she has come across the same relationships time and time again -- silly, one-conversation “friendships” that fade to nothing as the person walks away. Venice’s travels have made her bold but they have not made her steady. She wants to convey these sentiments to Zeke, but, more so, she doesn’t want to take away the significance of him speaking to her about himself. Her father always taught her to listen to a person’s story if they wanted to tell it, as it always takes some kind of courage to do so. Venice doesn’t understand this on a personal level, but she understands that some people fear more than she does. “I see,” Venice says, the sudden gloom clouding their conversation entirely unavoidable. She smiles, anyways, in a way that she hopes is reassuring, understanding. Anything but pitying; Venice tries not to pity anyone, has learned in her years that most people have no interest in such an emotion. She takes a bite of her soup, pondering to herself for a handful of moments. “Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve only seen for a few days,” she settles on saying, meeting Zeke’s gaze although he has consistently attempted to avoid hers. “I never stayed in the same place for too long, either.” She smiles at him, eyes soft. “I’m glad I’ve found someone who has that in common.” She pauses to take a few bites of her stew, finishing as much as she can before she feels too full to continue. She subtly pushes the bowl away from her, closer to the center of the table, and then lifts her water to take a long sip. As she sets it down, the waitress from earlier clears her bowl, as well, refilling her glass before she goes. Venice is quiet for a moment, watching Zeke curiously, eyes unwavering on his face. “Something about you is very personable,” Venice finally says, shifting forward in her seat and setting her elbows on the table so she can balance her chin in her hands. She smiles at him, closed-lipped but not stiff. “You’re very genuine; I feel like there aren’t many people who are.” She pauses, taking another drink of her water. “You make me feel very at ease.” She wonders, briefly, if this will make him uncomfortable, but she doesn't dwell on it. She tends to say what she's thinking, no matter what the repercussions. words: 1,106 tags: nymph ♡ notes: so.....many......feels.... credit: template made by oxymoron! of btn

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign, top][atrb=style, width:500px, bTable]

[EZEKIEL L.]

[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable] Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand

[cs=2]   The air surrounding them that had once been thick with an uncomfortable tension, now grew dark and dreary. He supposed it was inevitable, considering the path their conversation had taken - he'd even predicted it, expected it. But now that the clouds were forming between them, threatening to drip and rain, doubt began to overpower Ezekiel's courageous will to talk about his story. Perhaps he shouldn't have allowed her a peek under that stone. Perhaps he shouldn't have even said a word. Remaining quiet, closed-off and cold might have been the best choice. It would have spared their light conversation, it would have spared the mood. It would have saved Venice the baggage, and it would have saved him his dignity. Momentarily shrouded in his own second-thoughts, Venice's short reply reached him like an echo - distant and vague - and he fought every instinct to flinch. A sliver of him internally cried out, waggled a finger in protest and scolded him for exposing himself to a stranger. Ezekiel's mind whirled. Certainty no longer attached itself to whatever desire he once had to share and be accepted. The fear of rejection and of the vulnerability in which he now swam, began to fold into the recesses of his conscience, locking itself in place with daggers that stung and itched. Still, he found his attention drawn away from the unfocused corner of the table where it had settled, searching for his company's face, curious of her expression. And what he saw, quite frankly, startled him. She was... smiling. All at once, Ezekiel exhaled, his body delicately slackening, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding in. His mind grew numb from the subtle reassurance she'd provided him, processing the implications of such a warm and accepting countenance. A corner of his lips curled, an attempt at mimicking her gesture, fragments of his relief twinkling in his jade eyes. The red-head licked his lips, bashfully averting his gaze as Venice took another bite of her meal. He wasn't sure how he'd expected her to react; couldn't grasp why he'd assumed the worst. That was the nature of fear, though, he mused, as he brought the mug of ale to his lips and heaved the heavy glass for a swig. She was very down-to-earth, intimate, and nonchalant - he knew this, could tell by the way she talked and addressed him. Why, then, if he knew she had no qualms, did he fear her? Ezekiel replaced the tankard on the table with a clack. Saying that he feared her was incorrect. He was afraid of the pain that would accompany getting to know this amiable, free-spirited girl sitting across from him. Of the pain that would come if she eventually left him behind. He never let anyone close enough to hurt him, and with good reason. The man sighed inwardly, an ache of shame seeping into his already chaotic emotions. Even in the face of such apprehension, it was unfair to push her away, unsuspecting and ignorant of his experiences as she was. How could he let himself be that selfish? It wasn't as if he disliked her company. In fact, he more than enjoyed it. He thought he might have liked to find pleasure in her presence in the future, too. But can I let myself be that vulnerable? Ezekiel asked himself, biting on his lip. On a typical day, in any typical situation the answer would have been an immediate 'no'. But for the first time... he hesitated. Could he so easily turn his back on what could become his first real friendship in nearly a decade? Could he so easily write it off, just because of what his father did? Admittedly, yes, he could. But the question of whether or not he wanted to was another story entirely, muddled from indecision on how to handle the opportunity in front of him. The man had been so enveloped in his own thoughts that when Venice spoke, he nearly jumped from surprise. After a moment, he settled, a placid appreciation shining in his face once he realized the nature of such a statement. She wasn't a stranger to a dynamic life, either. Of course, he would have assumed as much given the fact that she traveled quite frequently, but he'd never guessed how often that was. But the fact remained: she understood where he was coming from - and she wasn't judging, condemning, or chastising him for what he'd chosen to reveal to her. She was accepting him. Ezekiel somehow managed to maintain eye contact with her, though it was mostly because he was so enraptured by her words - the shine in her amber eyes, too - that all anxiety was dead to him. Eternally grateful for the sentiments she'd expressed, the red-head could do nothing but return her grin. It was small and closed-lip, but sincere, and the man turned his eyes back to the table, suddenly overwhelmed by her tenderness and empathy. "Y-yeah." He stuttered softly, drawing his beer close to his face. "Me too." Ezekiel sipped on its final contents lazily, finding little interest in the now room temperature brew. To soothe his eager fidgeting, he lightly tapped on the glass with the balls of his fingers, allowing himself to ease into a pleasant silence as Venice consumed her fill. When she pushed her dish towards the center of the table, the man quickly downed the rest of his drink, then slid the glass across the wood for its own retrieval. The bright waitress appeared only moments later, deftly scooping up the tableware and re-filling his company's glass of water before turning and asking if he'd like another ale. "N-no thank you." The man shook his head, politely offering her a smile before she retired to the kitchen. Ezekiel was aware of Venice's eyes on him, and his inflated sense of modesty lavished him with another bout of gawkiness and anxiety. He continued to fall back into his habits, skirting away from eye contact, even though he had no reason to. The air was somehow lighter now, less worrisome than he'd first imagined it to be, and it was becoming clearer to him that he was putting more thought into the situation at hand than she was. With a slow exhale, the red-head's uncertain gaze climbed, resolute in trying to handle the nervousness he subjected himself to in her presence. He'd only met her own intimate, candid gaze for a moment before she spoke her next words, and Ezekiel was caught so off guard that he nearly stared with an open mouth. His lips moved in several attempts at forming words, but he produced no sound. He chuckled. "Personable" was a compliment, right? He couldn't say that he'd ever been complimented before. Not that it was a distasteful sensibility, just... foreign. The man shifted slightly, rocking on the seat, unsure of what to do with himself so completely under the spotlight. It was an interesting sensation, being indirectly praised in such a way. He even thought that he liked it. The man nearly leaned against the back of the booth when she leaned forward, but he forced himself to remain still, flickering his bashful eyes between Venice's glowing face and whatever insignificant object he found with which to distract himself. Ezekiel couldn't stop her from continuing, and likewise he couldn't avoid the flush that began to stain his cheeks. He was quiet for a handful of moments, picking apart his brain for some socially appropriate response, before finally choking on his own words. "I, uh- uhm-" Ezekiel let a rush of air escape him, his face red, and turned away, his hand rushing to cup a burning cheek. "You-" He stuttered, mind so flustered that he simply began blurting what he most wanted to say. "You make me feel at ease too." Even that didn't sound right. Tense, he stared at the paneling on the wall, thunder in his ears. He didn't want to just brush off her flattery, wanted to somehow express the warmth it gave him, regardless of how frazzled he obviously was. After sighing and removing his hand from his face, Ezekiel tilted his head to look at her sidelong, another small smile slipping into the edges of his lips as he softly said, "Thank you." The red-head fell quiet, then, and dropped his attention to the table, wondering what his next course of action should be. He didn't want to leave the night at an end like this, and so on an unusual impulse he clung to the only chance the tavern could offer him. "Would you like dessert?"

words 1435 tagged emma! notes ohmyLORD this is long, holyjesus. im so sorry. he needs to stop. AND I don't even know why he's like this right now okay SHE JUST GIVES HIM FEELS THAT HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND AND HE'S SO. NOT. COOL.

made by turtle of gs