It has been three years, three long years, since the Battle of Melrose, in which the Curatrix, or healing forces, were founded. Emaré Le Bone Florence is still the French girl that does not actually speak French and thrusts her chin up in indignation in casual conversation.
Her infamous beaky nose has flattened out since and her sleek ebony bob has transitioned into soft curls. She twirls it around her fingers with a sigh, fervently wishing she had the complexion to dye it something like flaming red or hazel brown, add pops of blue to her bangs, or streak it with starkly unnatural burgundy overshot with fiery orange highlights, but she’s pale-skinned and pink-cheeked and so she just...sighs. Her trademark smirk is as prominent as ever. She was never close to anyone, but the few friends and acquaintances she had chose the wrong side in the battle and were either tried and executed or fled the country and now a glazed look passes over her eyes. And so Emaré mourns her friends until a respectful…show more content… Rough charcoal streaks eked out the end of her pencil onto thick drawing paper. There are cashmere capes with ermine trim and oversized plaid buttons, gold chiffon circle skirts with gathered hems and corseted waists, primly-fitting blouses with puff sleeves and asymmetrical diamond cutouts; all in floaty, feminine fabrics, gently draped silks and frailly structured satins, a peculiar softness to the smudged charcoal lines eked out of her pencil that simply hadn’t been there—before.Late century fashions mainly, like lace cuffs, layered pearl necklaces, and too-tight corsets. It stems from a perverse desire to project her childhood torture at the hands of her mother, who stuffed her into frilly pink, scandalously lacy monstrosities and tied a sash around her waist so tight she could barely breathe, onto her drawing subjects of already waifish women. But also strange things that venture into surrealism or may simply be a reflection of PTSD from the
