florence tempest-vane { six } fin

Blunt eyes: pools home to swimming solemnities. They hold a truth close to the heart which her face can't  hide.

Her cheeks gleam with fires, but those eyes remain unchangeable. A new type of ice unaffected by blazes seemed to burn black and not melt to a single drop. Blink-- those eyes darken; not a shade of anything to save her separating emotions from fraying at the ends. They appear heavy with tears unshed, but float from place to place like a stray feather falling.

Her eyes are mazes which you can't help but get lost in.

Fragments of the nightsky fall from her head. Between each strand of coal is emptied gold; no shine or colour, just a vast meadow of crows which spread their wings and fly in the presence of a brisk breeze. Slicked back with grease appearing erratically on the surface. Matted layers of midnight remain dull and coarse, rusting with today and tomorrow's smoke. The product of the reaction left it like a sky with no stars.

A commanding bone structure rules pure bronzed skin. High arched nose, a tiny curve on her lips and her face radiant with a brilliant light; this was surely to make up for lacking in  hair and eyes. She looks materialised by natural beauty and illuminates the dark under your bed and in your wardrobe. A tint of rose in her cheeks which adds not only depth, but clarity to her demeanour.

She is my impossible girl with a solid satellite heart.

In her chest beats a heart as honourable as any fictional hero, for she is the one who takes hardships on the chin to be the armour for someone else's soul.

She remains beautiful on the outside, but on the inside there is a struggle. A struggle to cope in a world so bitter and cold. Haunted by a history belonging to her, she was determined to lock it away into a corner of her mind designed to imprison the things which hurt her the most. She'd done this with her promises, but this time was different. She had swallowed the key in a hope that her past would no longer linger in the cracks of her skin.

Come what may, she was a warrior: decisive and fierce.

A complex mind makes her a true one: opinionated. But she didn't have an outburst of anger, she would simply observe and acknowledge the clash. If a friend or stranger crossed the path of a problem, she would be by their side to calm and to comfort; because she believed she was the one who understood the most. She believed she could offer all the things she longer for in her times of dark.

Efficiency ruled her waves, and she rode them too fast for any "thank you".

Inside her there is a swelling in her blood. It rushes about her body from her head, to her heart, to her chest vexing her soul. Words better left unsaid fighting the walls put up and vintage monsters resurrected from under the bed; there is a war within her which has no ceasefire. It has been bottled up and hidden by a world of obscurity and her own stone craft work. She is a ticking time bomb battling with anger, and it is unknown when she shall explode.

But for the time being, she is the calm to her own storm.

Florence Tempest-Vane: red with the present and blue with the past. She is my amethyst air, and you will meet her where dusk meets dawn.