#i wanted to draw defined ringlets instead of just basic curls. it was fun

[ranticore]

i'm doing it i'm finally doing it i can tick one task off the list

lines are done but there's no way i'm colouring all 5 poses on this sheet today so we will see colour ummmm some time

so in flicker's culture, a sphinx's name is the answer to their main go-to riddle, the one they use to ambush travellers into a game of wits. as such the name is usually a VERY well-kept secret, and revealing another person's name is will plant a target on your back. the riddle is usually quite long and convoluted, starting small but growing more elaborate as they age into adulthood and tack on more parts to it, to the point where the real old ones can have the equivalent of novels for their names. they do not answer to any nicknames or shortened versions - you either know their name by solving the riddle, or you don't.

if you are an ambushed human and you manage solve the riddle, this can earn you a great and lasting friendship with a cool sphinx, if they feel like it. if you fail to answer or give up, they'll try to kill you. you might be granted days or even months to solve the riddle, or you might just get a minute. if you solve it and then spill the beans about it, they'll try to kill you, and then spitefully change their name and start building a new riddle around it.

flicker's name is "Starts With F, The Movement Of Light Through Trees", pretty much just a crossword puzzle, and it's that way on purpose. a great and lasting friendship was exactly what they wanted

[mullersturtleneck]

Sticking with the Schuylers (30)

I’m back-I’m devestated-I’m already planning another weekend in NYC because I can’t handle the thought of being away so long I loved it so deeply. So now I get to play catch-up on everything I missed while I was away (and re-send an email meant for my professor I’ve only just now realized I sent to myself instead...) I’m a mess.

( @ellzabethschuyler hi, here’s your tag!)

In this part, Alexander finally has his first brunch.

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   I   13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I   19   20   21   22   23   24   25   261  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11 12   I   13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I   19   20   21   22   23   24   25   26   27  28   29   I 

The clear and most definite difference between Alexander and Eliza lives not within their social status, or their upbringings. After a little over a week of living together, there were plenty of things that had become more in focus as they had come up.

               Alexander stays up incredibly late; so late that there are mornings Eliza sees the first pinks of dawn seeping through the curtains when he finally stumbles to bed. She rolls over, drowsy, and lowers her sleepless eyes at him in quiet concern.

               “It’s almost morning.”

               “I know.”

               “You look exhausted.”

               “I love you.” He pacifies her with sweet and sleepy words, adjusting his position so that she can rest against him.

               Eliza wakes early.

               Before the rest of the world, before the sun, she rolls out of bed to turn on a singer/songwriter and brew a fresh pot of coffee. There are people who wake at the first breaths of dawn without a care in the world, throwing back the shades with a grin. There has never been a truer definition of “morning person” than waking up to Eliza Schuyler singing.

               He needs at least six cups of coffee to make it to noon fully-functioning. She fills up the biggest water bottle he’s ever seen to tote around all day. And then she’s filling it up repeatedly, asking him to sip from it as she pushes his coffee aside. He doesn’t mind; not when her requests come with wide, blinking eyes and soft smiles.

               Alexander can talk for hours on end, voice rapid and fervent, when presented with a topic to debate. He is skillful in backing himself up, without a single pause or pressure in his endeavor. She had struggled through her public speaking class, finding more comfort in working a room of people. A party, a gala, a crowded coffee shop…a more natural setting always suited her glowing optimism much better. Eliza had always loved people; there are so many stories, so many lives that go on without recognition. And sitting, listening to those stories-she likes to think that she is taking a part of somebody else’s history, no matter how ‘insignificant.’  Where Alexander excels in speech Eliza does in active communication. The value of her open mind and willingness to see the (many) points he has to make does not go unnoticed. In a sense they pair as the perfect yin and yang, each strength a support for a weakness.

               Within that notion Alexander sees much more than the give-and-take of their relationship. A piece of his mind-typically riddled by a bombardment of dishonest embarrassment and a horrifying self-doubt-finds an uncertain solace in just how well she knows him. She exhibits an innate skill of ‘reading the room,’ which he defines as a frightening ability to know everybody’s genuine emotions.

               Which brings them to this day; the car ride to the Schuyler mansion had been filled with a fog of anxiety, rolling through his body in waves of severity. He’d suck in a breath. She’d chat about their surroundings. He’d crack his knuckles. She’d hold his hand. And in every action from Eliza came an immediate wave of relief, spilling over Alexander and pacifying him once more.

               Until they pull up to the gates-looking upon the sprawling wrought iron and old masonry leading into the neighborhood sets him off once more. His foot taps the entire way, hands fidgeting in her hold as they enter the house. She calls her greeting and two unfamiliar faces come to meet them, both embracing her before stepping back to run their eyes along him.

               “He’s cute.” The first, an older woman with ash blonde hair, winks through an accent hovering between French and Swiss descent. Eliza laughs, light and airy as her shining eyes meet Alexander as well.

               “This is Laurie, our wonderful chef. She taught me everything I know.”

               Alexander moves forward to shake her hand, letting out a nervous chuckle.

               “Well then I have to thank you-I can’t cook to save my life, Eliza is my savior.”

               “Well, aren’t you a charmer? Isn’t he, Elena?”

               “Of course.” The words of the older woman are less certain in translating her dialect, and when she shakes his hand hers are work-worn and rough. “I’m Elena.”

               “Elena tends the gardens and was basically our best friend growing up.” The woman’s eyes close in the delight of a memory, wrinkles prominent at their corners only making her appear happier, brighter.

               “I always loved having my girls running around in the yard. Oh, I have the best pictures,”

               “We’re fine.” Eliza interrupts, pulling on Alexander’s hand with haste. “I have to get ready before we’re late, and,”

               “-Wait a minute, you expect me to walk away from the promise of seeing your baby pictures?” He smirks at Eliza and her heart flips in her stomach, reconsidering. The way his eyes seem to carry his smile-she recognizes the tactic instantly. It’s a magnetic pull he’s used often, the knowledge of her weakness often used for one last kiss-pizza instead of Chinese. She shakes her head, raising an eyebrow at him before tugging on his hand.

               “Nice try, Hamilton. Not going to work today. Come on, everyone’s waiting for us upstairs.”

               He follows reluctantly, taking in his surroundings with a sinking sort of wonderment. The long, curved staircase leading to the bedrooms is lined with professional family photos in ornate and matching frames, a set for each year. As they progress further up the stairs the sisters get younger in age until they’ve reached the landing. There Eliza feels a pull on her hand as Alexander stops, eyes trained on a specific frame.

               It’s one of the first photos of their complete family; Peggy is just an infant, head blanketed with soft peach fuzz. The three sisters lay underneath thick white covers, snuggled close. Angelica is on the left, wild hair splayed out around her as she looks up at the camera with a cheeky, lost-tooth grin. A sleepy Peggy is in the middle, miniscule in comparison to six year old Angelica.

               “That’s the only moment Peggy has ever been quiet in her entire life. I’m so glad they got it on camera.” Eliza jokes, drawing him away from the picture again. He won’t budge, stuck still and staring at the photograph. The deep brown of his eyes has melted into a smooth chocolate color, emanating a wonder no longer accompanied by anxiety.

               “You were such a cute kid.” He admits it quietly, sheepishly, through slightly reddened cheeks. Alexander’s eyes will not leave her in this photo, where her moon-shaped face has ruddy toddler cheeks and large doe eyes. Her soft brown locks are cut with bangs and dressed in pigtails that end in ringlet curls. Toddler Eliza’s head is turned, attention trained on her infant sister as she presses a sweet kiss onto her forehead. Alexander’s heart has pulled and warmed with a sort of hopeful anticipation that sets his imagination rampant.

               “I was a pretty good kid, too-after I got past the lack of stranger danger in toddlerhood.” Eliza rolls her eyes. He chuckles at this, a picture of the moment in his mind. “Yeah, imagine pulling a chipper little two year-old through the city as she says hi to everyone that passes.

               “Oh god.”

               “Yupp. That was my parents’ nightmare period. Fun, right?”

               Through the thousands of possibilities-dreams-that float through his mind Alexander says nothing, simply nodding as she leads him to Angelica’s room.

               Everybody else is already there when they enter the room, the girls getting to work while John pats the space next to him on Angelica’s bed. Alexander sits. He is thankful for the company; although John Church is quiet his words are insightful when he speaks, especially when he begins his run-down of a typical brunch. He offers his help, which Alex gratefully accepts, and their subdued level of conversation continues through the morning.

               He is silent again on the way to brunch, as if a switch has been hit. His certainty is crossed by the rolling of the nerves in his stomach. Peggy chats incessantly. She is a welcome distraction, and Alex finds himself immersed in her high school drama as her voice inflects wildly, Peggy waving her arms and scrunching her face as the stories progress. She continues the entire ride there. Eliza’s hand keeps him grounded.

               Eliza Schuyler is an infectious human being. When she enters the long brunch hall Alexander can practically feel the collective sigh that travels through the room. It is no different from each moment he is reunited with her; she carries an air of optimism that translates from herself to each person she sees. As they greet her they immediately mirror her smile. It is impossible not to-she is infectious.

               He attempts to keep up with the names and occupations of the crowd but the bombardment of information is a shock. When he begins to stumble over his words, or hide his hands to crack his knuckles, Eliza pulls him away.

               “You’re doing great.” She coaxes, hands settled just below his elbows as she holds him steady. He draws in a calm confidence from her each time, Eliza only continuing to mingle when she notices he’s settled down.

               Catherine Schuyler is the first to see them, she and Phillip having arrived later than usual from a morning meeting. They are handed drinks as she holds his arm, her husband leading her through the crowd with his usual, quieted sort of confidence. She keeps an eye on Eliza and her boyfriend, not yet wanting to bring the couple to her husband’s knowledge. Instead she observes, trailing them around the room. Eliza is glowing, cheeks lifted and eyes shining. Both hands hold the arm of a lanky man with hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His stance is weak, unsure; until her middle daughter turns to him.

               When Catherine sees Eliza smile at her boyfriend she lets out a subconscious breath of air. She illuminates a warmth toward him that her mother immediately picks out, even from the other side of the banquet room. And he looks back upon Eliza with an unfiltered, dreamy sort of glance. He is hinged on her every word. Once she runs a hand along his arm, soothing him so instantly and completely that Catherine feels herself breathing a sigh of relief along with him. It is then that she calls for her husband’s attention, gesturing toward the pair. Phillip turns to them with an unchanged expression; silent, judging.

               “Look, Phillip.” Catherine’s voice is nearly breathless with the newfound happiness that accompanies it. “I was him, once. Remember when you had to guide me through these events like that? Do you see how he looks at her?”

               Her husband remains silent. Instead, he guides Catherine across the room, toward their middle daughter, calling her name when the distance between them has closed. Eliza spins around, squeezing Alexander’s arm before her features light with joy-and a bit of well-hidden nerves.

               “Mom, dad…this,” She prods him forward a bit, grinning and keeping a firm hold on his arm. “Is Alexander.”

               The beginnings of an anxiety-ridden lump form in his throat, and he clears them away with a bit of effort before holding out his hand. Firm handshake. Smile. Don’t lose your words.

               “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

               “You as well. I’m glad there’s finally a voice behind all of this media controversy.”

               “Dad!”

               “Don’t mind him, Phillip is always a bit slow to warm. I’m Catherine.”

               “Thank you-for meeting me, I mean.”

               “It’s never a problem. You’re welcome at brunch any time you’d like.”

               “Hold on, Catherine.” Phillip chimes in with a more stern tone of voice, eyeing the couple with a level of swift judgement coursing through his prim posture. “What’s your full name?”

               “Alexander Hamilton, sir.”

               “And where are you from?”

               “Nevis.” Eliza holds a soft pressure on his arm. He feels a renewed sense of confidence- warmth-as he maintains direct eye contact with her father. “I immigrated to New York when I was seventeen.”

               “Your parents?”

               “My mother passed when I was twelve. My father left us years before. We were going through too much for him to handle, I guess.”

               “Alex is a writer-he wrote an essay that inspired his entire town to send him here.” Eliza beams as she looks over at him, pride written in her upturned lips and another squeeze of his arm. Her eyes flip back and forth between him and her father, as if keeping them hinged between her honeyed gaze would help Phillip to accept him-to accept them.

               “Really?” Phillip’s head lowers-just slightly-in an appreciative nod. “And is writing what you came here to pursue?”

               “Actually, I’m a law student. That’s how we met-I’m in one of Angelica’s classes, she introduced us.”

               “Law is an honorable career; difficult.”

               “I find it very compelling. For me, I guess it’s always been about fighting for those who can’t.” Another smile-slight-from Phillip. Eliza is practically turning Alexander’s arm white from the hold she has on him, excitement translated through the continued squeeze of his arm.

               “Any career choices in the future?”

               “I’m actually interning at a firm downtown-even pay, a foot in the door, you know? I also freelance once in a while-for the news, websites…whatever there is, I’ll write it.”

               Eliza’s eyes widen as her father hums, nodding his head. She anticipates what he is about to say before he opens his mouth. By the time the words leave his lips she is practically jumping.

               She just barely notices the crowd that has made their way around them. They are not obvious, like a paparazzi would be, but they are there. The old doctors and their socialite wives, the few journalists welcome to these events…they hover around the conversation with curious eyes pretending to roam as their ears are trained on her father-on Alexander. Eliza can feel their eyes on her, the way they seem to shoot judgement and question through the air without muttering a single word her way. She leans on Alexander’s arm, runs a thumb along the back of his hand. She settles herself into him in a way that tells them their suspicions are correct. She refuses to let them speculate.

               Phillip has noticed the crowd as well, shifting the tone of his voice to match a more private level of conversation as he glares along them with disdain. He finds a great amount of distaste in the unprecedented amount of attention his daughters’ personal lives have drawn.

               “Impressive…an immigrant making new roots in America.”

               “Yes, sir.”

               “Well, you should be proud of what you’ve accomplished then, Alexander.”

               “Thank you, sir.”

               “But let it be known,” Her father’s voice grows low and intense, aimed at Alex with careful precision. “If you hurt my daughter I have my connections. I could end your career in a New York minute, young man.”

               “Phillip,”

               “My trust has to be earned, Catherine. Alex….treat her with respect.”

               “I could never hurt her, sir. Eliza…she’s my happiness. She’s everything to me. I-I would really like to earn your trust.”

               “Well, then.” Phillip lets the ghost of a smile play on his lips-just enough to show the small shadow of approval he holds. Eliza is beaming. “I expect nothing less.”