On the back porch, attached to the small business based out of a cozy home near the sea, a lone figure stands. In the air I can almost taste the static of gathering electricity. Irises composed of red wine stare at the storm clouds that build in the distant horizon. Left fingers curl around the handle of a mug, while right ones clench the front. From the mug steam rises, the vapor twirling into the air. Contently I sips on the black coffee inside of the mug. In the coming winds of the storm ebony tendrils ruffle, and jostle. Velvet lips purse together in a grimace. "More rain..." Words sigh out. Thankfully it is still summer, and brides still need dresses. It should keep me busy for the next few hours until I close up shop.Â
Turning on my heels small, casual, steps bring me inside of the little house. Padding across the room, bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor, I don't stop my venture until I arrive in the office. Easing myself onto the stool at the draft table I place my mug off to my right. Slipping on spectacles everything appears more clear. Dark ears swivel about my head as sensitive ear drums pick up on the howling of the wind outside. A truly comforting sound to draw to.Â
Bending over the drafting table, lead pencil in hand, the tip glides over the parchment. Drawing elegant lines I start the process of planning a dress for a new customer. My mind ventures off to the grand plans for how I can shape, and mold, the fabric. What materials I could use. Even the pigments. I'm so absorbed in my thoughts I almost do not hear the breaking of glass coming from the kitchen door. Reaching over to take my mug I coolly sit there, calm, and acting oblivious to the fact someone has entered my business uninvited.
There are several pairs of boots shifting across the tiled floor, and transitioning onto wood panels. Seriously? This will make the second time. Once before two men tried robbing my shop, endangering my newborn in the process. One of the men I beat his face in so horribly it caved in his skull. His partner in crime wasn't so lucky. In fact in the basement beneath my very feet he had been tortured to death. My statement, my personal flare, of saying if you put my offspring or loved ones in harms way you won't like the consequences that come hand in hand with your actions.Â
I pick up on the breathing behind me. At first I don't move, I just let whoever it is think they have the upper hand. Rather quick I spin around on the stool, and fling the contents of the mug upward, and praying the scalding hot liquid lands in someone's face. Picking up the metal stool I aim to smash it over the head of another, hoping that it is a success.
![[Image: 2dre0lj.png]](http://i62.tinypic.com/2dre0lj.png)
Chika Ito ---- Carter Perish ---- Cora DuBois ---- T'rahz Vashka
