getting back to the roots ;; rosa

[layla aubrey jameson ,]

The shapes began to take control of themselves, spilling across the page in ways they hadn’t done in quite some time. It had been ages since Layla last picked up her charcoal. She honestly couldn’t remember a time recently where she had sat around with her sketchbook and just let her mind wander onto imaginary scenescapes and faces she might have glimpsed in passing once but had become distorted into part of her own personal fantasy worlds. She had a knack for drawing combination people. She’d add one person’s eyes with another’s nose and before she knew it she had this beautiful being she had taken and crafted out of the parts of people she had never even genuinely met. She would sit at the dining hall table, or better yet she’d be in study hall ignoring her Astronomy essays, and she would glance up every few moments to settle her focus on a new face. Something about that face would catch her attention. The way the hair was styled, the eyebrows, the slight turn of the mouth at its corners, the devilish gleam in someone’s eye. She couldn’t help but pick and choose. If she tried to focus on one subject for too long their expressions changed or whatever attracted her to them in the first place disappeared and she was left with half a head. It was extremely hard to draw people. It wasn’t one of her strengths. After so long without picking up the coal pieces, she wasn’t sure she had any strengths left at all to be quite honest.

Layla didn’t remember where she picked up art from. She was pretty sure it was her mother but so many memories blended together and grew distorted that at this point she couldn’t truly say she was sure about half of the things with her life. Some of them seemed surreal and seemed like they had been ages ago or they hadn’t really happened at all, they were just a bad nightmare. Other things seemed all too real and it was just something she couldn’t bring herself to bother thinking about for too long otherwise her mood turned sour and that was that. Day ruined. Her mother was good at everything, as far as she was concerned. She was an avid reader, like Layla, but extremely stylish and poised and a total social butterfly, which was more like Layla’s sister Michele. She was brave and charismatic, which was definitely a Jensen characteristic. She had a wit that could stop you on a dime and she was constantly making absurd puns. That was one of Layla’s favorite things, and definitely her father’s. That was why Layla liked it so much. She had never seen her father smile so big or laugh so hard as when her mother made a great pun about something. She didn’t make them just whenever she thought of one; she only did it when her husband spoke. When he gave her the material, she couldn’t resist. He would pause for a moment and then a small inkling of a smile would begin to stretch across his lips. In turn her mother would mirror the expression and before she knew it his smile became this goofy toothy grin and then he was laughing from the very bottom of his stomach. Layla couldn’t begin to count all the times she had gotten to witness those moments between her wonderful parents. She hadn’t seen her father so happy since.

The once delicately drawn, slender hands didn’t feel right anymore. Layla stopped, flipped the page over, and started fresh. This time with much more masculine hands. Large knuckles, scruffy skin. She saw them in her mind; felt them with her own fingertips. The wrinkles and the calluses were so well mapped out in her brain that it took her mere seconds to finish the hands. Her fingers flew over the page, stretching towards the wrists and the powerful forearm muscles which so many artists took for granted. The arms could be a really powerful part of a sketch if enough attention was given to them. They were just as important as facial expressions, if not more. They could portray the entire emotion of the piece if they were done correctly. You could show someone being closed off, or empowered, or shy, or whatever emotion you wished! It was all in the definition, just like real body language. Layla always started with the arms.

The brunette began to shift uncomfortably in her seat at one of the empty desks in an abandoned classroom. It was a Sunday so none of the students were milling about the classrooms. Layla used to hang out in places like this all the time. Empty nooks in the library, tucked away in a corner at the end of a secluded hallway, folded into the tight contours of a window sill on the tallest towers. She almost did better at her sketches when she was in uncomfortable places. This was a whole other discomfort though. It literally felt like something was trying to stab into her bum and let’s be quite honest that is not something this particular girl is looking for even in the slightest. She grew frustrated when her squirming tactics didn’t work. Whatever was poking her wasn’t letting up. Her fingers were covered in black particles from the charcoal but being the space cadet she sometimes was she had nothing to wipe them on. She was in black robes so it wasn’t like anyone could tell the difference if there were a few smudges here and there, right? Sure, let’s go with that. She dusted her hands off across her thighs as best she could, then in a rather unladylike fashion hiked her robes up to expose the pair of jeans she was wearing underneath. Reaching around to her back pocket she discovered… her wand. How anticlimactic.

She tugged the wand loose from her pocket, thankful she hadn’t crunched it to bits when she sat down earlier. Her wand wasn’t really a sissy wand though, it was rather thick compared to some peoples. It was also pretty short and stubby too. It was a rather ugly thing, now that she thought about it. Some of her friends had thin, long, delicate looking wands with these beautiful carvings. Layla had a short, stubby, dark wood wand with a single carving in the side which sort of resembled a dragon head if you squinted really hard and tiled your head just the right way. She hardly used the thing outside of classes though so it didn’t really matter. She was a terrible witch. She was terrible at her spells and rather bad at magic in general to be quite honest. She was all sorts of mixed blood at this point so she liked to think she had an excuse but when it came down to it she was pretty pureblood so she actually had no such thing. Her father was 100% pureblood and her grandmother, his mother, would probably go to her grave insisting that they were direct descendants from the first wizard to every walk the earth. Her mother on the other hand was a little bit mixed up, though not by much. Layla’s grandmother was half veela, half witch. Her grandfather was a pureblood. Which made Layla like 1/8th veela or something? She was never good at sums so she really didn’t have any idea. She just had a little sliver in there somewhere. Then there was the vampiric blood which had since been mixed in so Layla couldn’t even begin to fathom how that affected things. She was rather simple blooded when you got right down to the point, she just confused herself trying to think about it.

Setting the wand on the empty desk next to the one she was sitting in, Layla tugged her robes closer around her body. Even though it was spring time, she felt it was rather drafty in this particular classroom. The fabric of her robes scratched against the jean material of her pants but Layla froze, feeling like she had caught another sound mixed in. It sounded as though someone was moving around outside the classroom. She couldn’t be quite sure though. Her hearing wasn’t as fine-tuned as it could be seeing as though she had been giving up on that vampiric instinct stuff lately. She had been drinking blood as diligently as she could manage but she just wasn’t interested in that creature of the night gig anymore. She was tired of it. She wanted her life back to the way it was when she was say a first year. That would be okay. No hunting, unless you counted trying to find a date for the Valentine ’s Day dance. Layla gingerly picked up her charcoal again. Her arms were turning into shoulders which were working their way into a torso. What did she care if someone else was walking around the classroom corridors? It was a free building after all and it wasn’t like it was late at night. It was probably somewhere around four in the afternoon. She should probably start thinking about finding some dinner soon too. Normal dinner, not people. She could eat normal food as long as she mixed a bit of blood in too. She usually brought a little vial of blood with her and dumped it in her mashed potatoes or something. Surprisingly, that wasn’t a weird thing to do here at Beauxbaton’s. There were creatures much worse off than she was that were enrolled here as students.

A lock of brunette hair began to slip out of place, but with a quick flick of the head Layla caught it in its track and it settled back behind her ear. Her hair was pulled back into a rather unattractive low ponytail. She had some light mascara and eyeliner on but nothing crazy. Her smooth, milk-pale skin held not a mark or blemish. A pro to being a Vampire. Her bright blue eyes were almost luminescent, but let’s not get carried away here considering she was in no particular energetic mood they were pretty flat. She sat hunched over the desk she was currently occupying; one leg tucked under her bum and the other bent at the knee and propped up leaning against the edge of the desk in front of her. Rather an uncomfortable position for most, but for her it was practically her home setting.

//excuse whatever spelling mistakes plague this. did it rather quickly

[rosalind dillon']

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; height: 200px; background-image: url(http://i81.photobucket.com/albums/j220/AJ7070/rosalind/session012-12_zpsfad44ec3.jpg); -moz-border-radius: 250px; border-radius:100px 100px 100px 100px; border: 3px solid #ffffff;] If you could only see the beast you've made of me Slim fingers trailed the length of the dusted windowpane, a hint of a smile tracing the contours of her lips. These spaces, abandoned and coated in dust were the only ones where Rosalind had been able to find any form of solace. It seemed that there were individuals lurking in every corner and Rosalind had long since lost her favor for company. She supposed she might have expected that considering she was in a school full of young witches and wizards, but she’d become rather accustomed to empty spaces. She'd not been keen on the decision to enter such a public realm, but she knew just as well as others that she was losing touch with the ways of the world. She’d been living comfortably in solace — in fact she preferred it, but just as she was aging so was the world around her. As much as she grieved it, life was easier if you kept up with the changes. Still she was old fashioned in her ways, preferring the simplicity of it all. Regardless, she kept up with appearances. She found that people were less meddlesome when they thought they understood, though they never properly could. People never understood and she found that it didn’t particularly matter if they did. She had little patience concerning the sympathies of others and she never offered her own. As far as she was concerned it was all a waste of time. She’d always been perplexed by the depth of their emotions, it seemed so much a weakness. It was hard to recall a time when she’d let such fickle things as emotions rule her. Ever since her turn she’d vowed not to let her emotions rule her. As a human she’d been weak and because of it she’d lost her mortality. Along with her mortality she’d lost sense of what it was to have proper emotion. It was so much easier to pass everything with indifference. She takes life to preserve her own. She didn’t have any regrets. Her family hadn’t seemed to have either. Her father hadn’t shown any strain of emotion when he forced her from the carriage, sick and dying from the plague. Then it had torn her soul knowing her family had abandoned her, trapping her inside China with the sick and dying. Now she realized it was the only gift her father had given her, releasing her from the pains of emotion. So she disregarded the attempts at polite conversation or friend making, more often than not finding herself distracted, grey eyes looming at the crook of their neck. So instead she stranded herself in forlorn spaces, finding solace in solitude. It was near impossible though, finding a place hidden away from the constant pry of company. Lovers were hidden in dark corners and the hopeful often wandered into the room which held the mirror of erased – a object she found particularly loathsome. She’d been able to rid herself of thoughts of her past, but it had brought the uncomfortably close to the surface. She hated to think back on those days – if anything it only harbored hatred for her. Shaking her head, pushing the thoughts to the back of her mind she slipped into an open doorway, into one of her favored spaces. She loomed here in the empty classroom or in the towers most often, because they were often quiet and lacing unexpected company. The scent reached her before the image of the girl materialized in her vision. The small smile which had been curled on her lips slowly unfurled as her grey eyes met striking blues. Sighing in resignation she found herself glancing over the girl, small in frame. Her sin was light, yet she had locks of raven. Her scent gave her away for what she truly, curled tightly in on herself, a sketch pad in hand. From here she could see the beginnings of a sketch, arms charcoaled onto the white of her sketch pad. Seems such a waste of a sketch. She pondered, her words cool as she turned again for the door, not caring to make any further acquaintance. there can be only one mikey! of caution 2.0

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Not my best.. still getting into her. She's so different than my others ^^