spirit_of_vitriol: (searching (glitterberries))
2015-05-04 11:14 pm

your common sense, your best defense, lay wasted and in vain

She was glad she heard the news after she'd gotten dressed for the day. Not that pajamas would've proved any impediment; she and Gladys had gone on quite a few midnight rides (in and out of Buckshaw), and as a result, Flavia was quite adept at bicycling in a nightgown. Of course, it would've made her even more of a spectacle than she must have seemed already, tearing out of Dimera with her hair half-braided and her shirttail flapping out behind her. Father would've been scandalized. Ophelia would've--will be, she reminded herself fiercely. She will be completely aghast at how I've left the house.

Turning down Pulteny, she ignored the feel of something wet streaking down her cheeks. It was probably a spring rain and therefore nothing Flavia couldn't tolerate. Ahead of her, the hospital hove into view; only three blocks away, but it felt so much longer.

Flavia chained Gladys up to a rack outside, then walked in, right up to the woman at the front desk. "I'm here to visit Ophelia de Luce," she said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded. How calm.

"Visiting hours start at noon, honey."

"I'm here to see Ophelia de Luce," she insisted. "What room, please?"

"You can come back at noon with your par--"

"We haven't got any!" she screamed; the damned spring rain--it's tears, Flave, don't be precious about it, it's tears and Father's going to have your hide for crying if he finds out about it--started up all over again. "I'm the only one she's got and I need to see Ophelia de Luce, please."

People were staring. The nurse at the desk opened her mouth; closed it. Pointed down a hallway and said "Room 649. Ten doors down, on the left."

"Thank you," Flavia snuffled; politeness was a tool as much as it was a virtue. Back straight, she walked down the indicated hallway, counting doors as she passed.





The door was open, the bed inside surrounded by gently beeping machines and racks with hanging bags--some clear, some red. The person inside, tethered to all those machines and bags and racks was too pale, too fragile to be Feely; there had to be some mistake.

"Are you awake?" she asked, adding after a pause, just to make sure, "Ophelia?"

But there had to be some mistake.
spirit_of_vitriol: (trapped (Hollow Art))
2015-04-19 03:37 pm
Entry tags:

a framed and frozen moment, so far from perfection

In the past week, Flavia had made enough of her own observations into the vision stones--purely, of course, in the interest of science--to begin a rough classification system.

There were the good: what had to be her very own laboratory, with her in a lab coat, running tests and making notes; a much older Flavia (is that what Harriet might've looked like, if she'd ever grown old? she'd wondered) dressed in a sweeping gown and sitting on a dais as a tuxedoed gentleman spoke about her illustrious career, before the audience rose almost as one, applauding as the man at the podium turned, holding out a medal; herself as a teenager, in robes and a mortarboard now, addressing the crowd as Darrow High valedictorian.

There were the bittersweet: a train pulling to a stop at the station, a foot still clad in a climber's boot (though no less graceful for it) alighting on the platform as a woman both unknown and wholly familiar to Flavia stepped into a new world; watching Ophelia in a pure white gown practically floating down the aisle, eager to shed her mantle as Flavia's sister in favor of Madame Prouvaire (or was that Dieter, of all people, waiting up there by the priest?); a glimpse of her room in Dimera looking terribly empty, boxes and bags stacked in the hallway and Father waiting stiffly by the door to take her home with him.

There were the unexplainable: a pair of children, asking some unseen entity when Mummy would be home; Flavia as an adult, clad all in black and standing watch as a sandy-haired man (was that Gavroche?) put his ear to a vault door, fiddling with the combination dial; a beaker full of something strange and glowing, spilling onto her hand--and her eyes sparking, moments later, with vast, equally strange power.

All of them provoked their own set of questions, filled in details of what her future might hold, or what she hoped might never come to pass. But even the most disappointing of the things she'd seen are things she'd prefer, compared to the sight in front of her now.

Read more... )

With a shriek, Flavia flings the stone sphere from her lap, sending it rolling across the grass. The sun may be shining; there may be flowers in bloom just steps away, but all she can feel is sickening, terrifying cold.
spirit_of_vitriol: (terrified (Hollow Art))
2015-03-21 01:34 pm
Entry tags:

ooc: sotp

Since I only have the one pup, I always feel so weird about SOTP-ing, but here goes?

State of Flavia: Pretty good! Has been actively avoiding discussing anything that may or may not have happened in January re: turning into an adult for a week/looking like her dead mother/abandoning Ophelia in the park/being a horrible excuse for a human being let alone a de Luce. Of course, she and Ophelia are finally talking again in an EP, so we'll see where that goes.

Has also been selling Girl Scout cookies to any and all Darrowites, even though the money isn't going towards the troop doing anything cool like a science museum sleepover (and is instead going towards makeovers at the beauty salon in a month or two, which will probably be an EP if anyone is interested in dealing with an angry child with a ridiculous hairdo).

Seeing Stones: Definitely doing stuff with her for this! Most of it's going to be happy (winning the Nobel Prize! discovering new poisons! an illustrious career in forensics, solving crimes with science!); some of it's bittersweet (a future where Harriet isn't dead after all/arrives in Darrow!); and one...

One is going to be terrible. Later on in her canon, there's actually a point at which she falls/gets pushed off the roof of her house during a snowstorm, and I really want her to see that and a) think she dies at some point back home and b) later on, start trying to solve her own murder. I'm trying to decide if the actual seeing of that particular future is better served as an EP or a private thread, so opinions are definitely welcome.

Somewhere down the line, this'll lead into a canon update where she finds out she doesn't die after all (yay!), but for now, it's just going to freak her out.

Birthday Party: Her birthday's coming up in May, and I want to do a party post of some kind (probably a gathering) for her and all her friends. Also, there's going to be mad science in the form of liquid nitrogen ice-cream making, so that should be fun.

Cookies for you if you made it this far!
spirit_of_vitriol: (ap: oh no (astatueofus))
2015-01-08 09:30 am
Entry tags:

if you want to see your mother, you have no more than to look in the glass

Flavia often wondered if, somehow, Ophelia had planned it this way; arranging deviously for her two younger sisters to share a birthday and leaving herself with a day all to herself. Indeed, in years past Feely had even tried horning in on Daffy and Flavia's own celebrations, inviting her friends over for tea or croquet with the excuse that January was far too cold to have any sort of real party. It was absolutely infuriating, and more than enough grounds for a certain wronged party to hide a frog in the teapot, say, or attach ampoules of vile-smelling chemicals to the heads of the croquet mallets. Spending the rest of the day locked in the cellar was worth it, for such sweet revenge.

In Darrow, and without Daphne's presence, both Flavia and Feely had birthdays to call their own, and groups of friends to share them with. Perhaps that made it easier to feel like they could celebrate with one another, should they choose--and choose they did. Last night, Flavia had trundled through the remaining snowdrifts to Feely's apartment, overnight bag in hand. Though there had been movies, not storybooks; pizza, not a horrifying creation from Mrs. Mullet's kitchen, the night had reminded Flavia of nothing so much as the happy evenings they used to spend together back at Buckshaw, before Feely and Daffy aligned themselves against her.

It was something she'd never thought she'd find again, which is, of course, why it couldn't last.

The next morning, Flavia awoke to an odd strangling feeling, a sense her nightdress had somehow shrunk, which couldn't be possible; they'd only just bought it. Perhaps she'd slept more restlessly than she'd thought, twisted it around in the night. She clambered from the bed--all she could see of Feely a tumble of dark hair, still dead to the world--and stood up, to the wholly bizarre sensation the floor was much further down than it had been when she'd gone to bed. She looked down at her feet, or tried to; leaned forward slightly more, and there they were. They'd only just started discussing what her Health teacher referred to in class as a time of change, but Flavia hadn't thought it happened quite this quickly. Grabbing the dressing gown Feely had left draped over a chair, she pulled it on, as much for warmth as increased modesty.

"There has to be a--" she started to say, before the reflection in Feely's bedroom mirror caught her eye. The hair was wrong; mousy brown instead of spun gold, but other than that, the woman in the mirror looked exactly like the few photos Flavia had seen in old scrapbooks--or hanging on the wall of the art museum here in the city. Aunt Felicity had been right, it seemed; to see Harriet, Flavia only had to look at herself.

This had happened before, to other people, she thought, padding quietly out to the living room in hopes that Feely wouldn't wake up to see her. Porthos, and Coraline, and probably others; it would pass for her just as much as it had for them. She tried not to think about the fact they'd grown younger, tried not to worry whether or not that made a difference. Whatever worries she had, as it was, flew away at the sound of footsteps behind her.


It didn't sound like Feely, not exactly, and as Flavia turned around, she saw why. One little girl, practically swimming in the very nightgown Feely had worn to bed the night before, blinked sleepily up at her. Before either of them could say anything more, someone knocked at the door. With a happy cry of "Visitors!", Ophelia ran to fling the door open wide. Flavia could only stare in confused, mute panic.

[[tag one or both (just let us know/make it clear in your tag)! ask questions at the cityhall post here.]]
spirit_of_vitriol: (resolute (glitterberries))
2014-10-18 11:57 am
Entry tags:

they won't need no lie detector, all they'll have to do is make me look into my mother's eyes

The first weeks of class had been a whirlwind--new classes, old friends, the struggle of putting aside the summer's idleness--but Flavia had been grateful. It provided a welcome distraction, after all, from the dilemma she'd been feeling since she'd arrived at Feely's door to see the piano from Buckshaw in her living room.

Feely believed, and continued to believe, it was the only object from home in the entire city. Flavia knew that wasn't true. It hadn't even been true the very day Feely arrived.

It was why she'd returned to the art museum, to the bench still situated just in front of Vanetta Harewood's mysterious portrait, looking at each of the painted figures in turn. The tow-headed girl toting a book of fairy tales, so obviously Daphne; the swaddled infant, Flavia herself in a christening gown now surely boxed up in a closet somewhere in Buckshaw; standing to the right, a younger Ophelia, just as primly self-possessed as now, though still enough of a child to have been captured in oils, toying with a cat's cradle. Harriet, at the very center, looking over them all with bemusement and something Flavia dared to believe was love.

She should tell Feely. She should never tell Feely.

Flavia tapped out a message on her phone, jabbing her thumb down on the SEND button before she lost her nerve.

feely please come to the art museum
i'll be outside on the steps
it's important
spirit_of_vitriol: (concentrating (glitterberries))
2014-07-05 02:30 pm
Entry tags:

the fine art of poisoning

Saturday, 5th July 2014, 2:30 P.M. What luck! In the park & found a patch of good old T. radicans the groundskeepers had missed. Plan coming together brilliantly—just need to pop home for gardening gloves.

The apparatus Flavia had cobbled together—a length of tubing affixed to the teakettle, connected to a glass retort borrowed from Darrow High School some months ago, one end positioned over a water glass she was going to have to dispose of entirely when all was said and done—was hardly up to the standards she’d come to expect back home, when there was an entire laboratory at her disposal.

Still, needs must, and with the apartment to herself for only an hour or two—thank Providence for unexpected errands!—there was hardly any time to waste.

She stuffed the glossy leaves she’d collected into the retort, tamping them down every so often with a stick and only stopping once there was no more room to fit even the tiniest of them in. Stripping off her gloves, she turned the burner on beneath the kettle and hopped up onto the adjoining counter to wait.

She watched as the water heated, sending steam curling into the retort to wilt the ivy, gently coaxing it into releasing its precious, poisonous oils. Ever so slowly, the fire and steam did their work; the water glass collected the end result. “Distillation,” Flavia murmured, a pleased grin crossing her face as the lemon-yellow oil separated out from the distilled water.

Flavia rummaged through her bag, taking out the aftershave she’d bought just the other day. Based on rather brilliant investigative instincts (and a dig through the trash of the Quince household), she’d determined rotten old Edmund would be in the market for a new bottle of the stuff quite soon.

Using an eyedropper, she drew off as much urushiol as it could hold. Uncapping the bottle of Hatchet—what a name; what a stench—she squirted the entire pipette into the mixture. Moderation was key in many things, but revenge was hardly ever one of them.
spirit_of_vitriol: (gleeful (Hollow Art))
2014-06-26 07:21 am
Entry tags:

ooc: sotp

State of the Me: Meh. Hanging in there; work is better, the summer is here (even though that means endless humidity, why did Becca and I move to a swamp), but I've just been in a pervasive bleh mood recently. Hoping it ends soon. <3

State of the Flavia: AWESOME. Became a tiny lie detector, which was more trouble than it was worth; got to be a hero during the bees post as well as a damsel in distress (multitasking!); got her first kiss, which has turned into so many awesome, unexpected threads about consent that I am just loving, high five to all of Flavia's adult role models in Darrow because you all rock.

Because I got a little snowed under with her tags in June (digging my way out, slowly but surely, so apologies for all the delays you wonderful people have experienced in our threads, it's not you, it's me), I'm planning to take it a bit easier in July, with one big exception: Revenge. Spurred on by Ophelia's horrible experience with Edmund, Flavia is going to show the unsuspecting Mr. Quince what it means to trifle with the de Luce sisters. Hint: it means a tiny angry poisoner trying to ruin you with chemistry. (Kaine, this doesn't mean you're right about her being a supervillain, hush)

I'm conflicted as to the how, but I've narrowed it down to a few ideas--suggestions and thoughts welcome in comments!

a) Psychological Warfare: Flavia finds him at a cafe, eating a dessert (probably something with almonds, for fearmongering purposes). Maybe she brings him whatever it turns out to be, like it's an apology gift from Ophelia? Something. Proceeds to casually mention that you can get cyanide from almonds; sometimes, bitter almonds even get mistaken for regular almonds--that dessert you're eating could be poisoned right now. Is it poisoned? Could it be? Take a bite and find out, Edmund. This could work equally well (I think) as a oneshot or an EP.

b) Psychological Warfare Plus: As above, with the addition that after she's gotten him good and panicky, Flavia offers to give him an antidote. Antidote turns out to be ipecac or some other emetic; public vomiting ensues along with public humiliation. Revengy funtimes are had by all, except Edmund. Best as an EP.

c) What's Good for the Goose: Flavia repeats what she did to get revenge on Ophelia in canon and puts distilled poison ivy into some sort of grooming product. For Ophelia, it was lipstick; Edmund's will be aftershave or shampoo or something (the result of a bait-and-switch of bottles at the convenience store, probably). This would probably be a backdated one-shot, but a few (handwaved) weeks afterward, once the blisters and boils have had time to surface, I'd put up an EP of Flavia making Scientific Observations on the experiment...and if people want to help start a rumor he has a social disease, that's OK with Flavia.

Option C is currently my favorite of the three options, but A and B have their own particular charms.

Also on the horizon for Flavia: the summer science camp from hell (thanks to Deense for the idea!) and going on a nature walk with Combeferre, along with whatever shenanigans the rest of you cook up that Flavia is compelled to stick her nose in. :D

jesus on a hamster, this is long; cookies for you if you stuck it out to the end!
spirit_of_vitriol: (cardsharp (bsafemydeers))
2014-04-23 09:57 pm
Entry tags:

ooc: sotp

State of the Me: Hanging in there. Work is frantic, the school year is ending (if you are a student please hug your closest department admin, we need it), and tags have just...not been happening, which I feel terrible about. Slowly crawling my way out of the pit, and hoping things will improve soon. Ugh.

State of the Flavia: Excellent. I'm still loving throwing her at everyone, and don't ever expect that to change. Current projects include being a general nuisance at the detectives in Darrow (read: John Watson and Veronica Mars, so far--she just wants to find a crime for you and help solve it, friends, come on), doing science, and running around with her group of friends from school.

Speaking of those friends...one of them has a crush, and I have plans to do something about it probably next month (or at the very least, before the Darrow school year ends). It's going to be a beautiful disaster, and I welcome all of Flave's friends/mentors/parental figures to help her through it.

I'm also super excited for Ophelia's imminent arrival--I think it's going to shake things up for her and Ophelia both, and I'm really interested to see what their dynamic is once they're both in the city and settled.

State of the Queue: forever in limbo. I feel like I need to get a better grip on life before I even remotely consider bringing in another pup, but god damn if I don't keep picking up new people in my brain, at least temporarily. We'll see if anyone sticks around by the time my life is in order.
spirit_of_vitriol: (poised (Hollow Art))
2014-01-10 08:53 pm

For Clem

She'd been sad to miss it, on the night. She'd thought about going, enjoying the festivities, the warm crush of people, hot cider, maybe, and laughter with her friends. Of course, that had been before...everything, really; before the frantic texts and calls, before the whispered conversations in the hallways at school, the rumors flying about who was fine, who'd been stung, who was hurt. Who'd been killed.

After that, Flavia wasn't quite as sad to have spent the night at home.

It had been at lunch today, the stories still flying from table to table--I heard Pablo lost all his toes, can you even believe it? I heard Angie McConnell has a piece of Todd Chad and she's keeping it in, like, a shrine or something--that she heard a familiar name float up out of the general furor. "Not the Clementine in the year below us?" she'd asked her friend, suddenly, surprising herself at her own worry.

"Yeah, her, the little kid, wears that old baseball hat all the time," Helena confirmed. "I heard she got stung a bunch and, like, twenty people stepped on her afterwards."

It's not as though we're friends, really, Flavia thought, walking home.

We helped each other pick out costumes at that odd store, and I've waved hello at her in the hallway when I've seen her between classes, came next, as she opened the kitchen cupboard and put a box of tea in her satchel, before walking out the front door again. She might not even want any sort of visitors at all.

They were feeble excuses, taking her all the way to Chelsea Cloisters and up to the sixth floor. And since she was here already, it couldn't hurt to knock on Clementine's door.

So she did.
spirit_of_vitriol: (proud (Hollow Art))
2013-09-15 09:22 am


Mailbox for Flavia de Luce
spirit_of_vitriol: (questioning (Hollow Art))
2013-09-15 09:21 am


Voicemail for Flavia de Luce