X
Ｉ ＤＯＮ'Ｔ ＫＮＯＷ ＢＵＴ Ｉ ＬＩＫＥ ＴＯ ＴＨＩＮＫ Ｉ ＨＡＤ ＣＯＮＴＲＯＬ ＡＴ ＳＯＭＥ ＰＯＩＮＴ, ＢＵＴ Ｉ ＬＥＴ ＩＴ ＧＯ ＡＮＤ ＬＯＳＴ ＭＹ _______ＳＯＵＬ.
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ＦＵＬＬ ＮＡＭＥ::
Isra Beatrice Tennyson
ＮＩＣＫＮＡＭＥ(Ｓ):
Izzy {Every so often || Neutral}
ＤＡＴＥ ＯＦ ＢＩＲＴＨ:
January 12
ＡＧＥ:
17
ＧＯＤＬＹ ＰＡＲＥＮＴ:
Hades
ＹＥＡＲ:
11th
ＧＥＮＤＥＲ:
Female
ＳＥＸＵＡＬＩＴＹ:
Bisexual || Biromantic
ＥＴＨＮＩＣＩＴＹ:
American of Monégasque descent
ＤＩＡＬＯＧＵＥ ＯＲ ＴＨＯＵＧＨＴ ＣＯＬＯＲ:
#555555
#777777
Isra Beatrice Tennyson
ＮＩＣＫＮＡＭＥ(Ｓ):
Izzy {Every so often || Neutral}
ＤＡＴＥ ＯＦ ＢＩＲＴＨ:
January 12
ＡＧＥ:
17
ＧＯＤＬＹ ＰＡＲＥＮＴ:
Hades
ＹＥＡＲ:
11th
ＧＥＮＤＥＲ:
Female
ＳＥＸＵＡＬＩＴＹ:
Bisexual || Biromantic
ＥＴＨＮＩＣＩＴＹ:
American of Monégasque descent
ＤＩＡＬＯＧＵＥ ＯＲ ＴＨＯＵＧＨＴ ＣＯＬＯＲ:
#555555
#777777
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ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡＬＩＴＹ:
People often seem to forget that her father is not the god of death, merely the watcher of dead souls. The honor of the mantle of death belongs to Thanatos (her half-brother, she supposes, in a twisted way.) She does not spend her time in graveyards, does not have an unhealthy obsession with death, does not caress skulls, whispering sweetly in their unhearing sockets "Alas, dear Yorick, I knew him well Horatio", or at the very least, never misquotes her Shakespeare. She toils with the dead as infrequently as possible. But she has taken her father's serious demeanor, his sense of responsibility. She's typically a quiet person, only speaking when she has something to say. She doesn't approach other people, and her standoffish demeanor often deters others from approaching her. Isra is a fairly harsh sort of individual. She doesn't quite believe in forgiveness, certainly not second chances. To her, people never change. She's seen too many people pretend to do just that: change. And every time, when they inevitably reveal themselves to be just as wicked as they always were, she can only shake her head and scoff. She's not a fan of pretending. As a result, she is brutally honest, unempathetic. She's grown cynical and jaded in her views of the world. Especially after what happened with her mother, she finds it difficult to trust people, especially people who make a bad first impression.
The only extraordinary gift she can thank her mother for is strange, perhaps a curse rather than a blessing, though it's not as if she can call anything her father gave her a pleasant gift either. Hyper perception, hyper awareness, hyper observance, it's gotten rather a few different names. Not that it matters, it's all the same. She is not Sherlock, and she wishes people would stop asking her to make impossible assumptions, she only sees, prefers not to interpret. Still, she somehow finds herself amassing secrets, storing them carefully in the glass jar of her mind. Her only joy is that no visual photographic memory accompanies her visual gifts. She can't imagine what hell that would be.
Through it all, she maintains an astounding sense of balance. Her father's trait, she supposes, a calm head, the ability to reign in her wits in a trying situation. She does not become angry so much as annoyed, does not become annoyed so much as peeved. Arrogance is the only thing she seems to be unable to abide by. Her family, humbled, always, ensures that Isra has never gone beyond confident. "Confidence," her mother would tell her, "is a good thing. Arrogance is the worst."
People often seem to forget that her father is not the god of death, merely the watcher of dead souls. The honor of the mantle of death belongs to Thanatos (her half-brother, she supposes, in a twisted way.) She does not spend her time in graveyards, does not have an unhealthy obsession with death, does not caress skulls, whispering sweetly in their unhearing sockets "Alas, dear Yorick, I knew him well Horatio", or at the very least, never misquotes her Shakespeare. She toils with the dead as infrequently as possible. But she has taken her father's serious demeanor, his sense of responsibility. She's typically a quiet person, only speaking when she has something to say. She doesn't approach other people, and her standoffish demeanor often deters others from approaching her. Isra is a fairly harsh sort of individual. She doesn't quite believe in forgiveness, certainly not second chances. To her, people never change. She's seen too many people pretend to do just that: change. And every time, when they inevitably reveal themselves to be just as wicked as they always were, she can only shake her head and scoff. She's not a fan of pretending. As a result, she is brutally honest, unempathetic. She's grown cynical and jaded in her views of the world. Especially after what happened with her mother, she finds it difficult to trust people, especially people who make a bad first impression.
The only extraordinary gift she can thank her mother for is strange, perhaps a curse rather than a blessing, though it's not as if she can call anything her father gave her a pleasant gift either. Hyper perception, hyper awareness, hyper observance, it's gotten rather a few different names. Not that it matters, it's all the same. She is not Sherlock, and she wishes people would stop asking her to make impossible assumptions, she only sees, prefers not to interpret. Still, she somehow finds herself amassing secrets, storing them carefully in the glass jar of her mind. Her only joy is that no visual photographic memory accompanies her visual gifts. She can't imagine what hell that would be.
Through it all, she maintains an astounding sense of balance. Her father's trait, she supposes, a calm head, the ability to reign in her wits in a trying situation. She does not become angry so much as annoyed, does not become annoyed so much as peeved. Arrogance is the only thing she seems to be unable to abide by. Her family, humbled, always, ensures that Isra has never gone beyond confident. "Confidence," her mother would tell her, "is a good thing. Arrogance is the worst."
ＬＩＫＥＳ:
✔ Classical Lit. || She's still not really sure how she got into it, but one day she picked up a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and never let go of the old writers. ✔ Really Bad Jokes || Call it a guilty pleasure. Certainly one no one would expect, considering her usual sense of humor is much dryer, but a bad pun or really poor joke never quite fails to send her into a fit of laughter. ✔ Nighttime || The nocturnal hours are her favorite, and there's something about the chilled mantle of darkness that's comforting. She's a night owl to say the least. ✔ Art || Of all kinds, any kinds. She admires perfection, especially given her ability to perceive the slightest mistakes. Whether it be a brilliantly executed heist or a beautiful painting, art is impressive to her. ✔ Intentional Imperfection || While she admires perfection, she admires intentional imperfection even more. There's something striking about the idea that one could see all the little mistakes and still proceed with the idea that those mistakes is what makes it even more beautiful. It eases her mind and her eyes, since it doesn't force her to pick out all the mistakes. She's still learning how to appreciate unintentional imperfection. ✔ Classical Music || Violin concertos are her favorite, but she loves all classical music, especially since it makes for excellent background music to either study or read with. ✔
ＤＩＳＬＩＫＥＳ:
✖ Her Hyper Perception || People tend to think it's cool, but it's not, it's painful. They don't know how long it's taken her to train her mind into only looking for what she wants to see, how it sometimes fails regardless, how she sometimes makes connections she doesn't want to make. If she could, she'd get rid of it in a heartbeat. ✖ Chemistry || It's never caught her interest. Strangely enough, it's really the only science field she absolutely can't stand. ✖ Coffee || It gives her the jitters and makes her hands tremble. ✖ Messes || She likes a clean room, order. She's not obsessive about it, but she'll certainly pick up stray objects on the floor. Keeping things neat relaxes her. ✖ Bad Books || Once she picks up a novel, she doesn't stop until she reaches the end, and sometimes she's wasted four hours of her life by then. It's not pleasant. ✖
ＦＥＡＲＳ:
☠ Not Making It to Elysium || Her mother is there, and she can't imagine not being with her in death. Besides, the Field of Asphodel are a terrifying prospect. ☠
☠ Figuring Out Something She Shouldn't Know || She's seen what happens to people who find out things other people, dangerous people, don't want them to know. She's seen the rapid police protection, how even after they're safe they have to uproot their lives and identity, how sometimes they don't get kept safe at all. ☠
☠ Losing Someone She Cares About || Perhaps one of the reasons she's so reluctant to strike up friendships, but after the whole ordeal with her mother, she doesn't think she can attend one more funeral of another person she loves and cares for.☠
✔ Classical Lit. || She's still not really sure how she got into it, but one day she picked up a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and never let go of the old writers. ✔ Really Bad Jokes || Call it a guilty pleasure. Certainly one no one would expect, considering her usual sense of humor is much dryer, but a bad pun or really poor joke never quite fails to send her into a fit of laughter. ✔ Nighttime || The nocturnal hours are her favorite, and there's something about the chilled mantle of darkness that's comforting. She's a night owl to say the least. ✔ Art || Of all kinds, any kinds. She admires perfection, especially given her ability to perceive the slightest mistakes. Whether it be a brilliantly executed heist or a beautiful painting, art is impressive to her. ✔ Intentional Imperfection || While she admires perfection, she admires intentional imperfection even more. There's something striking about the idea that one could see all the little mistakes and still proceed with the idea that those mistakes is what makes it even more beautiful. It eases her mind and her eyes, since it doesn't force her to pick out all the mistakes. She's still learning how to appreciate unintentional imperfection. ✔ Classical Music || Violin concertos are her favorite, but she loves all classical music, especially since it makes for excellent background music to either study or read with. ✔
ＤＩＳＬＩＫＥＳ:
✖ Her Hyper Perception || People tend to think it's cool, but it's not, it's painful. They don't know how long it's taken her to train her mind into only looking for what she wants to see, how it sometimes fails regardless, how she sometimes makes connections she doesn't want to make. If she could, she'd get rid of it in a heartbeat. ✖ Chemistry || It's never caught her interest. Strangely enough, it's really the only science field she absolutely can't stand. ✖ Coffee || It gives her the jitters and makes her hands tremble. ✖ Messes || She likes a clean room, order. She's not obsessive about it, but she'll certainly pick up stray objects on the floor. Keeping things neat relaxes her. ✖ Bad Books || Once she picks up a novel, she doesn't stop until she reaches the end, and sometimes she's wasted four hours of her life by then. It's not pleasant. ✖
ＦＥＡＲＳ:
☠ Not Making It to Elysium || Her mother is there, and she can't imagine not being with her in death. Besides, the Field of Asphodel are a terrifying prospect. ☠
☠ Figuring Out Something She Shouldn't Know || She's seen what happens to people who find out things other people, dangerous people, don't want them to know. She's seen the rapid police protection, how even after they're safe they have to uproot their lives and identity, how sometimes they don't get kept safe at all. ☠
☠ Losing Someone She Cares About || Perhaps one of the reasons she's so reluctant to strike up friendships, but after the whole ordeal with her mother, she doesn't think she can attend one more funeral of another person she loves and cares for.☠
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ＦＡＭＩＬＹ::
Ava Tennyson || 43 || Mother (Deceased)
ＲＥＬＡＴＩＯＮＳＨＩＰ ＷＩＴＨ ＧＯＤＬＹ ＰＡＲＥＮＴ:
Four times she has seen him. She likes him well enough, she supposes, though she can't see him as a father, more as a friend, a mentor.
He is there when she tries to reach out to the man crossing the street, pulling her back as she fights him wildly in a feeble attempt to reach the weary man before his foot can touch the gravel. "Death," voices seem to nag at her, shadows whispering eerie murmurs in her ear. "Death is coming." "But I can stop it," she whispers back, "I can stop it." "Death," comes the whisper at the nape of her neck, "is inevitable. You cannot stop it." This is the first time she meets him. She turns to him, knowledge murking in the back of her mind. "Much," he continues, his eyes alight with a glint of humor, "like taxes." And somehow, her lips manage to quirk into a smile, a huff of air escaping that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. She was eleven.
He is there at her mother's funeral. She does not see him, through the haze of her tears, but he is the hand at her back as she is handed a folded American flag, the reassuring murmur at her ear when everyone stands to salute. She is glad that her father is the one with the largest sense of responsibility, because even if he doesn't love her, she doesn't think she'd be able to get through the funeral without him. She was thirteen.
He is there six months later when she lingers at her mother's grave well past a respectable hour, there when she pulls a candle from her bag with trembling fingers (for meditation purposes, nothing more). He is behind Ava's tomb, a solemn look hooding his impossibly dark eyes. She opens her mouth to say something , anything, but nothing escapes. His thin lips pull up. A smile. The second she has seen from him, though this one distinctly different from the first. In only four long strides, he is at her side, calloused fingers gently pulling the candle from her vise grip. "You don't need that nonsense," he says, as though he's been training her a lifetime for this. She cannot help but be annoyed, a twitch in her jaw. But somehow, mysteriously, she finds herself placing her comparatively small hands in his large ones, her eyelids fluttering shut. Later (seconds or a lifetime, she cannot tell), there is a rustle of wind through the trees. And then her mother's voice is in her ear, whispering "Isra." She nearly collapses into sobs right then and there, but when she chokes back tears to turn to thank him, he is already gone. She was fourteen.
He is there when she touches the man's shoulder. He is still a dirty sonuvabitch gangbanger, not that she expected any different. There was a technicality in the case, and he never saw a day behind bars. He left the courtroom weeping, promising to change his ways, but Isra can see right through his filthy lies. In a way she is glad for the technicality; without it, she would never have been able to do what she is about to. She brushes past him in the street, calmly continuing her stride as he falls to ground behind her. For once, a smile reaches her eyes. Her mother would not be proud, but she thinks revenge is sweet enough that she can live with it. Suddenly, he is in front of her, a scowl etched into the hard lines of his face. He is disappointed, she can tell, but he doesn't deserve that right. He is her father in nothing but name. She scowls back. "The Underworld," he hisses, "is full enough without you putting anymore souls into it. The Fates are upset. It wasn't his time." "I made it his time," she replies, attempting to brush past him. "You stepped outside your bounds," he says, gripping her arm. Tears well in her eyes. "He deserved it," her voice is shaking, and it's all she can do to contain it. "I never said he didn't," his voice gentles suddenly, and it's too much. She stains his shoulder with her tears, only barely managing to croak out, "Promise me he'll be in the Fields of Punishment." "I promise," he mutters, though his arms stay awkwardly at his sides, "I promise I will pick something particularly nasty for him." It is only words, she knows. Hades is, above all, responsible. The man will be given what it is deemed he deserved, nothing more nothing less, but the words comfort her anyways. She pulls back, and before he disappears, she hears him say, "She's in Elysium." She can hear the truth in his words, and she almost cries all over again. She was fifteen.
A week later, she receives a note with an address and a simple message of "Go here." And so she goes. She trusts him more than she'd have thought possible.
ＢＩＯＧＲＡＰＨＹ:
She is never told how her parents met, though she assumes it was something mundane. That's just how her mama is: a little boring. But she loves her anyways. She is never told where her daddy is, but it's okay, she thinks, she's sure he was great if mama loved him.
They don't always have enough money to buy the cool toys she wants, but she doesn't really mind, because Mama is always there for her. Sometimes the apartment gets really hot in the summer and it makes her a little dizzy, but then Mama takes her to the park for some ice cream and it's all better.
In second grade she realizes what Mama really does for a living. She doesn't get proud (she's always been proud of her mama, the proudest), instead she just gets scared. When she goes out to school every morning, her goodbye is now accompanied with a "Promise you'll be careful, Mama." And there's a deep chuckle from her mama and a soft "I'll be fine, baby, it's the city that needs protecting." And she giggles and says, "You're like a superhero, Mama."
In third grade she starts seeing things. "That lady's eye is twitchin'," she says about a couple she sees arguing on the street. "That's 'cuz she's lying, sweetie," her mama answers calmly. She starts seeing more things, starts wishing she could stop. Her mama is helping her learn how to pick and choose, and the headaches start easing up.
In fifth grade she starts listening to the police radio, and her heart stops a little every time she hears the words "Officer down!" But then Mama comes home with a grin on her face and she laughs. And sometimes she cries a little too.
In sixth grade, she meets her daddy. He is tall, strange. He's kinda funny too, and she likes him a little. He asks her not to tell Mama she met him, and she doesn't want to never see him again, so she agrees. She comes home and Mama knows something is up even though she's been trying to control her tells, but Mama doesn't say anything about it, and she's glad.
In eighth grade she learns what death really means. She isn't listening to the police radio that day, she had a lot of studying to get done. But at nine there's a knock on the door, and she's wondering if Mama forgot her keys again, but instead when she looks through the peephole there are two officers there. She opens the door slowly, and they look down at her, their hats in their hands and their gazes sad. She starts crying even before they open their mouths.
In ninth grade she becomes death. It's not easy, killing the man who killed her mama, but she has to do it. She's sure she'd go mad otherwise, even if her father isn't the happiest with her because of it. Then a week later he's telling her to go someplace, and she's figuring 'what the hell?' since she lives with her aunt now, and her aunt never really notices where she's at, so she packs up her things and she goes.
From tenth grade on she's learning. She's learning who she is and what she can do. She talks to her mama every Wednesday, and she's thinking things could be worse.
ＦＡＶＯＲＩＴＥ ＰＯＷＥＲ:
By far the ability to speak to the dead. The fact that she can still speak to her mother occasionally is the only thing that keeps her sane. And sometimes, she'll walk around a graveyard on a dreary day and stop by random tombstones that look interesting. She'll call up the person and listen to their stories, and they never fail to be fascinating. It's a mutually beneficial relationship, she hears tales of others' lives, and they get a break from wandering aimlessly.
ＭＩＳＣＥＬＬＡＮＥＯＵＳ:
Her family is from Monaco, and they never failed to pass French down to their children, so she does speak French fluently.
Ava Tennyson || 43 || Mother (Deceased)
ＲＥＬＡＴＩＯＮＳＨＩＰ ＷＩＴＨ ＧＯＤＬＹ ＰＡＲＥＮＴ:
Four times she has seen him. She likes him well enough, she supposes, though she can't see him as a father, more as a friend, a mentor.
He is there when she tries to reach out to the man crossing the street, pulling her back as she fights him wildly in a feeble attempt to reach the weary man before his foot can touch the gravel. "Death," voices seem to nag at her, shadows whispering eerie murmurs in her ear. "Death is coming." "But I can stop it," she whispers back, "I can stop it." "Death," comes the whisper at the nape of her neck, "is inevitable. You cannot stop it." This is the first time she meets him. She turns to him, knowledge murking in the back of her mind. "Much," he continues, his eyes alight with a glint of humor, "like taxes." And somehow, her lips manage to quirk into a smile, a huff of air escaping that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. She was eleven.
He is there at her mother's funeral. She does not see him, through the haze of her tears, but he is the hand at her back as she is handed a folded American flag, the reassuring murmur at her ear when everyone stands to salute. She is glad that her father is the one with the largest sense of responsibility, because even if he doesn't love her, she doesn't think she'd be able to get through the funeral without him. She was thirteen.
He is there six months later when she lingers at her mother's grave well past a respectable hour, there when she pulls a candle from her bag with trembling fingers (for meditation purposes, nothing more). He is behind Ava's tomb, a solemn look hooding his impossibly dark eyes. She opens her mouth to say something , anything, but nothing escapes. His thin lips pull up. A smile. The second she has seen from him, though this one distinctly different from the first. In only four long strides, he is at her side, calloused fingers gently pulling the candle from her vise grip. "You don't need that nonsense," he says, as though he's been training her a lifetime for this. She cannot help but be annoyed, a twitch in her jaw. But somehow, mysteriously, she finds herself placing her comparatively small hands in his large ones, her eyelids fluttering shut. Later (seconds or a lifetime, she cannot tell), there is a rustle of wind through the trees. And then her mother's voice is in her ear, whispering "Isra." She nearly collapses into sobs right then and there, but when she chokes back tears to turn to thank him, he is already gone. She was fourteen.
He is there when she touches the man's shoulder. He is still a dirty sonuvabitch gangbanger, not that she expected any different. There was a technicality in the case, and he never saw a day behind bars. He left the courtroom weeping, promising to change his ways, but Isra can see right through his filthy lies. In a way she is glad for the technicality; without it, she would never have been able to do what she is about to. She brushes past him in the street, calmly continuing her stride as he falls to ground behind her. For once, a smile reaches her eyes. Her mother would not be proud, but she thinks revenge is sweet enough that she can live with it. Suddenly, he is in front of her, a scowl etched into the hard lines of his face. He is disappointed, she can tell, but he doesn't deserve that right. He is her father in nothing but name. She scowls back. "The Underworld," he hisses, "is full enough without you putting anymore souls into it. The Fates are upset. It wasn't his time." "I made it his time," she replies, attempting to brush past him. "You stepped outside your bounds," he says, gripping her arm. Tears well in her eyes. "He deserved it," her voice is shaking, and it's all she can do to contain it. "I never said he didn't," his voice gentles suddenly, and it's too much. She stains his shoulder with her tears, only barely managing to croak out, "Promise me he'll be in the Fields of Punishment." "I promise," he mutters, though his arms stay awkwardly at his sides, "I promise I will pick something particularly nasty for him." It is only words, she knows. Hades is, above all, responsible. The man will be given what it is deemed he deserved, nothing more nothing less, but the words comfort her anyways. She pulls back, and before he disappears, she hears him say, "She's in Elysium." She can hear the truth in his words, and she almost cries all over again. She was fifteen.
A week later, she receives a note with an address and a simple message of "Go here." And so she goes. She trusts him more than she'd have thought possible.
ＢＩＯＧＲＡＰＨＹ:
She is never told how her parents met, though she assumes it was something mundane. That's just how her mama is: a little boring. But she loves her anyways. She is never told where her daddy is, but it's okay, she thinks, she's sure he was great if mama loved him.
They don't always have enough money to buy the cool toys she wants, but she doesn't really mind, because Mama is always there for her. Sometimes the apartment gets really hot in the summer and it makes her a little dizzy, but then Mama takes her to the park for some ice cream and it's all better.
In second grade she realizes what Mama really does for a living. She doesn't get proud (she's always been proud of her mama, the proudest), instead she just gets scared. When she goes out to school every morning, her goodbye is now accompanied with a "Promise you'll be careful, Mama." And there's a deep chuckle from her mama and a soft "I'll be fine, baby, it's the city that needs protecting." And she giggles and says, "You're like a superhero, Mama."
In third grade she starts seeing things. "That lady's eye is twitchin'," she says about a couple she sees arguing on the street. "That's 'cuz she's lying, sweetie," her mama answers calmly. She starts seeing more things, starts wishing she could stop. Her mama is helping her learn how to pick and choose, and the headaches start easing up.
In fifth grade she starts listening to the police radio, and her heart stops a little every time she hears the words "Officer down!" But then Mama comes home with a grin on her face and she laughs. And sometimes she cries a little too.
In sixth grade, she meets her daddy. He is tall, strange. He's kinda funny too, and she likes him a little. He asks her not to tell Mama she met him, and she doesn't want to never see him again, so she agrees. She comes home and Mama knows something is up even though she's been trying to control her tells, but Mama doesn't say anything about it, and she's glad.
In eighth grade she learns what death really means. She isn't listening to the police radio that day, she had a lot of studying to get done. But at nine there's a knock on the door, and she's wondering if Mama forgot her keys again, but instead when she looks through the peephole there are two officers there. She opens the door slowly, and they look down at her, their hats in their hands and their gazes sad. She starts crying even before they open their mouths.
In ninth grade she becomes death. It's not easy, killing the man who killed her mama, but she has to do it. She's sure she'd go mad otherwise, even if her father isn't the happiest with her because of it. Then a week later he's telling her to go someplace, and she's figuring 'what the hell?' since she lives with her aunt now, and her aunt never really notices where she's at, so she packs up her things and she goes.
From tenth grade on she's learning. She's learning who she is and what she can do. She talks to her mama every Wednesday, and she's thinking things could be worse.
ＦＡＶＯＲＩＴＥ ＰＯＷＥＲ:
By far the ability to speak to the dead. The fact that she can still speak to her mother occasionally is the only thing that keeps her sane. And sometimes, she'll walk around a graveyard on a dreary day and stop by random tombstones that look interesting. She'll call up the person and listen to their stories, and they never fail to be fascinating. It's a mutually beneficial relationship, she hears tales of others' lives, and they get a break from wandering aimlessly.
ＭＩＳＣＥＬＬＡＮＥＯＵＳ:
Her family is from Monaco, and they never failed to pass French down to their children, so she does speak French fluently.
