MADELYN CLINE As SARAH CAMERON In

Ornella Muti in Cebo para una adolescente (1974) dir. Fransisco Lara Polop

fingers  tap  on  the  bar  top,  the  faerie's  head  tilting  to  the  side  as  she  watches  one  dorothy  gale  spin  one  too  many  times.  boredom  has  no  true  cure,  not  for  someone  like  faye  ━━  it  is  only  dormant,  waiting  to  come  back  when  her  latest  entertainment  loses  it's  novelty.  pudding  &  pie  helps  little  but  it  is  better  than  being  surrounded  by  nothing  and  no  one.  and  who  knows?  perhaps  the  opportunity  to  amuse  herself  (  and  perhaps  make  someone  else's  day  less  than  ideal  )  will  come  on  a  silver  platter.

and  it  did.

hazel  eyes  focus  on  the  fable,  narrowed  in  both  wander  and  annoyance.  faye  could  not  give  less  of  a  damn  about  the  dead  witch  ━━  they  barely  give  a  damn  about  people  whose  name  they  do  not  forget  on  a  daily  basis  ━━  but  there  is  something  dense  about  such  a  celebration,  not  because  dorothy  is  only  a  few  steps  away  from  dancing  on  the  witch's  grave,  no  ━━  who  is  to  say  being  a  witch  is  why...  whoever  her  name  is,  is  dead?

faye  smirks,  though  it  does  not  quite  reach  her  eyes.  "ding  dong  the  witch  is  dead,  yeah?"  a  scoff,  a  sip  on  her  drink.  furrowed  eyebrows  paint  themselves  on  faye's  expression  ━━  a  part  to  play,  a  reaction  that  is  planned  more  than  genuine.  "ever  think  that  maybe  there  is  a  possibility  it  wasn't  because  she's  a  witch?  you  could  be  the  next  victim  for  all  we  know.  and  i  don't  know  about  you  but  i  like  being  alive."

" I DON'T KNOW WHAT EVERYONE IS SO FUSSY ABOUT , " dorothy voiced , but the words were spoken between shallow and bitter breaths , having just teetered off the stage from a particularly grim performance ( the town's happenings had left little room for pallet - soothing whimsy , but perhaps her audience could have done without her celebratory merriment about the witch's fate ) . taking the scarlet fingertip of a stain glove between her teeth , dorothy tugged the costume piece off her tawny limb before discarding it behind her on the bar top .

" ─── anyone in their right state of mind would be relieved . feel , , , safer . " it were almost as if dorothy were self soothing ( as she was one to talk about what defined a right state of mind ) , shifting her bite to show her opposing glove the same attentions she had gifted the first . then , swirling on the stool so she was facing bar side , dorothy collected her thick , loose hair and pulled it over her shoulder , beginning to anxiously thread it into a loose plait , only to run her fingers through it and start over .

over . and over . and over again .

her eyes find the occupant of the seat next to her , eyes like that of a sleepy pup's as painted lashes framed droopy lids . she was so tired , their features blurring , a yawn burning her throat that she didn't let surface .

" i think we should give whoever did it a proper thanking . "

a 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 for 𝘋𝘖𝘙𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘠 𝘎𝘈𝘓𝘌 set at 𝐩𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 & 𝐩𝐢𝐞 the eve the news broke of the murder . ( @detr1tus , @gravemist , @lcgendaries , @einchants , @daydreambeliiever , @unyearning / @unforsworn )

time: early afternoon.   location: a sidewalk, along the main enclave. status: for @detr1tus, @thievesandwitches, @daydreambeliiever + 4 open spots.

blonde  sits  on  the  sidewalk,  beer  can  in  hand  and  forearms  resting  on  each  knee.  exasperated  sigh  after  exasperated  sigh,  faye's  hazel  eyes  take  in  her  uneventful  surroundings  and  their  grip  tightens  on  the  half-empty  can  burrowed  from  trip  trap's  stash.  boredom  is  dangerous  ammo  for  someone  as  restless  as  faye  ━━  every  stone  on  the  sidewalk,  every  brick  on  every  building,  every  drink  left  unpoured  serve  as  a  reminder  that  there  is  nothing  to  do  around  a  place  like  fabletown  (  not  unless  she  wants  to  spend  more  nights  in  jail  and,  although  the  sheriff's  company  isn't  as  bad,  the  sleeping  arrangements  leave  much  to  be  desired  )  and  nothing  truly  every  happens  either.

if  you  ignore  the  murder  and  the  constant  thread  of  exposure,  faye  supposes.

another  sigh,  another  sip  of  an  already  warm  beer,  nursed  through  what  feels  like  an  hour  of  merely  existing.  even  the  prospect  of  newfound  company  feels  like  a  curse  to  faye,  muscles  aching  for  something  more  than  walking  around  and  mind  begging  for  something  to  entertain  an  already  numb  brain.  the  would-be-fairy  doesn't  even  look  up  from  the  empty  spot  their  unfocused  eyes  seem  glued  to  as  the  footsteps  gather  close  and  closer  to  her.  "i'm  not  a  sharer  so  if  it's  beer  you're  looking  for,  you  can  keep  on  walkin'."

fabletown  is  a  small  pond  and  faye  thinks  herself  a  fish  too  big  for  it  ━━  so  it's  no  surprise  that  every  time  the  fibres  of  their  being  are  laced  with  a  kind  of  boredom  too  overwhelming  to  ignore,  people  around  feel  the  shock  wave  of  it  (  and  more  often  than  not,  the  aftermath  is  less  than  good  for  a  couple  of  unfortunate  souls  ━━  it's  a  wrong  place,  wrong  time  sort  of  situation  and  with  something  enticing  enough  for  faye  to  do  something  about  it  ).  peter,  even  with  all  the  history  that  they  share,  might  become  a  victim  just  like  anyone  else.  to  be  fair,  he  approaches  her.  "and  you  are  far  too  dramatic,  peverell."  a  name  foreign  on  her  tongue,  even  with  all  the  decades  of  use  ━━  he  is  peter  pan,  the  boy  who  refused  to  grow  up  and  she  his  trusted  companion.  that  is  how  the  story  goes,  isn't  it?  "please.  we  see  each  other  every  damn  day."  a  chuckle,  a  head  shake  and  a  sip  of  a  beer  that  warms  with  each  second.

every  word  exchanged  still  feels  heavier  than  it  used  to  be.  an  abandon  of  their  home  and  company  left  behind...  faye  knows  better  than  to  believe  all  is  well.  as  much  as  she  hates  it,  actions  have  consequences.  "i  have  my  hobbies  and  i  can  guarantee  none  of  them  will  ever  be  knitting.  have  you  tried  it?"  eyebrows  raise  and  mischief  paints  itself  on  faye's  lips  as  their  blue  eyes  meet  peter's.  then,  the  offer  of  a  sip  of  her  beer.  "genius  is  right."  a  jest,  even  if  there  is  no  lie  to  be  found.  "the  day  has  just  begun.  don't  cheer  just  yet,  peter.  i  might  just  take  your  wallet  next,  see  what  secrets  you've  been  keeping  from  me  and  the  magic  mirror."

peter  slows  when  he  sees  her,  doesn’t  stop  right  away  —  just  enough  for  his  stride  to  falter,  for  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  to  hush.  no  surprise  finding  her  like  this:  sun  going  down,  attitude  rising,  one  foot  on  the  edge  of  a  bad  idea  and  the  other  barely  planted  in  whatever  counted  as  rehabilitation.  he  squints  down  at  her,  cigarette  tucked  behind  his  ear,  a  notebook  wedged  under  one  arm.  the  picture  of  reluctant  responsibility.  “you  wound  me,  darlowe.”  he  drawls,  tone  dry  as  the  sidewalk  she’s  baking  on.  “not  even  a  hello  before  you  threaten  to  hoard  your  shitty  beer ?”  peter  crouches,  not  to  sit,  never  quite  that  relaxed,  but  enough  to  put  himself  just  in  her  line  of  sight,  forearms  balanced  on  his  knees,  mirrored  like  mockery.  his  eyes  skim  the  can  in  her  grip  before  they  flick  up  to  hers.

“you  know,”  he  says,  glancing  around  like  the  scenery  might  surprise  him, “most  people  at  least  pretend  to  find  hobbies  that  don't  involve  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  road.  you  ever  try  knitting ?”  followed  by  a  little  shrug,  not  judgmental,  just  peter:  half  amused,  half  weary,  all  blunt. “but  hey,  if  scowling  at  pavement’s  what’s  keeping  you  from  torching  another  mailbox  or  charming  a  guy  out  of  his  wallet,  who  am  i  to  stop  genius  at  work ?”

⸻ king roberon cole welcomes rowena "red" woods to fabletown—or, as they were once known, little red riding hood from little red riding hood / grimm's tales. before the magic mirror, they come glamoured in the mirage of a lucky red ribbon tangled in her fingers, her eyes tracing the city skyline as she hums a quiet hum of something forgotten and lingering in the dark / a laughter that echoes like a warning ⸻ sweet, melodic, yet laced with something dangerous, sound that invites but doesn’t promise safety / cigarette burns down between fingers, smoke curling like a spell in the air. blue eyes stare at the world but the mind is somewhere else, lost in thoughts too heavy for daylight / hair is a storm, unruly and wild ⸻ waves of deep brown that tumble and twist as if they were spun from the earth itself and yet wraps around like an embrace. the tale from which they hail exalted their resilience and wit, but decried their stubborness and calousness in equal measure. no matter; this time, they shall write their own. in accordance with the fabletown compact, they are granted amnesty for any and all transgressions, even that which is little known: unbeknownst to red, her grandmother's warning to always wear red was a shield against a curse cast on her by a magical being in the forest. as long as she wears the red, her heart remains whole, and her soul anchored, and without it, she would slowly fade away.

DOSSIER & WANTED DYNAMICS

𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑳𝒀𝑵 𝑪𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑬 . Outer Banks ( 2020 – 2025 ) .

Most of what she knew, she'd learned from the wild. Nature had nurtured, tutored, and protected her when no one else would.

Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (pg. 363)

Madelyn Cline as Sarah Cameron OUTER BANKS — 1.05 'Midsummers'

Robin, did you just OD in there? No. I… am still alive.