Marchande sits by Oratrice de Maison, working trough her own thoughts aloud on being a person and making business. Stephanie winds we way back to the man wound of whicker and wire. Rose has gone off to take root, perhaps to find peace? Charlotte knows she could find her if perhaps she were to follow the yellowgold effervescent trails of awe and wonderment. But instead, there was the sky, still alight. Crackling with blooms of dragon's breath, and all the glory it inspired, all the joy.
Her head ached, slightly. It wasn't fully clear, but was much less enjoyable. Finishing off the remainder of her bottle, Charlotte stands stock-still, amidst the crowd. They no longer move or mill like herd beasts, but she is stiller, still - a beautiful scarecrow amidst a time lapse field of sunflowers. Her eyes closed, lips lightly parted, feeling the heat and light searing her eyelids, setting them aflame like paper lanterns. For now, a statue, she rests, and basks.