Deleted the pretend/try to care question because I didn't really have ideas with what scene to do with that :(( Sorry if I got anything wrong about things I don't know much about! :((( And some of these sections are a bit rushed and unpolished so forgive me on that regard hahaha BUT Here i chapter of many characters hahaha more than 500 words wooohooo! I was hoping to add more but I figured it was getting way too long hahaha...

What would completely break a character?

Sniffling, Rose chewed at her lip as she tried to tame a cowlick at the front of her hair. It hadn't been laying properly, even though she'd been working it for a few minutes, and it was starting to seem like it was taunting her. She'd been taunted too much as of late. She ironed it again, but it didn't seem to want to stay down. Why was it that things didn't seem to be working out as of late?

Her mother would have never had the same problem. There was an awkwardness of mundane things that true faeries managed to escape. Even rumpled, they still looked far more elegant than their mixed counterparts. They did not stumble often nor yawn or sneeze in inopportune moments. Even though it was always said faeries grew up faster yet enjoyed youth longer, she didn't know why she retained so many childish attributes. Surely her mother had mastered life at Rose's age, not needing to deal with the rowdiness of hair that did not curl in the right direction. She didn't like the thought that her mother might have decided to stop dealing with her.

Sometimes she was very sure she'd find her mother again someday. The ache was enough to convince herself of the inevitability of the situation. After all, she'd heard that a mother's love was the strongest love, and she did not know how her mother could abandon her on purpose.

Of course, there was another thought that her mother was not coming back. That she would look Rose in the eye with a mocking laugh and ask how she could ever think that a faerie of her blood could ever be concerned with someone mixed and dirty like her. It was painful to think that her mother would remain a distant memory. It would be immeasurably worse if her mother had left her with the intent of abandonment, as if she could replace Rose with someone better, smarter, taller, prettier, and purer. If choice was involved, Rose did not know how she would react. She did not know if she could even entertain the possibility.

The curl finally managed to lay nicely, folding into the rest of the hair she'd softly ironed in others and curled at the ends. Her teeth had already ruined her lipstick. It was always more than just about hair.

What was the best thing in a character's life?

Caspian's hand was familiar. There was a way their fingers laced together, no longer awkward and fumbling - not that Aspen ever liked to think any part of him was awkward and fumbling. Still, it had been a hesitant occurrence earlier in their relationship. Caspian was more unpredictable then. There was no telling what he would have done when Aspen reached for his hand. Now, he was mapped territory. Aspen knew the course of the tide and the speed of the winds, sailing accordingly and managing to navigate where he needed to be. Even when the sights and smells became familiar, he was surprised to find that he was still eager to traverse the seas.

"Have I lost you to your thoughts?" Caspian asked, a sort of caution in his tone that Aspen now knew was a product of concern and not distrust.

"They're good ones. I promise." Sighing and pulling his cloak from catching on a bush with his free hand, Aspen tightened his other hand on Caspian's. "I'll let you know if they're not. You know I will."

"...Sometimes I don't know what's going on in your head."

"Still?"

Caspian glanced to the side at a noise, a little distracted and ready to draw his staff. Realizing it was just a passing couple of faeries in the distance, he relaxed and then continued on, steering a little intentionally away from the others. When he was focused on the conversation again, he considered the question.

"I know more than I used to." Mildly frustrated, Caspian exhaled sharply. "I think you think you always say, but that's a little dubious."

Shaking his head, Aspen made a sound of disagreement. "You don't have to worry."

"Of course I worry. And to hell if it's soft, saying that," Caspian muttered, as if hating to admit such a thing. "You know having you in my life is-...I mean, you're the-"

"I know." Aspen paused, turning to face him. He'd memorized his features by then, and especially the way they shifted as words were spoken. He could predict which words would change what in Caspian's expression, finding that his emotions were subtle and then all at once, still a little stifled from habit. Those were seas he'd meddled with enough to understand. He'd learned how to ignite storms, but also soothe waves until it was safe waters.

Their fingers pulled apart before knotting in sleeves instead.

"Sometimes we have our wild days, Cas, but I promise we're okay. Save your worrying for when I need it," Aspen continued, his green eye glittering fondly before kissing his forehead. "I do not want the best part of my days to be spoiled."

"I know," Caspian said and took his hand so they could start walking again.

Blake's glad he can still feel the curve of Lily's waist through her shirt where his hand rests. She's just lying there on her side facing him and he thinks it might be the quietest and softest they've been in a while. He finds that he can't look directly at her. Instead, his gaze skims the edge of her features, resting on her hair before moving to the wall. It can't quite settle and he stares at her mouth and then her hair again, lifting a hand from her waist to press a few strands between his fingers. He doesn't want to be the first one to break the silence.

"You good, babe?" She asks finally, her eyes focusing on his. He can't tell if she's expecting a certain answer, so he doesn't give one straight away. He has an urge to tug her towards him so they are better fitted together, but it somehow seems too forward, despite himself. It's strange how the weight of intimacy is relative.

"Yeah."

"Fantasizing about somethin'? Coming back for seconds?"

"What?" He mostly just feels embarrassed, which is a little strange, but he's not used to much that she introduces him to. Not that he complains.

She hisses at him slightly, as if to mock him a little. It's a fighting habit he can't drop.

He thinks she might be about to make fun of him again but she only smooths down the sleeve of his shirt with her hand and then drags a nail lightly down his cheek. This time, he thinks it might be out of affection. She looks very calculated and intense, but it's rare he sees her looking otherwise. When she leans over to kiss him, he's glad he knows what to do now. It's no longer an awkward fumble of teeth, tongue, and lips, and he sinks into the gesture comfortably until she draws back to nestle into the pillow.

"If you come live here, we'll have more good nights," she teases, her eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

He almost growls but considers her words a second too long, tempted. "You know I shouldn't...leave-"

"You'll be missing out, then, on the best thing that's ever happened to you," she says and draws closer to tangle her legs with his and let her hand rest idly against his cheek. "I'll be disappointed."

"Then I'll just have to visit again," he decides and they slip back into a silence that is more comfortable than before. Though she closes her eyes after a minute, he continues to watch her. He can't sleep just yet, his mind caught on the image of her beside him, over him, with him, and he wonders if he means the same thing to her that she does to him. In this world where everything is slipping through his fingers, he thinks he has found something that might be his.

What was the worst thing in a character's life?

The worst thing about illnesses is that there is no easy enemy. Layla finds she cannot simply sniff out what is causing her mother's misery and hunt it out of her system. Her hands have fixed so many things and yet, they cannot fix what needs the most reconstruction. She can make steel behave, but unruly cells have never been her specialty.

Perhaps the worst part is that the cure is within her. Her own werewolf genes are miracle workers. When she nicks her hand on something sharp, the wound closes and the skin smooths over. Colds are a forgotten thing of the mundane past and bruises are gone within the hour. If she could just give her mother a fraction of what she has, it seems like it would be a free fix, but she would not make her mother pay the secret costs. The Shadow World isn't for people like her. It's difficult to carry a perilous solution while feeling useless in other mediums. She knows she's doing all she should, but it's not all she can. She's not religious, but sometimes she thinks she should be praying.

Nyx has been picking splinters from Aspen's hands for the last half-hour, using a wet cloth and a pair of sharp metal tweezers. They don't all come out easily, but they do give way eventually and Aspen gives a little sound of protest when the tweezers dig in a little. They're in a hotel room now, away from the others, and it's nice to not have invasive gazes on him. Of course Nyx stares, but he's used to that.

"I'm almost done, sweetheart." Even though Nyx's voice is a croon, it doesn't calm him effectively. His breath catches and he lowers his head, a little unable to articulate as his thoughts feed him too much information at once. He's just a child, anyway. If he does protest, he won't be listened to and he knows that.

It takes another ten minutes to get the smaller ones out. It's hard to see where they are because of the other scraped red marks on his palms, but Nyx manages to find all of the little wood pieces and get them out. Aspen's hands bleed a little again, but he manages to stay quiet as if he's worried that making a noise is the wrong thing to do. Outside is a little loud anyway. The curtains are draw shut and the window is open, only a thin screen between the hotel room and the streets. That's one of the reasons he doesn't like the first floor. It's an invasion of privacy and he doesn't think he wants the world seeping in.

"You're so good. I'm proud of you." That's what Aspen hears but it's not really what Nyx says. What he's really doing is coaxing him into coherency again and setting up a system of reward. Like he's some dog that needs to sit and roll over before it gets its treat.

Still, acknowledgement begins in his expression. It starts when he licks his lips and sniffs, green eyes glancing down at red hands before back up at Nyx. He chews on the inside of his bottom lip, thinking. He's not sure what he feels at the moment. A little tired - he can pin that down. That's what he gets when he suffers a bout of sleepless nights all in a row. It's not his fault that the first floor keeps him up. Nyx only sets the tweezers and washcloth aside, looking pleased as he watches. It's like he's amused.

"I didn't like that," Aspen whispers, pushing his face into Nyx's shoulders for a few moments before drawing back, pulling his sleeves down over his hands.

"It's okay," Nyx says, pushing hair from Aspen's eyes. "You'll learn."

What seemingly insignificant memories sticks with a character?

"My lady." Cadyn did a quick flourish and a slight bow before extending his hand towards Connor, who slapped it away quickly and refused to stand.

"Stop. I'll kick you if you keep up with that," Connor complained, glancing to the side to make sure no one had been watching.

"Oh, but Connor darling, that wouldn't be good etiquette, now, would it?" Attempting a posh English accent, and sounding more Cockney with the effort, Cadyn only reached to grab his wrist to tug him to his feet. With a protest, Connor stood so he wouldn't stumble, although he pulled his hand away quickly. They'd been having a bit of a break from being lectured, which mostly comprised of them narrowly escaping another admonishment for all the trouble they would try to start. Usually they would feel a little bad, but they detested such lessons.

"This isn't the 1800s," Connor refuted, narrowing his eyes. "And if I'm a lady, where's my dress?"

"Not all girls wear dresses. Besides, I think we could arrange something for you if you wanted." Eyeing him over, Cadyn tapped his chin lightly in thought. "Ruched taffeta. Tea length. Not a sweetheart neckline. No offense, but you really have nothing going on for you up here." Cadyn gestured loosely at his chest, grinning.

Raising his eyebrows, Connor snorted lightly. "And how is it you know so many terms for...dresses and whatever?"

"I just know things. It's a talent of mine. I never know what-"

"Knowledge will come in handy. I know." Switching to Spanish, Connor flicked his hair from his eyes. "Then it's a shame I got most of the braincells."

"You lie. You're just upset our instructors like me more," Cadyn replied in broken Cantonese, having only mastered Mandarin. He smiled boyishly, amused with their banter.

Thinking of a language, Connor stuck his hands in his coat pockets.

"They can't tell us apart. That's a null argument." Though his Greek was not very good, Connor wondered if Cadyn would understand. He did, eventually, although it took him a few moments to go over the words in his head until the meanings were solidified.

When Cadyn smirked and gave him another response in a grating language, Connor struggled for a long moment. It was something inhuman and foreign. Chthonian, maybe, and he hadn't studied it for a while. He preferred the grammar of Enochian anyway.

"Tch. I don't know that one...demon languages are hard, but fitting for you, I guess."

"I'll just have to translate." Looking smug, Cadyn spoke in Russian, having to shift the words just a bit from the Chthonian vocabulary to the Russian one. It was a rather rude thing he said, something their mother would have scolded him for saying and Connor for witnessing, and they could not help a quick laugh.

"You need to learn your manners," Connor gasped in faux-shock and offense before making a face and pushing his shoulder lightly. "And in the room in which we practice our etiquette, Cay. I will remember that."

Kellan knows to not recklessly stare too close into the running water. He hypothesizes that how Ethos behaved would have been considered out of line and making such a gesture to pull him back was rude and imprudent, but Kellan knows little about how things work in the Seelie. Mostly, he's unused to such dangerous beauty. When he saw the creature staring back at him with such alluring eyes, he didn't mean to get so close. Maybe that's how the Faerie draws people in. It flaunts its otherworldly charms until one is wading too far to be rescued. When he thinks about it, it was perhaps just Ethos's job to keep him safe.

Still, he sounded so genuinely concerned that it can make Kellan believe a number of other things. He remembers how it feels to be tugged back before a reprimand died on a tongue of someone who only meant well. He does not mean to be the reckless child, needing to go all places and touch all things only to be restrained with a firm hand and a firm scolding, but it isn't the first time the Faerie has made him feel small. Now, he cannot help but tread by streams carefully.

What is a character reluctant to tell people?

Nestling back where she sat on the couch, Naya stared into her hot chocolate, the whipped cream slowly dissolving into the hot drink.

"My parents would probably scold me for drinking something this sugary, this late. You know they would," she rambled off to Devi, raising her eyebrows at him. "We don't allow fun in that household. Only...only training and Clave talk. I say that if they didn't care enough to come to our parabatai ceremony, then they shouldn't care about what I do otherwise."

Usually, Devi would laugh at the thought and agree, but he couldn't help but just close his hands around the mug to warm them. Sometimes she was like that. She'd joke about things regarding her parents and he wondered if it was bait he was supposed to take, or if it was a false jab. If he pursued it, would he be crossing into territory that wasn't his to explore? He thought his silence was indicative of what he was thinking about because she elbowed him lightly in the side.

"You look so serious," she remarked.

Wiping a bit of whipped cream that started to melt down the side of his cup with his thumb, Devi cleaned his hand with a napkin. "...Do you think about them a lot? Not coming, I mean."

"What? No. Why would I?" She gave him a sideward glance, frowning.

"I know when you're not telling the truth, you know."

"I mean...sometimes, but it's whatever. Obviously, I'm more fond of reminiscing about our dinner."

"If you say so..." he said and lifted the mug to his lips to take a cautious sip. "You know my family's yours as well. I think they might even like you more than they like me. I know the situation with your parents upsets you-"

"Dev. Honestly. I know you worry about too much."

When he glanced over at her again, she was giving a tight-lipped smile and didn't seem happy at where the conversation had headed. If he looked hard enough, he could see her tighten her hold on the mug.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop," he sighed, catching her drift and quieting. He could have sworn she opened her mouth as if to say something else, but closed it quickly and drank more hot chocolate instead. It was as if she'd missed the window to divulge more details and if she spoke about it now, it'd be awkward and forced. If she was not ready to speak with him, he would not force her to. Either way, he'd find himself worrying about it.

How does a character feel about sex?

Rose lies awake most nights. Maybe she'd sleep better if she had company that she knew would protect her while she slept, but the bed is still empty. Who would lie next to her? A boyfriend, perhaps. She never even kissed Blake so she's not even sure sometimes if he even counts as an ex-boyfriend. Sometimes it just feels like he was trying her on for a size as if to see if someone like her could ever be good with someone like him. Apparently she hadn't been good enough. At least, that's what she feels.

She can't help it and her thoughts deviate. What else might be expected of her, in such a relationship? When she looks down at herself, she pulls the covers up over her nightgown. It seems unlikely that someone will want to lay by her side and expect other things if they have standards higher than she feels she can meet. When she thinks of such things, she cannot help but think of someone like Savannah, who is tall, alluring, and beautiful. Rose thinks her faerie features might make her mildly pretty by nature, but she doesn't feel desirable. She cannot imagine someone wanting to view her in a way that someone views Savannah. It seems they are just too different.

After all, from what she thinks she knows, people do not care for narrow hips and small busts. Odd ridges where her ribs are that she yearns to smooth out. Skin that she wishes she could use to fill out her hip dips. It is hard for her to visualize a scenario where someone actually wants to touch her.

The idea makes her heart quicken out of nervousness. She has seen a number of romance movies, but people say it's not quite so accurate. That sometimes it's messier or not so graceful or comfortable. If it's not like the movies, then she isn't sure quite what to expect. If there's anything to base it on. Occasionally, she wants to go to Savannah and ask her, and she has managed to inquire a few times, but it feels uncomfortable. Like she might be laughed at when she leaves for even thinking about intimacy. She doesn't even have a significant other and she doubts she can get - and doesn't want - a random stranger invited to her bed.

Feeling embarrassed to be thinking about such things, she rolls over on her side, pulling some of the covers with her. Who is she to think of those things when she's hardly even held someone's hand? Every now and again, she wishes she didn't have to lie and bluff about it to her friends. It's tiring being concerned all the time with what they think. Mostly, she just hopes she will not have to lie and bluff with the right person. Perhaps he will be more forgiving even when her own eyes and thoughts are not.

Sitting in the window of a cafe, Steff sips at her tea.

It's a warm darjeeling, cooled off by the bit of milk and sugar she added. Sometimes, it baffles her how Americans drink their tea entirely plain. On top of that, they leave the tea brewing for too long until it grows bitter or they pick strange herbals that they never serve in England. No - while she'll drink what tea she's offered, she definitely has preferences. Perhaps her pickiness is valid, though, because she feels it always tastes better once she customizes it to her liking.

Cole always had a thing for picking up coffee for them. He'd leave a cup on her desk or wake her up to drop it off, and too many times did she have to take the trash out because she kept throwing the cups away. If he hadn't thought she would drink it, she was sure he could have just ordered her to. It must have been an oversight on his part that he didn't consider her tastes.

Though he did order her to do a number of things, there were also a number of things he didn't order her to do. She'd read too many books about unassuming girls taken advantage of by boys that thought too highly of themselves. The idea was normalized and she hated to admit that. Still, aside from kissing her a few times to get a reaction out of her, he hadn't ordered anything of her. Even when she had been drunk and he had been amused by the way he could play with her lucidity by forcing her to cloud her head, he hadn't tried anything to his advantage. She feels mad at herself for almost being grateful. Normal and decent human behaviour shouldn't be praised.

When she thinks if it had been Loki that same night and if she wasn't his sister and instead was some drunk puppet, she thinks it might have turned out differently.

She raises her tea to her lips, her gaze following a couple that passes by the window. Their lives seem so simple as they lean into each other, bracing against the cold chill of the late fall weather. A hint of fondness crosses her expression as she watches them go past. The ones that find such partnership oftentimes don't know how lucky they are.

The more she thinks about it, the more she knows that she and Cole would have never worked, even if he stopped trying for the awkward distance in his words that treats her as more of a nuisance than someone he's known for a good handful of years. Besides the glaring detail that she's sure the Clave would snag him again once his face is recognized, she knows they are far more different than her past self would have acknowledged. Maybe the biggest one is that she has her future mildly planned out. It's silly, maybe, but she doesn't mind the idea of nuclear family. She thinks of children and her face warms at what that entails.

He's never expressed interest in anything to do with that, and while she knows he's a dead variable in her life, mostly, he's the only reference point for any real-life romantic encounter she's had. Even when she had invited herself to his hotel rooms multiple times, he had never expressed any desire for her in that manner. It seemed strange, from what she'd read in books, but he had always been strange in a number of ways. Despite his self-proclaimed depravity, he'd never made any move for her. She refuses to even entertain the thought that maybe it was something wrong with her that had stopped him. She won't let him make her feel badly about herself when so many others in her life have.

Maybe it's for the best. When she was younger, her books had given her the expectation that she would find love and only then be with them if that love was mutual. Though many of her views on life have changed, that expectation remains. She knows she needn't rush, but it's unfair to think that she tries so hard to better herself and help others better themselves, yet sincere, intimate, and romantic connections are still elusive. Sometimes she has to remind herself that she deserves better.

How many friends does a character have? How many friends does a character want?

Ethos had to end his song on a rather unsatisfying note when a faerie girl shook his shoulder, crouched beside him. He recognized her lilac braids and fluttering gown and her pixie-like smile, giving her a quick dip of his head. What she might want from him, he didn't know.

"Sorry to interrupt," she apologized, sitting by him with her legs crossed. "I saw you were lonely. You're May's friend, right?"

"Whatever you'd like to call me. And you needn't burden yourself if you have other places you'd like to be," he said politely, taking the time to rest his piccolo in his lap to shine it. The movements were like clockwork, his sleeve pulled over his palm where he rubbed away the fingerprint smudges. To take care of his things was important. He had little else to lay claim to, so he found that he had to be meticulous.

"You play so nicely. I never learned an instrument, but I guess there's always time," she sighed, resting her elbows on her knees and then putting her chin in her hands. "What were you playing?"

"A song I once learned from a girl I knew." He kept his words vague, for he didn't think they were of much use for someone like her.

"Oh, it must have been nice to have someone to teach you." Dreamily, the faerie girl watched his piccolo. "Do you have many friends to teach you things?"

"I have enough," he said simply, and closed his eyes to play again.

What is a character afraid of?

By any means necessary. Savannah's used to that phrase. Perhaps some people would call it playing dirty, but she doesn't understand why it's so taboo. Life has never been clean to her so she finds little logic in not using available resources to obtain what she needs. It's only fate that she's been given the perfect set of variables to elicit favours from people in the most convincing of ways.

It's not illegal and she's not messy. Surely, a long smile and leaning a hand for a second longer than usual against someone's shoulder is only exploiting the weaknesses of people. Surely anything that pushes those boundaries is nothing much worse. She's strategic, after all. Not illegal or messy. Just resourceful. Of course, maybe her brother would not call it that, but sometimes she thinks he's too self-absorbed to even consider what she does for success. Other times, she thinks he's just trying to beat her out of spite. It doesn't matter what his motives are.

Self-consciousness doesn't look good on her, so she thinks it's a good thing that it's not an emotion that ever comes naturally. In fact, she welcomes eyes on her. It just means someone's paying attention and seeing something they like. Reel them in, and they act in her favour. The books are in her head and her blades are sharp. She has to eliminate uncertainties. How humiliating it would be to try so hard and still gain so little ground in life. The thought nearly makes her uneasy.

No one turns her down, except Blake, she supposes, but he's a fluke. It's rare she misjudges people for their inclination to be easily influenced and casual. She might have even felt a shred of discomfort if she hadn't been so intrigued by it being such a strange thought and the fact that he admitted her attractiveness. Good. It meant she wasn't losing her edge, not that she needed his validation to prove that.

Sometimes it is exhausting needing to refine her image, keep herself pristinely trained with her favoured weapons, and up to date with all information she deems necessary. If she doesn't-...It isn't often that she shies away from a thought, but she assumes failure and mediocrity are oppressive to anyone. The feeling tags behind her perfect stride and she must ignore it when it bites at her heels. She only starts to feel the sting on the rare days she thinks she might have almost lost to someone or something. Those days are few and far between, but still too frequent. She can only hope the feeling flees when it realizes she bites back.

"I asked her to be my parabatai. She said yes."

"Oh, that's so good, Devi." His mom gave him a smile as she did up the laces of his younger sister's shoes, crouched to make sure her beloved twins were fit to be seen by the Clave. "She's such a sweet and talented girl."

He shifted from side to side, a little underwhelmed by the response. He'd been preparing to ask her all week. Well, he'd been thinking about it for the whole month, really. Then the past week, he had rehearsed what he was going to say, laying in his bed and staring at the ceiling. The words were running through his head. It wasn't like he had no capability for eloquence, but he thought he usually only hit his mark while fighting. Otherwise, he was prone to stumbling at times when elegance was most needed. Even in writing, he felt his words could be twisted into some sophistication, but he could never write to Naya about such a matter. It would have seemed too insincere.

"We want to do it soon...Before the end of this month, maybe?" His tone was hopeful, though his hands had already started to fidget nervously. Maybe he was getting cold feet. Maybe he was getting cold feet over the idea that Naya probably had cold feet.

"Mmhmm." His mom was busy moving onto his brother's shoes, making sure the laces were neat. "Just write a note to remind me."

"...Remind you?" He blinked. While he knew she was busy, he thought it was a big enough deal that she'd remember on instinct. People didn't forget weddings or other events like that and he figured a parabatai ceremony, which would bind him forever to a single person, was a large happening for the Shadowhunter people.

"There's a pen and pad on the counter." She didn't seem to notice his tone, straightening up to smile at him again. "You're so lucky to have Naya. Tell her she's welcome over for dinner tonight if she wants."

"Yeah." He was lucky to have her. A lot of the time, he wondered if she was lucky to have him as well. She'd always struck him as a good balance to his own strengths and she assured him that their differences complimented each other, but even then he couldn't help but acknowledge that some skills were more valuable than others. Maybe she'd gotten all the skills worth the most. After all, she was funny, charismatic, talented with weapons, and a good leader for the both of them. He was good with his own weapons, he knew, and fairly bookish with knowledge stockpiled in his head, but there was a certain fear of something he couldn't name that kept him on a tight leash.

"Stick it on the fridge and I'll let your father know later."

Devi wanted to speak again but she was already leading the twins out, talking to them to get them excited about the meeting. As if kids were interested in the complicated politics of people like them. His mother was busy, of course, and he knew she had better things to do at the moment besides discuss all the details, but he felt it was only natural to be a little disheartened. He was afraid that he was possibly a nuisance to Naya as well and that she was nice to him because she was his only friend. It sounded a little pathetic, but with so few neighbors, they had to work with what they had.

Walking over to the pad of paper, he picked up the pen before scribbling down a reminder. He tore it from the perforation and headed to the fridge to stick a magnet on. It wasn't like his mother didn't care, he knew. He sighed, knowing he had to get over himself. Even if his words hadn't come out as eloquently as planned, Naya had said yes and he knew that must have counted for something.

How does the image a character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

Sometimes Kellan feels like he's supposed to be the one with all the answers. He's calm and nice and collected, and people trust him when it comes to making decisions. It might be because of his fairly good record in the Hunt, or because he's one to deal with things by talking to the people and getting to know them, but the reasons hardly matter. What he is sure of, though, is that he's meant to fix problems when the others cannot.

After all, with his blood, he can't afford to be anything less than thoughtfully concerned. Selfless, maybe. People are so quick to question him, but he's gotten good at ignoring such a thing. Maybe that makes him seem stable and unruffled from many personal attacks. The faeries seem to like that. If he shows too much emotion at such things, he'll only reinforce the stereotypes that mixed faeries are emotional and ungraceful. While he's never thought of himself as particularly elegant, he doesn't want to move about life clumsily.

Lately, though, that's all he seems to do. Maybe Aspen catches on when he's taken aside and the faeries are starting to see the calmness unravel. He's not skilled at replacing his emotions with coldness. Though he tries to be a mediator, he thinks people can tell there are other things on his mind. Sol certainly knows, even if the specifics are lost on him, and Kellan knows his expression is too volatile and actions too soft on the Seelie. Unlike the pure faeries, he hasn't been trained to grit his jaw and hide what plagues him. The other faeries see him with wrapped hands and a subtle flinch and even though such details are small to him, he hasn't been raised to be self-aware enough about such things.

He doesn't have all the answers. Perfection hasn't been something he's strived for, but a standard is eroding. It's invasive to think people are starting to realize he has more problems than solutions.

"I've really made a mess of things," Cole says, glad to speak in English. Sometimes his head tires of French and his tongue is not so used to the loose consonants and thick vowels.

Calling the woman at the desk his former foster mother sounds so formal and old, knowing she's barely reaching her late thirties. It also makes them out to be close, but he's unsure if he feels much affection for her. Then again, he's not very in touch with anything he feels and she's convenient enough to talk to. She'll be strict about things and won't sugar-coat her words, which is something he appreciates, and he finds he has no one else to speak with.

"I think I'll be condemned to live in this Institute forever," he sighs, continuing and looking over at the office door where he shut it. "I don't think the Clave cares about me anymore, but I'm too tired to run and too prideful to get caught."

"You cannot act like it wasn't your fault," she replies, stacking a paper off to the side. "Whatever you choose, you know I'll still be here to care for you."

"Care for me? You're acting like I'm not an adult." This time, his words come out in a scoff, a careful coldness injected into his words. "I can certainly hold my own."

This time, she responds in French and he misses a few things she says, but knows it's mostly an expression of frustration. He doesn't blame her. He's more than difficult to work with.

"The girl that was at the trial came and visited even though I think she knew I didn't want her to," he remarks slackly when she's finished. "I don't think I was a very good conversationalist. I might have been more brisk than I meant to be."

"The girl you are fond of?"

"Past tense," he correctly, his words clipped. "Although that was an entirely different me. I don't even feel he and I are the same people. He was soft, I think."

"You're wrong. You've hardly lived much life. Maybe in ten and a handful of years when you are my age, you will see that we are the same people just..." She thinks over her words, and instead uses the French word for "evolving".

"Maybe you're wrong. Or maybe you're right. It doesn't matter. She shouldn't be visiting criminal Downworlders in France. It's such a foolish idea said aloud."

"And you are a foolish person, Cole, and ill-suited as a 'criminal'. I should have raised you better than this."

"Granted," he starts, "You really didn't get much time to raise me at all. I was already mostly screwed up already."

"You say that so you don't have to take responsibility," she replies, setting down her pen to give him a stare. "Maybe you can fool others that are naive, but I can see through you. I've met a great many people that try to be something they're not. It saddens me to see you go down that same route."

"Well, forgive me for disappointing. I'll let you mother your papers, then, since I'm convinced they'll be a much better child." He stands from his chair, pushing it into the other side of the desk to signal his leave.

"It's not too late to learn from all of this," she says, pursing her lips a little at his tone.

"On the other hand, it really is." He doesn't mean for his words to get lazy, a hint of weariness seeping through that belies his current sense of indifference to the situation. Still, he leaves her office and shuts the door behind him without looking back. It's how he tries to leave many things in his life, for having too much hindsight shakes how steady he's tried to make himself seem.

What would a character give their life for?

Running a finger against the spine of a book, Steff could not help but contemplate Ember's question. It was nice, having company late at night when no one but Ember was both awake and in the Institute, and she gave a slight sigh. Sometimes nighttime was a good breeder of questions that were too strangely spoken in the light.

"I am glad to be a Shadowhunter," Steff said finally, looking over at where Ember sat by her bed. "I didn't think I'd always be good at it, or that I'd even want to be one, but I like to know I can protect people."

"You are a good one, even if you haven't been trained as much as the other people." Giving her a smile, Ember nodded. "You know we'll all protect you back."

"I know. And I'm...glad. I think I realized that I'm very scared of dying, but..." Trailing off her sentence, Steff looked almost a little hesitant to continue. "I'd die for my friends, even if I wasn't amazingly close with them. If I had a chance to save them, I think I'd have to. Maybe it's morbid or...or stupid, but I think that's what Shadowhunting means to me."

"You know no one will expect you to-"

"No. Let me have this one thing," Steff said, a little quicker than she meant. "I mean-...I have been told my whole life what to do and my life has always been in other people's hands. I...think I would just like to have a bit of autonomy, you know? I wouldn't have any regrets if that's how I went out."

Ember didn't argue, merely looking at the book in Steff's hands with a slight fondness in her expression. "If you keep being this noble, Steff, you're going to put the rest of us to shame.