Hi my name is Jotaro O'ra Joestar Platinum Kujo and I have short ebony black hair and a black star birthmark (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that blends into my hat and icy green eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Joseph Joestar (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!). I’m related to Jonathan Joestar but I wish I wasn’t because he’s a major fucking hottie. I have pale white skin. I’m also a Stand User, and I go to high school in Japan where I’m in the third year (I’m seventeen). I’m a joth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love my school uniform and I wear only that jacket ever. For example today I was wearing my school jacket with a matching chain attached to it and black sheep wool pants from Pakistan, my hat, and black combat boots. I was walking to my high school. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of girls followed me. I put up my middle finger at them.
“Hey Jotaro!” shouted a voice. I looked up. It was… Noriaki Kakyoin!
“What’s up Noriaki?” I asked.
“Nothing.” he said shyly.
But then, I got magically stabbed in the leg and I had to go away.
It’s some of her finest work, Ellana thinks – the owl in the
centre, wings regally spread, and every feather etched with careful precision. The
embellishments around the edges and the spine is a design of her own creation,
deeply-chiselled whorls and waves; the relief causing an illusion of light and
shadow, begging for the reverent trace of a fingertip along the finely carved
She wraps it in silk paper and leaves it on the counter,
fixes her hair twice – once up, a loose bun, then down, then up again. Then she
gives up the whole venture, sits down to watch Bull whittle a Darkspawn piece
for his chess board, and to keep her hands busy works idly on a discarded block
of wood until she’s covered head to toe in dust, and it would be true to her
luck to have him show up now, but he
doesn’t. The day goes by, and the next, and the next, and there’s no sign of
At first she tries not to think too much about it – doesn’t
want to think about it, or him, and the words they’d exchanged last. Shame burns in
her heart at the memory, and she can’t bear to look at the vhenadahl, always at the corner of her eye, no matter where she turns. She doesn’t even know
who she’s truly angry at – him, for his callous remarks, or herself, for taking it so bloody personally.
But if she’s waiting for an apology, or even for him to show up at all, she appears to be waiting in vain,
and irritation sparks when she thinks about the book – the hours spent, unpaid
if his refusal to show up is some kind of silent, petty rebuttal to their
argument. The confusing part is that he doesn’t strike her as the type to do such a
thing, but if not that, then what? For all their previous meetings he’s
exhibited a near mechanical sense of punctuality, but now there’s hasn’t been
so much as a word. And of course, she still doesn’t have his number, or even an
address. What’s worse, the thought that his absence could be due some misconstrued
notion that she needs space rankles more
than she’d like to admit. She’s a professional – she’s endured more than
her share of insufferable customers. A differing opinion wouldn’t have
hindered her work, and the fact that he might think that bothers her more than
The days pass in a quiet haze, and she moves between
projects with a half-hearted diligence in a vain attempt to distract herself, but
failing to reach the singular mindset that would keep her thoughts from
drifting. But she’s sitting by her workbench one late afternoon when the bell
chimes, and she hears the rumble of thunder from outside, following at the heels of the
door heralding someone’s arrival with its usual gusto. It’s been pouring down
all day, and she’s surprised anyone would venture out in this weather, but a
flicker of hope bursts to life behind her breast at the thought that it might
be him, and she’s on her feet before the door has slammed shut again, almost
forgetting to put down her chisel in her hurry.