Watch Elle Fanning and Rodrigo Prieto as they take us on a journey into the world of eating disorders, where worth rises as weight falls. Although Prieto’s gripping film tells the story of a young girl battling with body image, the film essentially transcends this, shedding light on all internal struggles of the mind.
Quellys rarely lets her more feminine side show, as an information broker there is an unspoken understanding of how she must behave, dress, and show herself to the world, but behind closed doors and when the mood strikes, the woman is actually very much an angel on earth.
Within Silvermoon, many of her close friends call her ‘Doll’ if only for her beauty and most recently in Stormwind she was quickly taken in a man’s muse for his writings.
Tonight, the information broker was enjoying having the whole of the Ashemore home to herself and was walking about in a rather demure bit of fashion, something that no one else would ever know about. Yes, it was lingerie, yes it was pure white, and yes….she had finally decided to set her hair back to red. The dark tresses had been useful but there was no point in hiding her natural locks any longer.
Resting upon soft blankets and pillows, the woman would sip from her wine glass and watched the stars with the windows wide open, letting in a delightfully cool breeze.
“Sometimes it’s simply sinful to just indulge in yourself….no matter who’s watching.”
[hands]: are they large or small, do they have pianist's fingers or short stubby ones, do they tend to get sweaty or are they always dry, etc...
Isolde stretched her arms out in front of her, gently turning her body from side to side to get her back to crack. When she settled, her hands fell upon the keys of the piano she sat in front of. Earlier in the day, she had filed her strong nails down to a short and neatly kept oval shape before painting them a pale pink.
Her fingers were long and slender. They arched elegantly over the piano keys, moving with a practised swiftness and ease, but still so gently. Even her fingers were accomplished dancers, or so it would seem, leaping to play one note after the other in quick succession. So, too, could they grace the strings of a harp, lute, or lyre. They could draw a bow across a violin to make it sing, but the instrument she loved most was her piano. It was like her hands were built for it.
Isolde’s hands were always cold. Blood didn’t circulate to them well, and she had to be mindful to stretch her fingers and keep her hands active to avoid them turning blue. Her palms rarely sweated, and her skin was forever soft. Not a callous or blister marred her palms, telling stories of a girl who had never known hard manual labor. She had the hands of a proper lady, ones that were carefully moisturized with lotion smelling of honeysuckle and almonds, delicate but still strong.