If Clok Were a Disney Movie

[Smoothcoffee]

Author's Note: Title subject to change! I am writing this on a whim, so please bear with me in terms of updates and such! If you wish for your character to make an appearance, please do let me know! I know a few who do not mind, but if you're interested, just say so! :) Anyways, enjoy my writing, *flails*



“Lady Safiyah, please hold still,” the maid said patiently as she attempted to work the brush through the girl’s long hair. Safiyah let out an uncharacteristically annoyed sigh, putting down her quill and glancing up from her sketch. She sat perfectly still while Dessa carefully untangled her Lady’s long dark hair.
“I’m sorry,” she softly apologized, folding her ink-smudged hands in her lap. She glanced down at her half-finished sketch—a small kitten balanced precariously on the ledge of a building--, then resolutely gazed at herself in the mirror. The maid made a noise of approval as her young charge settled, allowing her to gently slide ornate silver combs into place.
At just eighteen years of age, Lady Safiyah Kepri was a striking young woman, with long dark brown hair, warm aquamarine blue eyes, and skin that glowed. Standing just over five feet tall, she radiated petite elegance, her slight figure catching many of a gentleman’s eye. Despite her evident beauty and gentle nature, Lady Safiyah remained unmarried, turning away every suitor with a sad smile and a gentle push. Lord Elkady often fretted that his only heir would not marry, cause for many a raised voice and constant pushback from his frustratingly stubborn daughter.
?Please stand, Lady Safiyah,” Dessa mused, helping the young woman to her feet. Running her stained fingers over the parchment distractedly, Safiyah shrugged helplessly as her maid whirled around her, opening her mouth to protest as Dessa withdrew a darling baby-pink evening gown from its garment bag.
“Miss Dessa, I don’t think—,” she began, her eyes widening. “Nonsense,” Dessa said dismissively, bustling around Safiyah. “A ball at the manor of the Lord deems the young Lady be presentable.” She brusquely slipped the gown over Safiyah’s head and began fitting it carefully in place, tightening the bodice’s laces around the girl’s slight frame.
“But Father only wishes to--,” she began once again, the first real spark of frustration showing as her mouth turned down in a frown. “Your father only wishes you to find a nice suitor that can marry and provide for you,” Dessa chided, smoothing the girl’s skirts down around her. “Plus,” she added, buttoning the last button on the dress, “Esteem and riches are the Nuumic way, Lady Safiyah. You know this.” She helped the young lady into a pair of silk slippers before stepping back to admire her work. She frowned, watching her charge’s expression darken. “But it is not what I want,” she softly protested, her blue eyes shining. “I know, child.” Dessa softened. “But it is what is required for a noble family.” She guided Safiyah to a washbasin, where she proceeded to dip the girl’s hands into the soapy water and scrub, washing away all signs of her artistic nature. Safiyah closed her eyes, letting out a resigned sigh. “Okay,” she finally said, defeated. “But please, can I at least escort myself down?” The maid paused only a moment, before nodding. “Fine,” she agreed, drying her lady’s hands. “But you must be on time. And do not bring your journal.” She waved her hand dismissively as she bustled for the door, Safiyah’s words of protest lost on her ears as she left the young woman in her quarters.
Safiyah turned to study herself in the mirror, frowning as she studied her polished appearance. She bit her lip, gazing down at the folds of lace and silk that clothed her frame, accentuating the hollows and curves of herself. This wasn’t her. It never had been. She was an eligible lady, ready for marriage by the Empire’s standings, but that shouldn’t mean much… should it? Turning to face the window, she gazed out at the hot summer evening, a gentle wind sending motes of dust and sand dancing across the ground. The sun was arcing down towards its resting place for the night, letting Sofi, as she preferred to be called, know that it she had about a bell until the ball’s commencement.
She made her way to the door, stopping to pick up the black baldric that contained her practice sword. If she was going to have to do this, she’d make a statement. She was not defenseless. Withdrawing the plain steel blade, she nodded to herself, studying the scuffed metal and the worn leather wrapped grip. Months of practice had worn this once shining blade down, but it would do in a pinch. Sheathing it once more, she took a deep breath, then stepped out into the echoing halls of the manor.
Hurrying down the hall, Sofi glanced about, beaming to herself as she heard the distant bustle of the house’s servants preparing for the evening. She slipped into one of the many guest rooms in the wing, closing the door ever so softly behind her. Rushing to the window, she lifted its sash, throwing the window wide open. She leaned down, feeling along the underside of the windowsill’s ledge, and giggled when her fingers found the cleverly hidden rope latch. With a gentle tug, a rope ladder seemed to materialize, effortlessly unfolding out from under the ledge. She dragged a heavy footstool over, hopping up to give herself a boost up and out of the window, sighing as her skirts caught on the window’s ledge. She tugged, freeing the fabric, although the lace tore, rather noticeably, right down the side. She glanced at the tear, shrugged, then clambered down the ladder, her slippered feet making her slip on the journey down an exercise in surefootedness.
When she hit the sandy grounds, she tore across the dunes, her long hair flying out behind her as she made a mad dash for her father’s flagship. The monstrosity was docked at a small, unassuming dock, the flags of the Empire and the house crest snapping in the evening breeze.
“Whoa, fair winds!” someone shouted from the ship’s deck as Sofi skidded onto the dock, her slippers making it impossible for her to slow. She let out a shriek of laughter as she hurtled towards the wood railing, the only end to her skidding madness. A pair of arms encircled her waist, stopping her right in her tracks as she slammed right into her savior.
The young man let out a breath of laughter, buckling as the Lady of the manor flew right into his arms. “Steady, lass,” he gently chided, his thick Parr accent making Safiyah gasp and beam. She gazed up into the hazel eyes she had grown to know fondly over the years. Her gaze drifted over the shaggy brown hair and shadow of stubble he refused to shave and looked weird when he went without, giggling as he offered a slow smile and sly wink, his arms still around her waist.