She had never been to the beach before.

And that would be the entire theme of what Maeve had planned for herself on this very day. Of course, she had read about oceans and beaches in books, seen pictures and illustrations, but only so much can be learned from books. Maeve knew this, and so when she learned that Sacrosanct had a beach, well she thought perhaps she ought to go and see. The little girl with the platinum hair slides off the hotel bed of the place she had been staying before she goes to her small backpack to find an outfit for the day. Most of her clothes were secondhand, donated to the foster home she had been staying in, or clothes she had managed to steal from outdoor clothes lines of families with daughter's or from stores where the fairy child was able to persuade the staff to allow her to walk out with a backpack full of new outfits. She never took much, not in the way of clothing nor food, for the young child had never taken pleasure in coveting items which did not belong to her, but she had to get by some how. And she could not always rely on her power of persuasion. She was young and the power proved finicky, working most of the time, but failing a other times, keeping her open to getting caught and being flung back into the foster care system. She would have to be careful here, vigilant, aware of her surroundings.

From her bag she pulls out a light blue t shirt with a yellow star smack in the middle and pulls it over her head as it settles atop her thin, tiny frame. She finds a bright yellow pair of shorts that matches the star on her shirt, there are only one or two grass stains marring the fabric and they aren't too noticeable. If the fairy child had an option, she would have impeccable clothing, which would include beautiful dresses. Maeve has never considered herself to be a tomboy. She preferred tea parties to wrestling, dresses to pants, and flowers (especially daises) to toy guns. While she has stolen clothes before, the girl with the bright, amethyst eyes never felt quite right about persuading someone to give her those beautiful expensive dresses she would see in the shop windows. So she stares down at her days attire, realizing she may not be properly dressed for the beach. The day looked warm and sunny outside her hotel window, most people would be wearing bathing suits to go to the beach and adoring their feet with flip flops. But Maeve knows she owns no swimsuit, never has because she has never been swimming in her life except the times she has imagined swimming while taking a bath. And the only pair of shoes she owns is a tattered pair of purple chucks that she her foster mother in one of her previous homes had given her since 'the shoes matched her strange, purple eyes' and she figured they would do. But the shoes were slightly too big and when Maeve voiced her opinions she merely shrugged and said she was a kid, she would grow into them eventually. And Maeve, ever the polite, quiet bookworm offered no more complaints.

Her feet slide easily into the sneakers and she reaches for the laces, making sure to tie them around the top of the shoes so they wouldn't fall off. As she comes back to standing she begins to head to the door, remembering to grab her hotel card key. The diary child pauses only for a moment in front of the mirror checking her attire, violet eyes do not study herself for long, for Maeve is still to young to scrutinize her body and contemplate why she looks so skinny and the way her ears are strangely pointed. That lavender gaze scrutinizes in an entirely different way, making sure her outfit does not scream foster child, nor orphan, nor homeless. She didn't want to draw anymore attention to herself than generally tends drift towards her due to being an eight year old walking around by herself. Her goal was always the same: Don't get caught.

Maeve moves with such a quiet grace, her ballet training showing in the way she moves with such a fluidity and elegance, even for such a young age. The fairy child adored ballet, the structure, the beauty, the control. Ever since she was old enough to talk and accidentally used her power of persuasion to convince an instructor to give the foster child free lessons. She took to it like a plant roots into soil. She loved ballet so greatly that she would often dance without even realizing it. She would stand on relevé even when she did not need to, she would find herself doing chaînés turns down the street, practicing fouetté turns whenever she could, stretching every morning after she woke up and before she laid her head down for the evening. Maeve had told her dance instructor when she had been no more than four years old that she was going to make her career from dancing. The reaction of her dance teacher had perhaps made all the difference. She saw the potential in Maeve, though she had seen lots of potential in previous years of students at her age who had let all their talent go to waste. But she treated Maeve just the same as she had those students had told her of their goals. She bent down so she was face to face with the child, her hands placed on her tiny, delicate, pale shoulders. "You will have to work hard, inside class and outside class, every morning, every night, you must never stop training, in neither your mind, your body, or you soul." And Maeve, tiny, little Maeve who wasn't even old enough to tie her shoes (yet she somehow was able to put her hair in a bun nearly every day for class), she had taken those words to heart, and still remembers those words to this day, carrying them with her with every arabesque, every attitude turn, and every time she leaps into the air, trusting that her feet will catch her when she comes back down.

Her feet find themselves in first position after she presses the 'down' button to the elevator and waits for the door to open. With a ding, the double doors slide apart and the platinum blonde steps inside, turning to press the 'lobby button.' It is not a long ride down and the door dings and springs open once again as the lobby of the hotel spreads out in front of her. Cautiously, she exits and begins making her way to the doors leading to the outside, she is almost there, she thinks perhaps she wont be caught whenâ€""Miss Lilliwen, where are you headed this afternoon...all alone?" The lady behind the desk asks. The fair skinned child closes amethyst eyes for a moment in defeat before turning to face the hotel employee with a wide, charming grin on her face, batting eyes behind long, dark lashes. "Oh, I was just going to meet my mom and dad for lunch, they told me to just meet them at the restaurant," Maaeve says in that high soprano voice as her own eyes look into the eyes of the employee. "You're not going to question why I am all alone again, are you?" She asks, focusing her energy on persuading the women to do as she says. "Oh, of course, Miss. Lilliwen, how silly of me. Nothing strange about a child being alone." Maeve smiles brightly with satisfaction at her accomplishment before turning heel and heading out the door.

The day is bright and sunny. The fairy child looks up to the sky, squinting against the shining light, enjoying the warmth against her pale skin. Her fine, light blonde hair seems to shimmer in the light, her eyes brightening like the radiant jewels they share the color of. Her hearts flutters in her petite, young chest with the excitement of finally getting to see the ocean, to hear the waves crashing against the shore. Smiling as only a child can she starts to head in the southern direction, knowing the beach was located south of the town. The child is content to walk, trying to stay near the shade when she can, her very fair and delicate skin prone to burning should she stay in the sun for too long. Faces pass her, but Maeve tends to see people's waistlines more so than their faces, her short stature making it difficult to notice someone if she did not tilt her head upwards. She is content though, to let them pass, faceless and nameless, she doesn't have to acknowledge the stares that typically come her way, sainted she can focus on making her way to the place she has wanted to see for quite some time now.

As she walks, she notices with violet eyes less and less tall buildings, tailoring down into smaller shops, people seem to be less in a hurry, stopping to talk to each other, or at least making eye contact and waving to one another. The fairy child wonders what it must be like to have lived in a place your entire life, to know everyone you pass by. Maeve can barely remember the names of all of her foster parents.

And then she hears it.

It sounds similar to what Maeve had heard when she held her pointed, fairy ears against seashells belonging to either her foster parents, or her many rotating foster siblings. Her heart thrums wildly in her chest, sounding against her petite rib cage as she suddenly breaks into a dead sprint, her violet gaze trained straight ahead where she sees sand dunes. As she races up the sandy hill she can feel the way her feet sink into the surface, slowly her stride only slightly until she comes to rest at the top. It's beautiful, achingly so. Maeve spares no hesitation as she gears up her sprint once more and practically flies down to the water as the waves crash along the shore, rolling and flowing with such grace as a ballerina, Maeve thinks. Reaching down, the child unties her shoes before pulling them off. She wears no socks and so she leaps into the water only to develop a little dance, lifting her feet up and down. "Cold, cold, cold," she squeals in those high soprano notes. Eventually though, she finds, after the initial shock, she is able to keep her feet within the water, as it alternates from only gently gracing her toes, to rising nearly to her ankles as the waves come in and out. She kicks her feet in the water, sending sparkling water droplets in every witch direction. Maeve gracefully enters into an arabesque, the ocean providing its gentle soundtrack as she dances through the water. She leaps and turns, enjoying the way the water moves around her, laughing and giggling, she feels like any other child getting to spend a day at the beach. Other children run around her, eager to jump into the waves and violet eyes flicker to the children that swim around, but the fair skinned child knows not to go out too far, unable to swim she would surely injure herself in some way. But she doesn't mind for now, because she can dance in the surf, the cool water refreshing her hot feet.

It is only when parents begin calling their children in for perhaps lunch or a snack or even to begin packing up that Maeve's arms fall to her sides, and her feet grow still. She watches as children run to their families and dotting moms and dads wrap their children in towels before handing them a popsicle or a sandwich as no doubt their sons and daughters tell them of how great the ocean is. Maeve heaves a sorrow filled sigh, but she doesn't cry, the fairy child may still to be too young to have outgrown shedding tears when she is sad, angry, or scared, but she doesn't waste them upon her lack of family. If she cried every time she felt such a longing, her tears would never cease to flow.

Slowly, the fairy child exits the water, her clothes damp from all the splashing and her hair hanging loosely against her head. She sits down on the soft sand and slides her shoes on once more, she is certainly less rambunctious than she had been just previously. She continues walking, up and over the sand dune where she spots a restaurant up ahead. Her stomach rumbles as if sensing that food was near and reminding Maeve that she not yet eaten today. She tended to put off food as much as she could, knowing she would have to steal it in order to eat, a task she never looked forward to doing.

Trudging quietly along she comes up to the restaurant, stepping onto the large porch in front of it. She can still see the ocean from where she stands, and the sea breeze sends the scent of salty air towards her. Maeve closes her eyes if only for a moment as the wind tugs on her light blonde locks before settling them against her back once more. The fairy girl strolls over to the windows and peeks inside, her stomach quietly growls once more as she contemplates sitting down and trying to persuade a member of the wait staff to give her food. For some reason though, she just cant bring herself to do it in this moment. So Maeve, the violet eyed fairy continues looking through the window imagining she was one of those fortunate souls, enjoying a meal with her family, as she tucks that hair so blonde it is nearly white behind a gracefully pointed ear.