BEXLEY BRIAR
It’s intriguing to stand next to someone so obviously different: Bexley a heretic where Inkheart is vehement, a feeler where she is a thinker, too slight, too golden, too bitchy to match. Yet in some way, Bex is comforted it by it. They can’t judge each other, can’t have any friendly spats, can’t fight over similarities. The only thing they can do with any semblance of comfort is talk like this, calm and uncentered, of dreams that span for years and all the way across the desert.
In silence at Inkheart’s side, Bexley attempts to envision a building of grandeur enough to match the priestess’ devotion, huge and spun-glass to let the light in, bricks of sand and stone, diamonds, emeralds, all green and lightning in the sun - and she smiles, mostly to herself, humoured but almost genuine, an uncharacteristic show of interest that sounds over her lips as a murmur would sound in the stagnant air. Though Bexley is not the strongest nor the most devoted, Inkheart’s unabashed faithfulness is so endearing, so wonderfully strange, that the golden girl cannot help feeling somewhat attached to her already. At the priestess’ response Bexley flicks a calm ear and raises an eyebrow - Well, send a letter when you start - and with that turns away from the edge of the canyon and back toward the Court, glittering, almost plasticine, under the sun.
@inkheart DONE whooooo sorry I took so damb long
