take that look from off your face you ain't gunna burn my heart out
Slowly, slowly, she draws the fire down the curve of her throat. Closer, closer, her hair slips toward the licking flame. Beyond the glow of the vibrant fire, the rest of the Scarab was black, save for the flicker of lights dotted hither and thither. Minya smiles to the black, as if she can see each member of her audience.
Oh she feels the heat of the flames as they brush at her cheek, hissing and laughing. The music is loud in her ears, it drowns out the voice of the Scarab – filled with revelry, laughter, the roll of dice and the chink of glasses.
Her show ends as her lips and teeth close over the fire and it is gone. Suddenly everything is black. Suddenly the darkness without fire is so utterly complete. Suddenly she is just a girl locked in a mercenary’s trailer being dragged out into the heart of the desert. The only air, the only light was what could filter in through the tiny bullet holes sporadically sprayed across the wooden walls.
The stage is firm beneath her feet as she turns suddenly. The air in the den is as stiflingly hot, as airless as the tiny cell. Her limbs are as unsteady as the rattling wagon wheels that rocked her cage this way and that, but she walks with the grace of a girl well used to hiding within her every piece that screams and cries with horror.
Minya glitters in gold. She smiles in beauty and every inch of her is as divinely beautiful as a picture. Every inch of her steel skin is polished like gems. Every inch of her is fake. Except, of course, for the gems, for the myriad of jewels that litter her torso. No, each one of them is real, each one sent to her with adoration and hope. She keeps each piece and she vows to wear every one.
There are more gifts, resting beneath the golden light of her dresser. They blink and sparkle and beg to be worn. In Minya’s mouth is only poison and her veins are full of ash. Oh the gypsy carts call her, the hiss of flames carried upon the sigh of the midnight winds. She will leave the Scarab this night, she will slip into a caravan of travelling artists and sleep beneath a blanket of stars.
But, for now, she slips through the backstage curtain and out into the main rooms of the Scarab. Her acid pink hair is a sheet of silk that cascades down her slender throat. Beneath the lights Minya glitters, with diamond dust upon her lashes, with glitter across her skin. Within her antlers trinkets hang and they glitter, catching the eyes of adoring fans. And oh, beneath the fan of her lashes she smiles demurely, beatifically at each of them, her gaze studiously avoiding the mirror and the pauper girl who smiles a grin of dirt back at her. Oh, was that truly her? A shudder slips along the slender curve of her spine and she steps up to the bar.
“White.” Is all she says to the bartender, but he knows and places before the broken girl a glass of semillon. It is nectar upon her tongue and oh she drowns in it, oh she drinks it and knows it is the most expensive bottle here. She knows that if she lingers just a moment longer upon its taste, it would not be wine at all, but water and poison or desert water slick with pollution.
Minya is safe and adored now. Yet still she does not look too closely to the wine glass and the broken girl who stares back
Anyone is so very welcome! <3 | "speaks" | notes: <3
And we long for the place where we can be found Burning like a star in our minds
There is a quiet that spills across gleaming floors and stretches far into the corners of the darkness, a black so deep that it is only pulled apart at its seams by the pinprick light of her fire. That light buries its way into the bodies of the speckled crowd gathered at the stage's feet, seeping into flesh and pooling between ribcages; and she is the puppeteer that they all fawn over, strings drawn tight as all glinting eyes reflect only her heat. She plucks at them, those tethers she holds, surrounded by silence save for the cracks of the flames she devours. They demand all attention, the girl and her fire, and how there is so much to give her! They come in waves and droves to stare at her glimmering skin as it refracts the oranges and reds, a daring act that, no matter how often it is seen, never loses its violent appeal.
And between it all Manon is there to watch.
She lurks amid the masses, undulating body disguised by magic that takes away all signs of who she is--for she is merely a blurred surface unrecognizable by any as she slips inside the darkness and around those gathered, once-shining eyes dulled so as not to spill their secrets. All aspects of her are gone: there are no white splashes to compliment a russet paint, no silver hair to glide against a mottled, ballerina figure, and even her twigs and crystals disappeared inside the grasp of illusions. And so perhaps she felt rather plain there under the eyes of all who converged, but she knew it was necessary for her goal; trays of clinking drinks (the only noise to interrupt an otherwise deathly stillness) followed her as glasses of liquor were offered to anyone who insisted on more, more to make them forget any but the girl and her show. Manon was all too pleased to oblige, since it wasn't only personal problems that were left behind in the Scarab...
The performance ended as it always had--the flame was consumed and in the utter black both mistresses of dangerous whims disappeared along with it. The crowd erupted in cries of acclamation as it had done every time before, flowers and trinkets thrown without thought or care on the space the antlered figure just stood. They were all creatures of simple pleasures, simple minds, simple deception; they gave away treasures without second thought and she was sick of them all. How easy it was to trick them into a stupor of unabashed bewilderment and take the things most precious to them.
How easy it was to be fitted among them.
"I always wondered how you do that." The words drifted to reach the ears of the entertainer, rough and circling like a predatory thing trying to disalarm its prey before attack. They purred and danced and laid themselves to rest between two who, at one time, pretended to be things they weren't (so unfortunate it was for anyone, for everyone, for her, that she became the very thing that threatened to take hold and drown them all into a pit of solitary despair). Maybe at one time they were alike, the deadly beauties with an even more fatal mind, and maybe at one time they would have been quite fond of each other; but that would have been a different world under different circumstances, ones that brought them together outside of the cryptic walls of the establishment.
But as it were they found each other there, in a place of grandeur promises made to undeservingly broken hearts. And it was as Manon sidled alongside the oil-slicked enchanter that they would again find themselves in a battle of grace.
Her disguise faded away and revealed the razor-boned woman with serpentine eyes and a dagger for a soul. She slipped a smile at the bartender and no words were needed before he brought her her usual. It might have been a slight handful of months since she returned, but all remembered her crystalline figure just as they would have the glimmering-adorned one of her companion.
"Minya, how lovely to see you again." A flash of compassion, a sting of indifference, it wasn't known what the true feelings behind her honeyed statement were made of.
take that look from off your face you ain't gunna burn my heart out
I always wondered how you do that.
Stiffness slides up the graceful curve of her spine. She pauses, momentarily, with her drink close to her lips. When she slips at last, it is with grace and elegance. Her lashes are low and she does not look to the Red Rose, yet Minya knows the lilt of that smoky voice anywhere.
They are clearing the stage, Minya watches as the pick up each trinket and place it in a box: a dozen roses, a watch, a necklace, more flowers – so many flowers. Minya gives them away to those waiting outside the doors of the Scarab. She gives them to children who do not know what to do with them but smile pleased and thankful all the same. The box is bursting when they take it back stage and Minya hopes Manon sees it.
Her smile is slow, slow and she turns at last to settle that midnight gaze upon the Red Rose assassin. “Wondered how I do what, Manon?” Minya asks at last, her voice the sound of honey and whiskey. It is warm, so much warmer than the smile that curls her lips and the stone-cold gaze of her moonlight eyes. Yet nothing about that smile is sincere, its beauty is that of stars and planets and echoing ages, yet behind it is something dark. It is a black hole smile swallowing, fake, manufactured to keep everyone from the ache behind it.
Her fringe is a wash of rose over her eyes, strands snag in the khol of her lashes. Her gaze glitters with its diamond dust and she does not lift her gaze from Manon. All the world is Minya’s stage and every piece of her is intricate drama and a precise art. A slender shoulder lifts in a shrug, as if nothing of what she does is truly of any note, but oh it is. The girl is a goddess of the stage, enchanting beguiling enrapturing her audiences. She steals hearts and eyes and voices when she dances and eats the fires that lick along her skin.
She chimes as she moves, she glitters like the sun, she gleams like moonlight tumbling over and over itself just to fall at her feet. Ah she smiles now, feline, sultry, claws in every curve of those silken black lips. She feels the sting of Manon’s indifference, she knows the blades she hides and oh how below Minya fighting is! She will not get her body so dirty as to fight and steal the life of another. No, she settles herself with stealing hearts and adoration. She is the thief of whimsy and enchantment.
“Indeed, Manon.” The girl purrs, feline, soft, the curl of a cat about its owner as it asks for food. Touch her Manon and claws will be in your skin. “Welcome back. How long has it been now? A week, two?”
Not long enough.
Anyone is so very welcome! <3 | "speaks" | notes: oml Minya has some serious claws, i am so sorry!
