♙ p a n d o r a ♙
honey what you done, come from,
escaping so fast?
Delumine was far from the summer heat that Pandora was accustomed to.
The land was all flowers, which was not unwelcome; gods knew that it had been too long since she’d seen lush greenery. It was the city that she couldn’t get used to. She’d grown accustomed to drifting unnoticed through crowded taverns and busy marketplaces, little more than a pretty smile on an even prettier face, or, when she felt so inclined, a storyteller and dancer who captured the attention and imagination of the crowd. All the while, she remained a ghost, the fire-red subject of some drunken fever dream. In the morning, she would be gone, and all of the pretty things that she crafted the night before would be gone with her.
So, she had learned, was her place.
She slides through crowded streets, midafternoon sun gleaming off her golden scales. Children, playing in the square, meet her eyes; she offers them a knowing smile, like an old friend sharing some salacious secret, and promptly disappears back into the flood of bodies. She is a crackle, a sudden and violent burst of heat, a metallic clink, all teeth – a pretty smile that hits like a bolt of lightning. What remains is scorch marks and the smell of smoke. She wants to dance, but this doesn’t feel like the right land for a woman like her to dance. Delumine is full of scholars, and full of stories, but not her stories. When she dances, like any talented actress, she sells something. (She has long forgotten what it is that she is selling, though. She wonders if they notice.) This land doesn’t feel like it’s buying what she has to offer – forgetting or forgiveness or ignorance, maybe. Her mother always told stories to make people forget. That was a very long time ago, now.
When she sings, her mouth still tastes like citrus. That is the power of a song – she wants to make them taste the plump, fiery oranges that grew in clumps outside of her bedroom as a young girl. (But that was so long ago – she is no longer young.)
She doesn’t know enough of this land to know that it needs oranges, though. What she does know is that what remains of her brother is somewhere in Novus, and, unless she wants to finally accept her own morality, she needs to find him. Settlement has become a necessity.
She approaches the library.
As she steps into the building, she is overwhelmed by the smell of old paper; mildew and bookworms. The ceiling is high, and the room is well-lit; large windows. Quickening her step, Pandora approaches the nearest set of shelves, eagerly eyeing the rows of colorful spines. She doesn’t know exactly what section she’s stepped into, yet, but she’s sure that she can find folklore somewhere - that is what she needs, if she truly desires to step into this people’s skin.
Pandora is a chameleon, after all, and she’s desperately in need of a new set of scales to wear.
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tags | @whoever
notes | first post - attempting to figure out how to even write this girl
honey what you done, come from,
escaping so fast?
Delumine was far from the summer heat that Pandora was accustomed to.
The land was all flowers, which was not unwelcome; gods knew that it had been too long since she’d seen lush greenery. It was the city that she couldn’t get used to. She’d grown accustomed to drifting unnoticed through crowded taverns and busy marketplaces, little more than a pretty smile on an even prettier face, or, when she felt so inclined, a storyteller and dancer who captured the attention and imagination of the crowd. All the while, she remained a ghost, the fire-red subject of some drunken fever dream. In the morning, she would be gone, and all of the pretty things that she crafted the night before would be gone with her.
So, she had learned, was her place.
She slides through crowded streets, midafternoon sun gleaming off her golden scales. Children, playing in the square, meet her eyes; she offers them a knowing smile, like an old friend sharing some salacious secret, and promptly disappears back into the flood of bodies. She is a crackle, a sudden and violent burst of heat, a metallic clink, all teeth – a pretty smile that hits like a bolt of lightning. What remains is scorch marks and the smell of smoke. She wants to dance, but this doesn’t feel like the right land for a woman like her to dance. Delumine is full of scholars, and full of stories, but not her stories. When she dances, like any talented actress, she sells something. (She has long forgotten what it is that she is selling, though. She wonders if they notice.) This land doesn’t feel like it’s buying what she has to offer – forgetting or forgiveness or ignorance, maybe. Her mother always told stories to make people forget. That was a very long time ago, now.
When she sings, her mouth still tastes like citrus. That is the power of a song – she wants to make them taste the plump, fiery oranges that grew in clumps outside of her bedroom as a young girl. (But that was so long ago – she is no longer young.)
She doesn’t know enough of this land to know that it needs oranges, though. What she does know is that what remains of her brother is somewhere in Novus, and, unless she wants to finally accept her own morality, she needs to find him. Settlement has become a necessity.
She approaches the library.
As she steps into the building, she is overwhelmed by the smell of old paper; mildew and bookworms. The ceiling is high, and the room is well-lit; large windows. Quickening her step, Pandora approaches the nearest set of shelves, eagerly eyeing the rows of colorful spines. She doesn’t know exactly what section she’s stepped into, yet, but she’s sure that she can find folklore somewhere - that is what she needs, if she truly desires to step into this people’s skin.
Pandora is a chameleon, after all, and she’s desperately in need of a new set of scales to wear.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @whoever
notes | first post - attempting to figure out how to even write this girl
