♙ p a n d o r a ♙
I thought of angels choking on their halos
get them drunk on rose water
Oh, this was the sort of environment that Pandora belongs in. The wine, the smoke, the music – the revelry. There’s certainly fun to be found here, and she intends to seek it out like a prowling bloodhound; god (or, her mother) knows that she’s been nothing but bored among all of these scholars and bookworms for the past few months. Where was the scandal?
That infectious, sly smile curls across her dainty lips as she sashays through the crowds, reveling in the attention garnered by her every exaggerated movement; she is a performer, after all, and she always has a show to put on. Wild curls of fire tumble like silk behind her, drifting just inches off the ground thanks to her rapid pace; carnations and clinking golden jewelry adorn her forehead and limbs, and a beaded skirt (just as golden) sits on her rump. Only for the presentation, of course, and loaned by a newfound…friend. She’ll have to invest in some sparkly adornments of her own, soon, but for now-
Her slender hips brush against a stumbling drunk, who whirls to face her; his ram-like horns narrowly miss her flank, and she bristles with indignation. How dare he almost mar her when she’s all dressed up and prepared for a show? (It was most certainly an accident, but she doesn’t care about things like that.) The furious look he gives her isn’t an accident, however, all bared teeth and snarl – oh, she’s seen men like this before. Angry drunks, out to pick a fight with anyone who crossed their paths…even if they happened to be as tiny and delicate as Pandora. “What do you think you’re doing?” He growls, red-rimmed eyes narrowed to glare at her. “Watch where you’re going, you-“ She cuts him off there, brushing her pale lips against the curve of his neck; he jolts, then freezes, staring her down blankly. Best not to cause a scene.
Pandora smiles insidiously, tossing her head and shifting so that all of the gold that coats her frame catches in the midday light – the red of her hair gleams like flames. “Now, now,” She says softly, her voice dipping low and throaty, “Wouldn’t you rather hear a song?” Pandora practically dances around him, each step as dainty and deliberate as a ballerina performing a carefully-choreographed routine; he watches her, eyes darting the length of her frame as she twists and curls, hips swaying as though to the rhythm of a song that no one else can hear. All the while, that pleasant, hungry smiles remains stretched across her soft lips, tantalizing and needy. Watch me. He moves forward, as though to reach out and brush his muzzle against her withers, but she dances away from his touch, all white-teeth and pale flesh and gold.
She laughs, infectiously.
Her graceful steps lead her to the center of the group that has slowly formed around them. The man edges back. “If you’re going to sing, little songbird,” He says, voice dipping to a hiss, “then sing.”
Well. Any attention is good attention for Pandora.
She hums indistinctly; it clears, slowly, to song. She sings in a foreign tongue, something that she finds unpleasant. (She takes great pride in the way that her dances adhere to the stories she tells.) However, she does not know any stories of Novus yet, so this is as it must be, regrettable as it is.
She moves like wildfire; sweat makes her more like gold, and the flashes of sunlight bring out the flames of her hair.
Most dancers have a few years of experience – she has thousands. Her body moves and twists at angles that should be impossible, adhering to her every desire; the beads and golden jewelry clink rhythmically at her sides, accenting the birdsong melody of her voice. Her eyes creep along the crowd all the while, even as she sings her song, even as she dances.
She bats her lashes at them.
When she finishes, she is dripping with sweat, and the crowd is quiet. She flashes them another, conspiratorial smile – as though they have just shared the most wonderful secret – and promptly recedes back into the crowd, before she can find herself in anymore trouble.
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tags | @whoever
notes | quick festival post, because she'd definitely be there
I thought of angels choking on their halos
get them drunk on rose water
Oh, this was the sort of environment that Pandora belongs in. The wine, the smoke, the music – the revelry. There’s certainly fun to be found here, and she intends to seek it out like a prowling bloodhound; god (or, her mother) knows that she’s been nothing but bored among all of these scholars and bookworms for the past few months. Where was the scandal?
That infectious, sly smile curls across her dainty lips as she sashays through the crowds, reveling in the attention garnered by her every exaggerated movement; she is a performer, after all, and she always has a show to put on. Wild curls of fire tumble like silk behind her, drifting just inches off the ground thanks to her rapid pace; carnations and clinking golden jewelry adorn her forehead and limbs, and a beaded skirt (just as golden) sits on her rump. Only for the presentation, of course, and loaned by a newfound…friend. She’ll have to invest in some sparkly adornments of her own, soon, but for now-
Her slender hips brush against a stumbling drunk, who whirls to face her; his ram-like horns narrowly miss her flank, and she bristles with indignation. How dare he almost mar her when she’s all dressed up and prepared for a show? (It was most certainly an accident, but she doesn’t care about things like that.) The furious look he gives her isn’t an accident, however, all bared teeth and snarl – oh, she’s seen men like this before. Angry drunks, out to pick a fight with anyone who crossed their paths…even if they happened to be as tiny and delicate as Pandora. “What do you think you’re doing?” He growls, red-rimmed eyes narrowed to glare at her. “Watch where you’re going, you-“ She cuts him off there, brushing her pale lips against the curve of his neck; he jolts, then freezes, staring her down blankly. Best not to cause a scene.
Pandora smiles insidiously, tossing her head and shifting so that all of the gold that coats her frame catches in the midday light – the red of her hair gleams like flames. “Now, now,” She says softly, her voice dipping low and throaty, “Wouldn’t you rather hear a song?” Pandora practically dances around him, each step as dainty and deliberate as a ballerina performing a carefully-choreographed routine; he watches her, eyes darting the length of her frame as she twists and curls, hips swaying as though to the rhythm of a song that no one else can hear. All the while, that pleasant, hungry smiles remains stretched across her soft lips, tantalizing and needy. Watch me. He moves forward, as though to reach out and brush his muzzle against her withers, but she dances away from his touch, all white-teeth and pale flesh and gold.
She laughs, infectiously.
Her graceful steps lead her to the center of the group that has slowly formed around them. The man edges back. “If you’re going to sing, little songbird,” He says, voice dipping to a hiss, “then sing.”
Well. Any attention is good attention for Pandora.
She hums indistinctly; it clears, slowly, to song. She sings in a foreign tongue, something that she finds unpleasant. (She takes great pride in the way that her dances adhere to the stories she tells.) However, she does not know any stories of Novus yet, so this is as it must be, regrettable as it is.
She moves like wildfire; sweat makes her more like gold, and the flashes of sunlight bring out the flames of her hair.
Most dancers have a few years of experience – she has thousands. Her body moves and twists at angles that should be impossible, adhering to her every desire; the beads and golden jewelry clink rhythmically at her sides, accenting the birdsong melody of her voice. Her eyes creep along the crowd all the while, even as she sings her song, even as she dances.
She bats her lashes at them.
When she finishes, she is dripping with sweat, and the crowd is quiet. She flashes them another, conspiratorial smile – as though they have just shared the most wonderful secret – and promptly recedes back into the crowd, before she can find herself in anymore trouble.
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tags | @whoever
notes | quick festival post, because she'd definitely be there
