THE ARCHIATER.
A noble sacrifice indeed, Commander -
For all her practiced stoicism, some part of her still recoils at the statement. As seemingly innocuous as it may be, Marisol is too sensitive, too fine-tuned, not to notice the weight behind such a phrase, the ease with which it could mean something entirely its opposite if spoken in the right tone: still she manages to stifle whatever part of her wants to take offense. It would be utterly plebian of her to be angry in advance. Thus she takes the sharp-edged compliment with only a cool blink and a delicate shifting of her weight across her feet, wings drawn slowly back to their resting places.
Clouds veil the moon overhead, and Marisol turns her gaze upward to follow their smoke-lined path. The red man speaks again, and she watches him over the sharp rise of her cheekbones, ear swiveled out to catch the low timbre of his voice, but does not respond for a long moment: Mari is nothing if not concise, and she will not waste words not carefully planned. Her company drains his mead, and still she watches soundlessly, heartbeat tattooed quietly to the inside of her chest. Not a name has passed between them, not a phrase of any value. Some part of her laments that. Another part is almost grateful for it.
My name is Marisol, she introduces herself finally, lowering her gaze again to meet his. In the dim light something almost warm lives in that gaze - something human and vulnerable. Nice to meet you. The crowd has grown around them, blooming in size, and the hairs on the back of her neck start to prickle. Whispers and low conversation fill the air around her; people slip by, sometimes brushing against her in moments of brief, uncomfortable contact; mostly Marisol tries to filter out the disorder by keeping her limbs tucked close and her gaze from wandering.
Military disposition doesn’t leave easy.
She pauses again, and answers, Everything is dangerous in the right context. A cool, biting half-smile twists at her lips, then disappears, already anticipating a sarcastic response to her own bitter answer. Novus is a cesspool, the Commander continues near-wistfully. Her eyes glitter in the darkness. The bigger the numbers, the more mildewed the pool. I, for one, will not be falling in.
