i'm a real dog
we all go to heaven
we all go to heaven
The chill and silence of the night drips away like water as O shoulders her way through the curtains. The touch of the velvet almost makes her shudder, foreign as it is; she is much more suited to the rough scrape of desert sand, the too-bright searing of the sun in the Mors. Everything here is too soft. Too easy. O’s jaw aches as she remembers the citadel and laments that she left it at all.
Apologies. O starts. She hadn’t even realized he was there, and when he speaks wonders how that was possible. He towers over her, a night-black blot covering the light that streams down from the ceiling; two sets of thick, dark wings shudder against his sides; even in the dimness of the ballroom she is unnerved, just slightly, by the mercurial silver of his eyes twisting against the dark, sharp lines off his face. Her step slows, she floats mid-stride.
He is recognizable, in the most awful way.
For a split moment O pauses to watch him. Her sharp head twists, and underneath the opal mask and the swath of dark hair lying over her cheek her third eye narrows, shifts, so watchful and so suspicious it seems to sear a hole against her forehead: she does not trust him, simple as that. Her blood hums loudly against her skin. The hurlbat at her hip sings a little song, gives her a little kiss, bright and warm against the gold of Apolonia’s sooty skin and the soft, easy curve of her ribs.
When he speaks again it stops her completely. O curls back toward him on long, stilted legs, turning the easiest circle she can to look at him fully: even face to face, standing tall as she can, he still towers over her like a goliath, all dark curves and sharp edges. She smiles a little at the way the edge of his mask fits seamlessly against the black of his cheek, like there is no difference between the raven-feathers and the skin.
"Hm," she responds off-handedly. Her eyes glimmer like black ice against the ever-shifting colors of the opal mask, but they are not dangerous so much as intrigued, framed by a thick swash of black lashes that beat an easy tempo against the mask. The music dims, or seems to; for the first time she wonders if she really does know him, or if death has touched her so intimately it now feels like a memory.
Not that it would matter, here: "Show me," O says, and it is half a question, half an offering. Past the smooth edge of the mask her lips curl into an offbeat smile, just small enough to be lost in the darkness and the noise and the dare.
@caine | "speech" | notes: hehe
