“H
i, Messa! Were you looking for me?”
Her lips lift into a smile. For Eros, her smiles are always genuine. She shields her eyes from the shining ivory of him when she nears. A glass of liquor, half empty, floats idly by his side, and Messalina notes with a curious stare the slight sway of his hooves when he halts.
"I was. I knew that you were coming, so I kept on the lookout for white and gold and blue," she quips, lifting her eyes from his glass to him. Her eyes, as blue as the sky, shine bright with humor. A rare sight; she is only becoming familiar with it herself.
Swiftly, the girl lowers into a light, elegant curtsy. An overly formal gesture entirely — but the action is so instinctual to her that she only catches herself doing it after she has done it.
Hopefully, Eros will not mind.
Something scrapes against her neck, and Messalina's brows knit when she plucks a stray piece of grass from her mane, fixing it a look of vexation. She does not need a mirror (and she would rather not look into one) to know that her braids are hopelessly disheveled.
Only Ipomoea's flower crown remains perfectly threaded through her curls, and for that she is glad. She glances at Eros' perfectly groomed tail in lament.
“Your performance yesterday was wonderful.”
"You saw it?" Her smile wings into a grin. "Thank you. I had not thought it satisfactory, I admit, but I am glad to hear it was well-received." She had slipped on her landing from the grand jete, she remembers, and her smile dims. If Mother were here...
If Mother were here, Messalina would not be. She would be practicing, drilling and drilling and drilling, forcing all thoughts of the festival from her mind. Sunup to sundown.
A sudden rush of dread spreads through her, drying her throat. Without thinking, she leans towards Eros' floating glass of liquor.
"May I try a sip?" Alcohol has never been appealing to her, the bitter tang and burning fire of it unpleasant enough that she wonders how anyone could bear it. But she has heard of fruitier things, like champagnes and jewel-colored cocktails.
Perhaps Eros' drink will be pleasant — he seems to like it, she thinks, by the speed it is disappearing from his glass.
@Eros | notes: eons later c':
