made in the projects
slave to my progress
slave to my progress
O is too young to see her magic as anything but a monster. Is it not a creature of its own will? Even under a tight fist, it thrashes and turns, obeying her commands in the most convoluted way it can think of: she would prefer if it could pick one vision and stay still, but even if the glamour does stutter like static, no one will be able to tell which one is her real skin. And that is all that matters.
She sniffs back a sneeze about to be triggered by the over-thick incense, and the soft, dark skin of her muzzle crinkles as she holds it down. The hallway is thickly, lushly carpeted in shades of red; the walls are inlaid with gold leaf and shimmering lanterns; everything about the room stinks of opulence, and O cannot tell if it entrances or disgusts her. Or both? She is her mother’s daughter, not immune to material charms - and yet that snarling rebel heart of her detests being pinned in, even by walls as nice as these.
It is that same heart that keeps her on edge. She cannot relax, cannot persuade herself to let her guard down. Instead her skin crawls and her ears swivel rapidly; in the next room over she can hear the low murmur of nobleman’s voices, and pillows shifting, and people moving over the floor. And so she is not totally surprised when she sees the girl slipping out of the shadows, although not totally prepared, either.
Her eyes are purer green, brighter and lusher than new grass. O’s eyes immediately flick up to the pale horn spiraling from her forehead and wonders if it is a weapon or merely a decoration; she is pleasantly surprised to notice the thin golden spikes poking out of the girl’s pearlescent hair, and decides it is more likely dangerous than not. Ah, one after her own heart. She glances at the fan at the girl’s side, and the weight of her hurlbat (a spray of baby’s breath, now) seems to pull at her hip a little heavier.
O narrows her eyes at the way the girl remains in shadow, but says nothing. Even she knows it is not her place. Instead she levels her head to meet the girl’s gaze and offers the slightest of smiles; her teeth glint in the dim light, shark-like and easily confident. Thank you, she says, though it feels almost foreign (when was the last time she had something to be thankful for?). You run this place?
She debates flicking the card out of her pocket to prove that she is supposed to be here, but throws the idea away within the next second: she has never felt the need to prove herself to a stranger before, and this girl should be no different.
@aghavni | "speech" | notes: <3
