made in the projects
slave to my progress
slave to my progress
O sniffs casually as she observes the contents of the cave. Feathers splintered and bleached by too much time in the sun, rattling small bones stacked in endless latices, scraps of dark, bloody skin and fur. It is… messy. That is what bothers her most. That whoever did this (and she is still not convinced it isn’t the man that stands in front of her) is a criminal of the worst kind - one that does not really care whether he is caught.
To her it is disgusting. O and her family, though brutish, are clean. She would never leave so much evidence behind.
From Tinea, he says of his necklaced teeth and feathers, and she watches him through narrowed eyes. She does not know enough about Tinea to say otherwise; it’s rare that she leaves the Day Court, much less wanders to empty Terrastella. But she’s heard enough whispered stories and read enough smudged scrolls to recognize that when he says Tinea he means Ilati, those strange swamp warlocks who beat drums in the night-jungle and thirst for blood. Or bones. Or something.
They too are the kind of murderers she hates more than the usual - if it were her, there would be no one left to tell stories about it.
Not until now, she says, and raises her gaze at him in a kind of challenge. Her slender legs are firm, and she stands stubbornly still as he walks past her, the only movement a slow turn of her head following his path as he brushes past her and tries to pull her away: she only watches, with hot, sharp eyes and pulls her shoulders back. For a moment she debates following -
But her gaze catches on the almost-frantic look in his eyes as he sweeps forward, and then her curiosity ratchets even higher.
O takes a slow step back toward the cave. She does not quite care if he follows or not, but some part of her, mischievous as it is evil, wants to know just how much she can scare him - a little girl against a psychotic man. That’s alright, she says wryly. I’ll look. You can go.
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