She had just returned, the first time--
Winter turned itself over in circles in her mane, twirling the dusty cream locks into knots about her neck; it was loose, for once, long and nearly as though a silk shawl had been placed about her shoulders. The would-be snow would have made home within it, but there could be no nesting for something that wouldn't appear. The sky was grey and teased them with gusts that surely should have brought flurries with them, a biting chill made worse as the wind tormented them and wouldn't relieve their wish to be covered in white--that, at least, would have been the better alternative. Maybe then the children would run between the stalls in the streets, as their laughter drowned out their elder's fits of mutters and curses. Maybe then those in love that hid behind cobble walls would roam the market for trinkets and sidle close in intimacy instead of necessity. Maybe then, of all, she would have felt more free to enjoy her freedom out of an open-ended prison cell that she made for herself; caught in the boxing ring between two opposing sides that both wanted her throat slit, she the bearer of bad news for them as instead she slipped from their grasps and chose to disappear. Some time had passed since then, and those involved had long moved on to other worries hanging over their brows, and she was able once more to return to the surface and breathe the air she had been denied--they didn't know it was her, of course, who had sold out one to the other, when she was surprised to find someone had betrayed her and wished to hand her off for some petty prize; the two sides united and threatened to kill her.
But she survived, as she always would, by being the smartest in the room and wittily making her exit.
And so her first order of business would be to find the Scarab, as was customary for a girl who called no place home, and she offered herself a rare moment of wintry peace through the Night Market. Little had she expected there to be such a frigid welcome, and indeed everyone had seemed rather miserable instead of the joyous upturn of lips and laughter that she had imagined there would be. Her mottled body was cutting a path down the cobble street, untouched by the sting of the weather, bare save the silver-chained necklace and twisted twig crown that both carried sparkling gems as they twirled and danced under the sinking sun's wide rays. She was used to things that bit down deep and wouldn't let go, the pain that turned into a strange sense of revel and desire. She had sharp teeth, too, and there were times that she allowed herself to take what she gave.
A woman and her coat, pulled tightly around a nape with hair as light as the red girl's, stuck off to one side behind a booth that didn't entertain Manon's curiosity. With a diamond-marked face held high with a mane now braided (done as she strolled through the stalls of huddled figures) tumbling down nearly to the ground, she would have moved right past with sultry steps had she not been spoken to. Her name--and that was when she stopped dead in her tracks--floated from the woman's mouth, and with eyes trained on her in shock it was possible the white-tipped eared girl would have missed the paper that dug so gently into her hair. The new braid held it until she diverted her attention toward plucking it out and reading the words: Senna, was really the only one that mattered to her, and she paused with a racing heart to fully comprehend what she had read. Before her thoughts could form fully, though, and before she could glance wildly around to see if he was near, the one who spoke her true name gave her the answers she sought. Senna was not there, though the letter was his.
The chill that had been hanging around in the air found way to her bones at the mention of 'admirer'. Oh how she could only smile.
As the instructions had directed, Manon removed her crown and passed it to her companion, silently, and wholeheartedly trusting Senna to direct her. She wouldn't question his requests; he had never led her astray, and somehow he had known that she would return that day.
She had been too lost in musing over him to notice whatever the enchantress had done, likely to the chagrin of the woman who watched her so keenly, but really she didn't care; Senna had left her a gift (and had likely paid her well), and so she flashed a smile and slipped a rose into the black coat, replacing her crown and heading to the Scarab with renewed vigor. Little she would have noticed that her dark red and bright white-splashed body began to fade from view, in its place a soft hazy, blurred version of itself.
Winter turned itself over in circles in her mane, twirling the dusty cream locks into knots about her neck; it was loose, for once, long and nearly as though a silk shawl had been placed about her shoulders. The would-be snow would have made home within it, but there could be no nesting for something that wouldn't appear. The sky was grey and teased them with gusts that surely should have brought flurries with them, a biting chill made worse as the wind tormented them and wouldn't relieve their wish to be covered in white--that, at least, would have been the better alternative. Maybe then the children would run between the stalls in the streets, as their laughter drowned out their elder's fits of mutters and curses. Maybe then those in love that hid behind cobble walls would roam the market for trinkets and sidle close in intimacy instead of necessity. Maybe then, of all, she would have felt more free to enjoy her freedom out of an open-ended prison cell that she made for herself; caught in the boxing ring between two opposing sides that both wanted her throat slit, she the bearer of bad news for them as instead she slipped from their grasps and chose to disappear. Some time had passed since then, and those involved had long moved on to other worries hanging over their brows, and she was able once more to return to the surface and breathe the air she had been denied--they didn't know it was her, of course, who had sold out one to the other, when she was surprised to find someone had betrayed her and wished to hand her off for some petty prize; the two sides united and threatened to kill her.
But she survived, as she always would, by being the smartest in the room and wittily making her exit.
And so her first order of business would be to find the Scarab, as was customary for a girl who called no place home, and she offered herself a rare moment of wintry peace through the Night Market. Little had she expected there to be such a frigid welcome, and indeed everyone had seemed rather miserable instead of the joyous upturn of lips and laughter that she had imagined there would be. Her mottled body was cutting a path down the cobble street, untouched by the sting of the weather, bare save the silver-chained necklace and twisted twig crown that both carried sparkling gems as they twirled and danced under the sinking sun's wide rays. She was used to things that bit down deep and wouldn't let go, the pain that turned into a strange sense of revel and desire. She had sharp teeth, too, and there were times that she allowed herself to take what she gave.
A woman and her coat, pulled tightly around a nape with hair as light as the red girl's, stuck off to one side behind a booth that didn't entertain Manon's curiosity. With a diamond-marked face held high with a mane now braided (done as she strolled through the stalls of huddled figures) tumbling down nearly to the ground, she would have moved right past with sultry steps had she not been spoken to. Her name--and that was when she stopped dead in her tracks--floated from the woman's mouth, and with eyes trained on her in shock it was possible the white-tipped eared girl would have missed the paper that dug so gently into her hair. The new braid held it until she diverted her attention toward plucking it out and reading the words: Senna, was really the only one that mattered to her, and she paused with a racing heart to fully comprehend what she had read. Before her thoughts could form fully, though, and before she could glance wildly around to see if he was near, the one who spoke her true name gave her the answers she sought. Senna was not there, though the letter was his.
The chill that had been hanging around in the air found way to her bones at the mention of 'admirer'. Oh how she could only smile.
As the instructions had directed, Manon removed her crown and passed it to her companion, silently, and wholeheartedly trusting Senna to direct her. She wouldn't question his requests; he had never led her astray, and somehow he had known that she would return that day.
She had been too lost in musing over him to notice whatever the enchantress had done, likely to the chagrin of the woman who watched her so keenly, but really she didn't care; Senna had left her a gift (and had likely paid her well), and so she flashed a smile and slipped a rose into the black coat, replacing her crown and heading to the Scarab with renewed vigor. Little she would have noticed that her dark red and bright white-splashed body began to fade from view, in its place a soft hazy, blurred version of itself.
Build me up just to bring me down
'Cause you don't want me to take the crown
@Random Events haha finally getting to this :')
TO LIVE MY LIFE THE WAY I WANT
TO SAY AND DO WHATEVER I PLEASE
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(Please tag me in every post)
(Please tag me in every post)
