[P] Discovery

[Marisol]

 who's the fool who wears the crown?

The girl with the white hair notices her arrival instantly: Marisol is watching her with slightly-narrowed eyes, her gaze close and intent, and does not miss the startled jolt as she rises to her feet and lets whatever book she was reading fall closed with a dusty thump. When she turns around, the Commander can’t help blinking in brief surprise. Her eyes are a strange, silty green, like the moss that sits on top of the swamp.

Marisol has always been superstitious, more religiously organized than simply spiritual. Her stomach churns a little; the swamp, and the witches and shamans that live in it, have always had a way of setting her on edge.

And the girl who is looking back at her reminds her of those witches and shamans far more than the Commander is comfortable with. 

Unexpectedly, the stranger falls into a stilted bow. Mari grows uncomfortably, ridiculously warm, though the blush of it is lost in her dark skin, because she cannot decide whether she is honored by it or a little embarrassed on her partner’s behalf. It doesn’t sit well on her. It doesn’t look right. Yana isn’t built for this kind of formality, and briefly Marisol is disgusted with herself: somehow, and without meaning to at all, she has become the kind of person who forces people to bow even if they are not made for it.

She swallows hard. Her throat is dry, it feels a little rough. There is no telling what favor she might be asked to perform, what pardon she might be begged to hand out. When people come to find her, they almost always want something—a permission, a stipend, a signing-off of something. 

But when Yana speaks, she is pleasantly, mildly surprised at the tameness of the request. Maybe more than mildly.  

“Of course,” Mari responds smoothly. She does not quite smile when she speaks, but her expression is cool and surprisingly pleasant. The Commander continues: “Although I am… curious, to what research you are referring.”

There is something tense in it, not quite suspicious, but a little bit too interested. Marisol’s eyes are still trained on Yana’s; they are calm but intense, waiting patiently for evidence that this research is really as inconspicuous as the witch is trying to make it sound. 


"Speaking."

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