[P] [Scarab] In hushed whispers

[Manon]

† † †

She never cared for card games.

Their monotony drew a noose around her neck, and oftentimes she struggled to stay focused on the hand in front of her while the rest of the Scarab was still alive, still thriving, men and ladies coming and going and all she wanted to do was follow them with her eyes and find a way to sneak things from their pockets. Charming them was the least she could do, but she couldn't do it while in the midst of battle, dueling whichever greedy aristocrat dared face her at the table. She would much rather play her own games, out on the floors, drink in hand, laughing haughtily (and falsely) at jokes tossed at her in hopes of winning her over. She would press herself close to them, bask in their attention, and wait for them to be occupied by other things before stealing whatever possession was most accessible. It wasn't honest, but there was no such thing as an honest living in the Scarab. And, quite frankly, no one seemed to mind.

Maybe she was more enthusiastic about the thrill of knocking her opponents down with mere wits in her youth; when the Scarab first opened its doors to the public across Novus, the rich and elite flocked to those tables to establish their dominance over each other, and as the hours grew long into the night it only became increasingly more crowded. She had once set up a near-permanent shop at one of those very spaces, but if there was anything the brothel owner taught her it was that sometimes you had to feign naivety and make the wrong decision to cost you the game. It kept them interested, it saved their egos, and it made them more willing to up the stakes for the next round that was sure to be demanded they play. The trick, then--she was told--was to politely decline, make as if to get up and leave, and when begged to stay for just one more round, meekly smile and sit back down. Then you swept the floor with them, claimed luck with a sweet laugh, and disappeared until another challenger arose.

Maybe that was the basis for all the games she played, even her own, for old habits were said to die hard and she was a girl who believed in the old "if isn't broken, don't fix it" adage. It certainly hadn't failed her yet, and should someone get too close to her trail of destruction, she would simply lay in the shadows until it went cold. One day, she was certain, it wasn't going to work--but until then, until that day when chains will be wrapped around such delicate ankles, she would throw her roses in places seen in daylight and whisper as loudly as she wished.

Whatever the case may have been before, she was different in that time, then, there, with her hanging in the corner the newcomer would eventually wander into. Despite being on different floors, Manon already knew everything about the pale, ghostly woman who had wandered in that night. She wasn't wrong in assuming that those of the rather fine business had their sights set everywhere, everything said and done brought immediately to the ones who sat highest upon the chain; and there, since little Aghavni had chosen to follow in her father's footsteps in the Day court, was Manon in her place. Rightfully, as it had ought to have been, if anyone would've asked her. Senna should have known.

And so when that scar-studded wolf had crept her way to the lounge, ordering her drink, drifting off to the side, she had found the company she didn't yet know she sought. With the twisted crown's magic activated, Manon was a mere blur in the midst of all the beauty, a slightly-off warping of reality that only those who knew to look would see. Had she noticed the girl, the woman in coppers and whites, following her with those myriad-of-colors eyes as she made her way up those steps after sweeping from table to table, winning hand after hand? In most cases, the answer would be no... but something about her was different than the simple minded patrons that often found themselves in her position.

Sidling closer to where she stood, the painted rose dropped her guise and showed herself as whole again, a saccharine smile dripping sweetness from her lips. "You should know, you must lose sometimes... to be victorious in the end," a cautionary tale rolling over her tongue, she looked out among those that milled around. "Take it from someone who has seen many fall prey to their own imprudent hubris." Things worked differently in the Scarab; she would know.

Her smile slipped momentarily into a soft snicker, edges still curved, but with a ruggedness that could only indicate familiarity. She didn't know Castalla, of course, but mayhaps she would have found some form of companionship in her story. "Why follow a calling card into a monster's den?" Voice low, eyes flicked over to her newest acquaintance, and it wasn't clear what--or who--she deemed this 'monster' to be.

Right now, I am barely off of my knees
But someday, I'll find peace

CREDITS

@Castalla !