corradh
all roads lead toward a castle that doesn't exist
Maybe it serves me well that the upper class underestimates me and overlooks me because of it.
I know my expression becomes one of mirth, of joyous victory. Is my entire existence not contrived, somehow, in the pushing of buttons and pulling of threads? I hope to burrow under his skin, itching and stinging as a chigger does. But then I say, “What makes you assume I am underestimating you?” There is a brilliant smile; brief, but wide enough to expose the tips of my fanged teeth. “Quite the opposite, really—would you care for one?” and at that, I gesture at him with a handful of figs. “On me. I pay the orchard-owner monthly for my trifling.”
I hate how flippantly I display my wealth; but simultaneously, I don’t hate it. It is who I am; passive-aggressively (or is it simply aggressive?) displaying my status. I am nothing but a peacock.
He is tense at my nearness; but he does not move away. And at that I flick my tail; brushing it along his legs, seemingly without thought or intention. But everything I do is intentional.
There is a girl begging in the street, I was going to give them for her.
I perk at that. “Oh, my. Do you know, there is nothing quite as attractive as generosity?”
Then, I begin to pull away. It is abrupt, mischievous, almost violent. “Except, of course, strong morals in a soldier. Don’t worry about the figs. I’ll get them, but on the occasion we meet again.” I am assured of it as I turn to leave; Solterra is too small for me not to meet him again and, anyways, it is much more entertaining to play the long hunt rather than the short game.
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