Her sharp words have the uncanny effect of smoothing out, unadulterated as soon as they hit the air. The ambience may have had that effect – the alcohol, the music – or perhaps it was something lurking beyond those cool cerulean eyes. Their conviction resonates of the living, of a fierce and wild thing restrained by little more than pleasantries.
A truth poisoned by the present.
“Or it’s fucking annoying.”
A grunt leaves his lips.
His last question gives to a small ounce of information, in the subtle way she challenges him with her eyes, and recoils altogether in a single motion. Again, the wild thing inside of her restrains itself – be it her calloused humor, and the pace of alcohol being consumed. Fatigue?
Cyrra’s laughter is one that resonates with the cool wind, aches with a bitterness longing for spring and summer to return. Brazen and disconnected from the rhythms that surround them, the souls that loose themselves to the flesh – all reveling in their present senses. She denies herself a dancer, denies the very thought – reserved to their balcony cage, pariahs at the edges of the light.
“How tragic then,” he begins at first. Breaking his otherwise blank exterior, for a wiry smile. “I’m afraid my intentions fail your high expectations.”
Instead of longing for the sky, or the singular beat of his heart in the expanse of the desert – Noam sets his pale eyes on her. Shifting once more against the twisting metal braided against her neck.
“I think I came here looking for ghosts.”
It feels as if they should be here. Fragments of the people he once knew, in another life, another time, passing through the halls with orders clutched tight against their breast. There is a yearning to kill the man who made him a weapon, for the singular act of forsaking him. For casting him aside, a half man made to wander the earth bearing only dark delights.
Without realizing, his smile has faded. His eyes burn with an uncanny liveliness. A pale fire, that fades just as quickly – bringing the last of his drink against his lips.
Noam clears his throat, shifting his limbs to angle his chest slightly towards her. Partially untethered from the coolness of stone.
“I don’t recognize this kingdom anymore... Might be worth drinking the night away – sorrows and misery and all that – what say you? Might make dancers of us all.” The last sentence is an attempt to jest, producing a cautionary tone.
