It is not often a man has the opportunity to become a living work of art. I suppose, in some respects, my station for the party is a gift; I am entertainment and entertained. I cannot understand the artists very well for their lilting accents; but I learn to understand the strokes of their paintbrushes, and in their flashing mirrors (they brandish them, proudly, with each new work upon my body) I flash a smile back.
They have covered in me in gold, and red, and the mural of their work is entangled in the natural rosettes of my flanks—I am a serpent and a battlefield and a monolith. I have a face of painted eyes and an angel's frightful wings, tonight. I am at once more beautiful and more terrible than I have ever been before.
The crux of this, of course, is that I must also be entertainment. I must smile prettily at those who visit the artist’s corner in the wide courtyard; the night air is pleasant, and nearly brisk with winter’s influence. But I enjoy it. The music from the party drifts toward us, a lull beneath the rhythmic tones of the artist’s conversations as they work upon a trio of peasant brothers. I turn away and gaze beyond the fence of the courtyard, out, out into the night. I wonder what lays beyond—
but there is someone else approaching, and with the artist’s preoccupied, I suppose it is my Princely duty to engage them. I offer my most brazen smile—and, highlighted with the artist’s work, I am sure it is quite striking. “How may I help you?” I ask, but my voice is velveteen, my voice is bedroom poetry and silk sheets. It asks, instead, can I take you to bed?
I offer a wink for good measure, assuming if nothing else the gesture might make their night. It might make me the most memorable of the Princes, for my brazenness, for my indifference. The smile broadens. "Unfortunately for you, the artist’s are otherwise preoccupied. Although, I have to count that as my fortune. What brings you to our party, then?”
"Speech." || @Anyone!
dark summers are honeyed and sulky, full of pomegranates
thunderstorms, magnolias, un-kept promises
