BEXLEY BRIAR
For once Bexley’s descent into the Court finds her in a good mood. Thoroughly heated by the white eye of Solis and dripping in water from a stop at the Oasis, she arrives in a flurry of wet braids and bright eyes, light fracturing off damp eyelashes, the bruise at her side fading just to lavender, the scab on her shoulder almost entirely stitched back together. The desert is calm and languishes in heat; insects chatter and hum, but everything else remains quiet. Buzzing with a pleasant energy, Bexley trots toward the north wall with a sway in her narrow hips and a high-pitched tune humming from bone-white lips, in strangely high spirits for a girl about to throw that delicate frame into a day full of manual labor.
Just as she expected, Maxence has already arrived, head bent to the task of replenishing their garden, but with him, surprisingly, is another - a man slightly shorter than her with a strangely similar coat, one of gold and sunlight, even with a similar band of white over his face. Bexley dislikes him immediately. She’s supposed to be unique, her own brand of beautiful, and here comes a stranger asking Max questions with the same bleached lips, the same blue eyes, only a lack of hair and of feminine curves separating the two of them. Incensed, Bex’s ears flatten to the back of her head. She brushes past the man with an unsubtle blow of her shoulder against his and slinks to the opposite end of the field, starting to cut into the dirt with violent energy, though still she operates with feline grace, the slices exact, the strides faultless.
At the sound of the stranger’s voice, her ears flicker, and Bexley glares up at him through a thick swash of lashes. You’re new, she points out, voice surprisingly warm, though it purrs with derision. Great. We love fresh meat.
A sharp smirk cuts across her white lips, into both cheeks.
