☼ ISHAK ☼اسحاق
"we're too far gone / nothing I say will mean anything"
"we're too far gone / nothing I say will mean anything"
Strains of a string band come drifting in, and you turn your face towards an open window. Cool night winds come through, rippling the curtains and silks festooned about the hall. The floor is shine-stained — mica and cosmetics and blood.
The stars glimmer, and for but a moment you are the colt tracing the patterns of your father’s maps. You are the press of cool wind and sand in your mouth and gathering clouds on the horizon. You close your eyes tightly, choosing to focus on reds and purples instead as you wobble slightly.
You are, perhaps, a drink shy of one too many.
You’re relentlessly tired of this party, as it spills into overlong hours. Some fool had gone and stumbled into someone else’s unsheathed blade, and now Ruth is busy patching them both up. (If it’s actually a foolish and botched assassination attempt, you can’t say you care. Unless someone is trying to kill Ruth, it’s your firm opinion that it’s none of your business.)
You grimace as you catch sight of a wine stain, of its accompanying broken wine glass. Even here, tucked away from the whirl of energy that is the body of the party, there is work being made for the servants. You hear a moan of pain, and of complaint, and you’re not in any mood to be Ruth’s surrogate bedside manner.
You check instead that the door is firmly shut.
If you thought the walls would actually silence the music, you’d slip into Ruth’s rooms and pass out on the pile of cushions in the corner. It feels like the further you get from the center the louder the party is, but that might just be your fast developing headache speaking.
Irritated, when you hear the clip of hoofsteps, you are quick to say, “Room’s occupied. I’d recommend against interrupting.”
@Corradh | syn <3 | “million pieces” - bastille
