Post by lynnelia arnett on Feb 2, 2018 9:28:31 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
Soft, woven linen brushed gently against the witch’s skin; a dark sweater draped lightly across her shoulder and carressed her collarbones, dipping down beneath her trousers. She had opted for anonymity; for belonging, hidden from scrutiny; not even her companion could be found trailing in her wake. The coat she had draped over her back rested, now, neatly over her forearm as her steps echoed throughout the hall, before the warmth of the cloth left chill in its wake as it was transferred — taken, guarded, for propriety’s sake.
[break][break]
Her breath hitched against the edge of her throat, pressing, tantalizing, along the swell of her tongue — a word of mesmer, a gasp of delight, creeping tooth to tooth, aching for the part of her lips. Lynnelia shushed it, dismissed it, remained stoic in professionalism despite an undeniable rancor hushing her heartbeat, pulling it to skip it’s rhythm. In all twenty-three years on this world, she never dreamed of stepping foot to an exhibition — a showcase for the respected, the revered; the significant.
[break][break]
She wondered, idly, flippantly, whether she belonged there, before she remembered she only belonged as a dispensable power — as an ability, a body to be used for shield rather than shield itself, to protect art and not herself. She would like to convince herself that she merely took the request for its reward; repairing the damage her own supplies had sustained had caused more harm to her funds than she would care at all to admit, though she knew — of course she knew — she showed more for the thrill of a creator than the honor of a guard.
[break][break]
Lynnelia had been instructed to meet with her fellow volunteers in the foyer, and so there she stood, delicate fingers curling around the cotton of her sleeves, unruly, alabaster strands swimming in the darkness of her top, a contrast of the light and the darkness; a prediction she had yet to know.
[break][break]
Footsteps.
[break][break]
Lynnelia’s gaze shifted, and her smile rose, her palm lifted, and finally she spoke.
[break][break]
“Hi,” she murmured, a look of soft welcome upturning her cheeks; whether it was a genuine emotion or a farce for cooperation’s sake Lynnelia was unsure, though to an outsider, it seemed just as good-natured as her demeanor intended.
[break][break]
Her breath hitched against the edge of her throat, pressing, tantalizing, along the swell of her tongue — a word of mesmer, a gasp of delight, creeping tooth to tooth, aching for the part of her lips. Lynnelia shushed it, dismissed it, remained stoic in professionalism despite an undeniable rancor hushing her heartbeat, pulling it to skip it’s rhythm. In all twenty-three years on this world, she never dreamed of stepping foot to an exhibition — a showcase for the respected, the revered; the significant.
[break][break]
She wondered, idly, flippantly, whether she belonged there, before she remembered she only belonged as a dispensable power — as an ability, a body to be used for shield rather than shield itself, to protect art and not herself. She would like to convince herself that she merely took the request for its reward; repairing the damage her own supplies had sustained had caused more harm to her funds than she would care at all to admit, though she knew — of course she knew — she showed more for the thrill of a creator than the honor of a guard.
[break][break]
Lynnelia had been instructed to meet with her fellow volunteers in the foyer, and so there she stood, delicate fingers curling around the cotton of her sleeves, unruly, alabaster strands swimming in the darkness of her top, a contrast of the light and the darkness; a prediction she had yet to know.
[break][break]
Footsteps.
[break][break]
Lynnelia’s gaze shifted, and her smile rose, her palm lifted, and finally she spoke.
[break][break]
“Hi,” she murmured, a look of soft welcome upturning her cheeks; whether it was a genuine emotion or a farce for cooperation’s sake Lynnelia was unsure, though to an outsider, it seemed just as good-natured as her demeanor intended.
381 WORDS FOR reine voss, kaelin ó'coileáin, ninos knight, aiden emerson ― bless up
by sixsmith.
