The world spun. It loosened itself from its axis and was sent in a turbulant, warpspeed towards the sun. The world was hot. It was sultry the air and dizzy her steps, lost in the whirl of drugs, matrimony of mind and her tinged blood, as she headed for the Inn.
It wasn't a state to be anywhere in, strung out and chill skinned, but she didn't care. She didn't care for facing reality, facing the fear, and knew it was the only way to steel herself agains wolven pangs in the night, with their howling eyes and barbed words.
She stumbled up the porch stairs, barely lucid, when her knee fell against a porch beam and she clung there, mooring herself, the wind having shocked her so, cleared her mind, the smog for now out to sea.
And inside, as straight as she could make herself out to be, she looked around, scant looks for specific faces, other Pillars or those connected. No Mish. No Rohin. This left her with only the information in her head, that she clung to, that kept her awake, that saved her from going completely mad, and she headed for a far back table, towards a familiar hat and cold blue eyes, who however icy in colour, seemed to beckon, who offered no violation, only company, and a warmth she could not describe. The mystery of the Corsair, and something to ponder on a clearer evening.
"Maia", she uttered, voice a tremulous cusp on the edge of a breath. She sunk into a seat, clothes plain, strangely unpretty, and her eyes without mascara, her lips without pout, and she was yet more beautiful, if older, with those lines from so much expression hinted about her mouth, dimpling, adding character. The wild mess of curl settled about her jaw, and were played with by unlacquered nails as she stared across at Maia.
"I'm headin' outta town, but I got the information. 'Tween you an' I, or Mish an' you?
She bent closer, eyes intense, that neon green.
"That 'napper, that thief is in WestEnd"
And as usual, when not thinking, out came the drawl, the ripcurl of heritage, that filtered through her vowels and inflections.
She leant back, asserting herself in a graceful toss of her head, shoulders rolled, and her demeanor seemed to say, "Yes, I'll go, and you know what you have to do....", and silence overtook her again.
Seemed it showered her in a captivating musing, yes, she looked older and younger, natural, she looked ageless. Classic. At ease. Perhaps, in this time of chaos, she was reconciling with herself, all those broken pieces. As myriad as the shards of glass upstairs in Room Seven, so alike was She, a thousand colours, made of tears....
It wasn't a state to be anywhere in, strung out and chill skinned, but she didn't care. She didn't care for facing reality, facing the fear, and knew it was the only way to steel herself agains wolven pangs in the night, with their howling eyes and barbed words.
She stumbled up the porch stairs, barely lucid, when her knee fell against a porch beam and she clung there, mooring herself, the wind having shocked her so, cleared her mind, the smog for now out to sea.
And inside, as straight as she could make herself out to be, she looked around, scant looks for specific faces, other Pillars or those connected. No Mish. No Rohin. This left her with only the information in her head, that she clung to, that kept her awake, that saved her from going completely mad, and she headed for a far back table, towards a familiar hat and cold blue eyes, who however icy in colour, seemed to beckon, who offered no violation, only company, and a warmth she could not describe. The mystery of the Corsair, and something to ponder on a clearer evening.
"Maia", she uttered, voice a tremulous cusp on the edge of a breath. She sunk into a seat, clothes plain, strangely unpretty, and her eyes without mascara, her lips without pout, and she was yet more beautiful, if older, with those lines from so much expression hinted about her mouth, dimpling, adding character. The wild mess of curl settled about her jaw, and were played with by unlacquered nails as she stared across at Maia.
"I'm headin' outta town, but I got the information. 'Tween you an' I, or Mish an' you?
She bent closer, eyes intense, that neon green.
"That 'napper, that thief is in WestEnd"
And as usual, when not thinking, out came the drawl, the ripcurl of heritage, that filtered through her vowels and inflections.
She leant back, asserting herself in a graceful toss of her head, shoulders rolled, and her demeanor seemed to say, "Yes, I'll go, and you know what you have to do....", and silence overtook her again.
Seemed it showered her in a captivating musing, yes, she looked older and younger, natural, she looked ageless. Classic. At ease. Perhaps, in this time of chaos, she was reconciling with herself, all those broken pieces. As myriad as the shards of glass upstairs in Room Seven, so alike was She, a thousand colours, made of tears....