I'll let the flames take me high, burn down the whole damn sky
A wry shape bends her mouth in return for his comment. "Even ones you give yourself, Archon?" she queries, amusement tickling her tone. That he's a rebel is no surprise given what she knows about him, including his time before Caido, though she's fairly certain that at this point he has very few left to order him around. There's always Frey, but they're not much the commanding type. Aware that he's in a poor position to respond, quite on purpose, she pauses her efforts long enough to throw him a look. She expects to find an answer gathered in some shape or another on him, but he wears more than that. Don’t they all.
Weariness remains with all the permanence of a scar, though it's not so obvious when his lips slant sly or his gaze fixes on something more present than memory. In those moments, one such as this, he could be mistaken for something other than miserable, however briefly. She doesn’t linger on the places where the aches of the world have been pushed to the fringes of him, instead glancing at the wrinkle lines that reveal the way his smile has worn itself into his face. It’s proof that despite everything, he’s bent rather than broken himself before the world, even if it doesn’t always feel that way in the moment, even if he’d done everything to let that snap cleave a new kind of peace. She’s certain he’s bowing again now, some days heavier than others, and maybe it’s all the scar tissue holding him together now, but she doesn’t worry that he’ll buckle to the weight.
She pulls herself back from the view, trading suds for sharp, as she is apt to do. It begins simple enough, hair giving way to the edge of the razor, lather shorn away with it to mark the trail of where she’s been. It goes in short but sure strokes, each rasp revealing a hint of a new man beneath the shadow, and she wipes away what he was on a towel at her side like it’s really that easy. Carefully she runs a finger down his cheek, appraising the feel of the work done so far with a low hum of approval.
It’s impossible not to be drawn back to the study of him as she goes though. The color of the harsh sun lingering on the prominent parts of his features tells the story of the hard work he’s always doing for the region. The earrings, ones she can’t ever recall seeing him without, show the way he hangs onto the things that matter to him, the sentiments of things he’s lost before, like it might remind him how to avoid doing so again. The ink he’s decorated himself with, the only pain he’s ever deliberately chosen, and all to sign a promise to his skin that his mind can’t forget.
Her fingers shift from his jawline and the brush of his hair by his ear to splaying against his freshly shaven cheek, keeping him steady as she leans in close enough for breath to disturb the soap. She’s tackling his moustache now, gaze intent on the task, one knee rising to brace against the arm of the chair to get a good angle. ”You’re much better at this than Clyde ever was,” she murmurs, blade swiping across his upper lip with precision and care. ”He’d always gripe about the effort of shaving.” Her concentration rises as she finishes around his mouth, wiping away the residue with her towel to give him freedom to talk easier again. ”What’s the story on the earrings?” she wonders as she wipes her blade clean to start on his other cheek.
Weariness remains with all the permanence of a scar, though it's not so obvious when his lips slant sly or his gaze fixes on something more present than memory. In those moments, one such as this, he could be mistaken for something other than miserable, however briefly. She doesn’t linger on the places where the aches of the world have been pushed to the fringes of him, instead glancing at the wrinkle lines that reveal the way his smile has worn itself into his face. It’s proof that despite everything, he’s bent rather than broken himself before the world, even if it doesn’t always feel that way in the moment, even if he’d done everything to let that snap cleave a new kind of peace. She’s certain he’s bowing again now, some days heavier than others, and maybe it’s all the scar tissue holding him together now, but she doesn’t worry that he’ll buckle to the weight.
She pulls herself back from the view, trading suds for sharp, as she is apt to do. It begins simple enough, hair giving way to the edge of the razor, lather shorn away with it to mark the trail of where she’s been. It goes in short but sure strokes, each rasp revealing a hint of a new man beneath the shadow, and she wipes away what he was on a towel at her side like it’s really that easy. Carefully she runs a finger down his cheek, appraising the feel of the work done so far with a low hum of approval.
It’s impossible not to be drawn back to the study of him as she goes though. The color of the harsh sun lingering on the prominent parts of his features tells the story of the hard work he’s always doing for the region. The earrings, ones she can’t ever recall seeing him without, show the way he hangs onto the things that matter to him, the sentiments of things he’s lost before, like it might remind him how to avoid doing so again. The ink he’s decorated himself with, the only pain he’s ever deliberately chosen, and all to sign a promise to his skin that his mind can’t forget.
Her fingers shift from his jawline and the brush of his hair by his ear to splaying against his freshly shaven cheek, keeping him steady as she leans in close enough for breath to disturb the soap. She’s tackling his moustache now, gaze intent on the task, one knee rising to brace against the arm of the chair to get a good angle. ”You’re much better at this than Clyde ever was,” she murmurs, blade swiping across his upper lip with precision and care. ”He’d always gripe about the effort of shaving.” Her concentration rises as she finishes around his mouth, wiping away the residue with her towel to give him freedom to talk easier again. ”What’s the story on the earrings?” she wonders as she wipes her blade clean to start on his other cheek.
Colt
I spent the night on the ceiling, drank the whole weight of my weakness
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
