Ophelia
His anger is a feral thing, twisting his face and highlighting his scars in sharp relief. It’s beautiful, and Ophelia wishes they were a better artist if only to capture it later. Watching from their lower vantage point as the man also squats down - though in an attempt to salvage whatever they’d heard break - Ophelia tilts their head inquisitively. “Would you like help? I cannot feel if it cuts me.” Because unlike their brethren, Phi sees no point in hiding their nature.
They tilt their head at his question, enamored by his accent momentarily. “We either heal from our wounds or seek to inflict them back on our assailants, do we not? Even stagnant acceptance is a form of healing.” They slip their own jar into their pocket and straighten from their crouch, looking down at Remi now. “Though perhaps there is always the opportunity for both in succession if that is what you mean.” And the curious tilt of their head clearly implies their desire to know if that’s true.
They tilt their head at his question, enamored by his accent momentarily. “We either heal from our wounds or seek to inflict them back on our assailants, do we not? Even stagnant acceptance is a form of healing.” They slip their own jar into their pocket and straighten from their crouch, looking down at Remi now. “Though perhaps there is always the opportunity for both in succession if that is what you mean.” And the curious tilt of their head clearly implies their desire to know if that’s true.
Feel the storm every night, hope it passes by
Hallucinate a shady grove where Judas went to die
Hallucinate a shady grove where Judas went to die
