Blessed Blight

Island of Rain

In her porcelain tomb, knees bent and arms forced to cross over her chest, she pondered a reality wherein the measured beat of her heart might eventually stop entirely. What if, rather than the stained remains of a whole-body basin, this was the pristine white top of a mortuary’s examination table? What if she had followed a path that led her to some timely and natural demise, her remains set upon such a cold place to be washed and disinfected, posed and prepared, and finally dressed and painted for one last observation?

For surely, being the Black Queen of Orisia, upon her death her subjects would wish to have one last look at her body before it was set to its infinite repose. And so, in the distant span of her heartbeats -- where nearly a minute or more trickled by before another slow, heavy, and tired contraction forced blood through her veins -- she lay and daydreamed of death.

She imagined being fully conscious within her body, yet unafraid of the prospect of eternity. In this daydream of hers, she was a tired but satisfied soul, having lived a long, prosperous, and happy life. The preparation of the body, she thought, might be met with curiosity and wonder in those final moments of awareness.

A lick of metal -- a scalpel pressing into the center of her clavicle, then cutting down between the valley of her breasts, through the hollow of her ribcage, toward her navel. She saw herself marveling at how skin was rendered like something other than skin -- like silk, or soft bread, only to bloom into blackened flesh. No black blood would flow, for it had long ceased its tired movement through her body. The syrup-like liquid would have coagulated by then.

It wouldn’t be messy or ugly...

In the darkness, just as another crash of thunder shook the walls of her small enclosure, Gabriela opened her eyes. A dim but warm glow emanated from the golden irises that stared, bereft of any will to live, at the ceiling speckled with stains from new and old leaks. And there, in that cocoon of shadows, where she was meant to find some reprieve from the potential sunshine, she felt the sickening sensation of constraints crawling across her limbs.

Trapped. She was trapped.

She heard the creak of the mostly rotted wooden floors. But with exhaustion pressing down on her from every side, she couldn’t do much more than focus on a single thought:

I am at their mercy...

And what did Gabriela know of mercy? Only that it was a kindness never afforded to her. She pondered if death could be so gentle and swift, coming while she lay so securely tucked away in the unconsciousness of her torpor.

Was this how she would die -- killed in her sleep?

Murdered, but without the horror or fear of it.

Yet she was aware. She did know. It was coming -- surely, it was coming. The fog in her mind thickened until it covered every thought, every concern, every sensation, save for the piercing cold that felt as though she had frozen through, layer by layer.

Gabriela was no more. All that was left behind was a pretty, pale, but dirtied corpse -- for surely she would appear as such to anyone who came upon her, unless they were careful enough to notice the painfully subtle rise and fall of her chest.

Would you like me to do the same kind of light-touch edit for your partner’s last entry, so the pacing and voice match perfectly across both sides of the story? That would make the upcoming convergence scene seamless.

Island of Rain

Once upon a time, when she had been but a small, golden-eyed, cherub-faced child, the sound of thunder had frightened her, while the display of lightning had been a source of sheer delight. And a hundred years later, in her young adulthood--for time was a strange construct to beings of her race--the sound was still a terrifying ordeal, and the light a great comfort.

And what of now? So many centuries after the fact--the abuse of recklessly ambitious parents and a disgustingly violent extended family fed by the corrupted founts of power--what remained of that little girl?

“Nothing,” she said aloud, and droplets of water that had collected upon her face rolled into her suddenly parted lips.

Not the taste of blood. Not the hearty warmth and intoxicating clarity that came with it. Just water--just nothing.

“Nothing,” she repeated, her head tilting as strands of soaking hair fell across her brow to cover nearly half her face. The black tendrils transformed into an obsidian-like substance under the weight of water. The tilt of her head was a consideration, followed by a narrowing of her eyes as she mused, “...perhaps, everything?”

Was she really any different from that frightened child?

It was fear that had forced her hand, and it was the promise of light--an ending to the darkness--that had sealed the tragic fate of all the people of Orisia. She was a miserable coward who had hidden for too long behind the façade of a tragic hero. But there was no pang of pain at this acknowledgment. She had come to these conclusions at least a hundred times before, for at least a hundred days in counting—perhaps even longer.

Gabriela had come to accept both what she was and what she was not.

A pale hand, leached of any semblance of color, reached out and touched the rough surface of the bark upon a tree. She didn’t need to steady herself; she was not dizzy or suddenly overcome with emotion to such a degree that her limbs felt weak. However, she did feel herself sway upon the edge of dissociation, and she could not afford to dip away into the blissful numbness that came with forgetting everything.

The rain was threatening to let up just enough to let the morning sunshine break through the tumultuous black clouds overhead. She could feel the sting of it against her cheeks—the heat of the glorious sun. And she, who was now made of nothing more than ice and glass, found the threatening heat to be an absolute inferno. Though she might be deserving of death for her more despicable attributes, she had not sunk low enough to engage in physically self-harming behaviors. The psychological warfare she waged against herself was more than enough.

In her tattered rags—a soaked-through tunic of black, a pair of fitted breeches torn and ripped in various places, drenched leather boots, and a cloak that clung to her form and outlined her small figure as a thing of dense darkness--Gabriela turned away from the sight of a familiar lake. Yes, she had been here before, and yes, something tragic and beautiful had happened here, in a lovely cabin across the way. Somewhere—perhaps similar, perhaps not really here. Her mind was a great expanse, mostly hidden by fog.

She couldn't recall, but she didn't truly want to.

The sun was coming, and the clouds were rolling over themselves, threatening uncertainty, whether they would remain or dissipate. So she sought out the safety of that distant, abandoned building. But when she came upon it, she found it different from the image in her memories. This place was not warm and comforting; it was small and rundown, not the prison where she had spent a happy handful of days once upon a time.

She climbed up rotting wooden steps, careful not to break through the weakened material, and then crossed a creaking, tired deck that had been drowning under the rain for weeks. The door was locked, but she easily forced it open with a push of her shoulder. Into the dusty interior she went, where what was left of the furniture was hidden under thin sheets colored gray by age and dirt. Past the sitting room, into a dark hall, and into a bedroom where the curtains had rotted away and revealed a large glass window that would welcome all the light of day. Not a suitable place to rest. Not the sort of place a vampyre needed. She turned away and sought another space, a small bathroom at the end of the hall. The window was small here, and her cloak was more than enough to cover it.

Gabriela did not shiver as she climbed into the porcelain bathtub. Her slender limbs did not quake as she leaned back in her sopping wet clothes. She did not seek comfort or adjust her position. Instead, she lay flat on her back with her knees bent and her arms crossed over her stomach. She breathed in deeply the smell of mold and of the magic of things turning back into dirt. A sickening smell.

There was a flash of lightning, but she didn’t see it. It wasn’t until the thunder crashed that she jolted, though the movement was contained within the tub. Not a sound spilled from her lips. But it was with this fear, suddenly gripping her heart, that her golden eyes closed, and she found some semblance of sleep.

The Broken Chant Tavern

There was spice in his voice. Of course, his baritone was low and deliberate, everything that could be expected of a man of his build and boldness. But there was something else; like his sandstone eyes, it was a quality she had never experienced.

“Ella,” he repeated back to her, his lips savoring the simple name and releasing it up and out into the atmosphere with delicious hints of cardamom and saffron. Even the shape of his mouth seemed colored by these exotic spices that perfumed the warm air that blew out in her direction with every soft and easy exhale.

He was a beautiful man. He had sharp edges and strong angles, and he towered over her with an unexpected height—he was masculine for certain. But he was also elegant and fragrant, and he dressed in fabrics that made his sun-kissed skin appear as appetizing as browned and hardened sugar.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, finally releasing her hand.

The same assessment that she had made, she realized, had been done to her in turn. She noticed the way his thumb strummed the broad pads of his fingers — savoring the cold of her skin, the same way she knew would sip the warmth right out of his blood if given the opportunity. But while she could easily surrender herself to a dream-like landscape of sensory examinations of his hands, lips, or eyes, she could not risk being so careless as to ignore the weight of the comment he had made.

He had been watching her.

Like a single droplet of ice-water, she felt the tension roll down her spine and numb her to her fingertips and toes. A cloak of suspicion, the very doubt that kept her alive, fell heavy over her shoulders. It was a struggle not to let the weight of her wariness not round her shoulders inward in an attempt to make herself small. Having been the object of a fiend’s obsession once before had left deep and ugly scars upon her very intellect that would be nearly impossible to hide. But she didn’t want him to see the damaged parts — the scars written deep across her soul in language only monsters understood.

Narcisse was beauty, and elegance, and all things that delighted the senses. There was no ugliness here, or fear, or reason to doubt.

“I’ve wanted to for quite some time,” came his confession, and with it another pale dab of rose across her cheeks, but a smile as well.

“I would tell myself for months, if she comes tonight and she is alone, I will introduce myself and ask to drink with her. And every night, you'd show up alone, and every time, I’d talk myself out of it.”

He grinned at her; it was boyish and sweet, save for the dark, silken beard around his cheeks that gave him a man’s appearance. Once more, she found herself making the sad comparison to those in her past. Had a creature ever regarded her with this simplicity of emotion? There was no false polish to him, no carefully crafted illusion. He lacked the frightening artifice she had come to expect from men who wanted something.

And he did want something…

But maybe she was willing to give it for the first time in her life.

“But, we aren’t getting any younger, are we? So, here I am, hoping to learn more about you, the lovely and mysterious Ella. Sit with me a while.”

The metallic gold of her eyes drifted from his face and over his shoulder. She looked to the double doors where the barkeep should be returning. But there were no signs of him.

“I am afraid to stay,” she whispered, leaning close to him as if they were sharing a secret. “I believe I’ve upset him, and I don’t know if I should stick around for his return. But I am very curious, Narcisse, why after so many nights of longing for my attention — tonight was the night you decided to heed your curiosity.”

Rather than slip into a seat, Gabriela drew back and away a few teasing steps before offering a slight, careless shrug.

“How about a walk? These establishments are always, always, always built lakeside. If we explore, we’ll find some picturesque shore with a silver moon hanging just above and framed in the edges of deep, dark woodlands.”

She grinned. Her plump lips curled deviously as her offer was meant more as a challenge. He knew that she was something else. Perhaps not what she was exactly. But she saw it in his eyes, and the appreciation of her flesh against his, how he had been so thoughtful for just a moment after releasing her hand. She imagined he had his own suspicions — and she was more than willing to help him prove them true.

The Broken Chant Tavern

Her attention was drawn downward to the bartop. There, nearly invisible against the dark grain of the wood, a single drop of blood swam among a sea of rich, dark brown. Muscles in her jaw tightened, and the surface of her tongue was as dry as sandpaper. Thirst teetered on dehydration. There was a sudden pounding in her head, and she could feel the pulse of a vacuum echoing in her veins down to her fingertips. That single drop of blood became a well, the only source of nourishment, the only thing capable of quenching her thirst.

She didn't look around. Gabriela was too self-assured of her anonymity. She was nothing. No one. The whole of her existence had become the unbearable thirst that drummed in her ears as heavy and loud as her heartbeat, which droned on at an agonizing pace.

She dragged her finger across the bar top, collecting the forgotten droplet of blood. She did not pause to think about it; there was no contemplation on the meaning of her actions, should anybody bear witness. What sort of monster might he be accused of being? What witchcraft could they claim she was trying to perform? It would be all wrong. She was nothing unnatural. If anything, she was the most natural thing in the world, if not the whole of the universe -- she was impulse, she was hunger, she was the law of physics that commanded that that which is empty be filled.

The bloodstained finger dipped into her mouth, and her tongue was painted with a smear of red.

It was neither good nor bad. The taste bloomed across her tongue, and she felt her jaw lighten from its crushing clench, relaxing under the metallic ting that vibrated the strings of muscles under her cheekbones. Some whisper of warmth had been left in the blood, drowning out the flavor of it that she might have contemplated had she not been quite suddenly aware that someone had moved within very close quarters of her.

A sprinkle of rose-petal dusted her cheeks. It was a near display of chaste embarrassment, of the innocent being caught, red-handed, reaching out to what is wicked for the first time. But even the supple shape of her lips or the wide, rounded eyes that peered up, below a curtain of dark lashes, could not fully convince anyone that she was nothing but the mockery of innocence.

He had sand-colored eyes. And like the rounded dunes of merciless deserts, they appeared dry, hot, and capable of stripping away everything soft and leaving only bone. He looked at her like someone who had never needed water -- someone who had never experienced thirst. They were simply unlike any eyes she had ever seen in her life. Not the indomitable sapphire blue ice of Raphal, the blood-red of demons and monsters, and certainly not the molten gold she saw whenever she managed to catch her own reflection. There was nothing soft in his eyes, not a glimmer, not a single lie -- only a quiet, only a grainy emptiness that whispered of things buried deep beneath the surface and forgotten. There was no shimmer to them, no rounded gleam of light causing them to sparkle like jewels. They simply were unchanging.

Caught off guard, she felt the immediate anxiety of distrust, of fear, of loneliness. Being so boldly approached, realizing that she had been observed for God only knows how long, pierced her with an awful sense of vulnerability. But Narcisse, even with his ancient and devastating eyes, seemed so utterly disarmed in his approach. He’d come to her, drawn in that way that only youth is drawn to danger and knowledge to divinity.

She felt seen.

“He’ll be alright,” the young man said as he helped himself to the seat beside where she stood.

“It wasn't that bad of a cut,” he went on, as if to reassure her, and for a moment, she wondered if the mockery of innocence that was her face had fooled him.

But then again, had her concern for the wounded man been genuine?

She wasn’t sure of anything anymore, especially not with the pounding headache starting to spread across her forehead. Her golden eyes lifted again to the doors where the bartender had disappeared. She had wanted his blood, but she had been unhappy to see him wounded on her account.

“Yes, I hope he will be fine…” she spoke at long last, though she wasn't sure what she agreed with. The bartender would be alright simply because he was no longer in her crosshairs.

“Narcisse,” he said by way of introduction while thrusting a hand in her direction, “And you are?”

“Ella,” she replied, having decided long ago that her actual name was dead and buried, gone like all the people of her past that she had loved but had also buried. Her smaller hand landed in his, and her fingertips smoothed over the calloused surface of his as they moved to fall fully into place, her palm against his.

The Broken Chant Tavern

It was the sound of flesh slicing open rather than the smell of blood that alerted her. The knife didn’t clang or scrape. It simply slid—like silk over skin. A soundless gasp, just a momentary hiss between clenched teeth, and then that sound. A soft, wet parting. Audible only to her. A symphony of destruction and pain that no one else noticed. Flesh giving away with almost no resistance.

Suddenly, every breath she inhaled fell heavy as liquid lead into her lungs, pooling in her chest like a weight that would crush her—the manifestation of anxiety in her body before the inevitable attack on her sensitive senses. Unlike the sound of tearing flesh, blood was not loud, at least not at first. It was a faint tang, sharp and sterile—the smell of coins being held in a sweating palm, against sweating fingers. And it mingled with the wax of the candles and their smoke, and the bitter tartness of lemon, which was bright. All of it was invasive, inescapable, and utterly damning.

It took considerable effort to move at a pace that would not frighten the other patrons. So much so that thin, but deep scars were carved into the bartop, compliments of her fingernails, as she pushed away and got to her feet. There was a memory of powerful blood. Of something old and spiced in toxic aromatics. Something she had grown to love and crave once upon a time. But it was a momentary distraction that sought to pull her back and away from an irresistible calling.

There was nothing more delicious or decadent than the blood that flowed from that mortal man’s wounded hand. The barkeep had done injury to himself while slicing the lemons she had requested for her tea. She knew it without having to witness the scene or see the accident happen.

A glance toward the door, and by her peripheral view, she noted that no one had lifted their heads or turned to follow the path of her trajectory. Not that the attentions of the patrons could have saved the man, not that anything could have saved him. The blood that he spilled on her account belonged to her now, and she intended to claim it.

“What’s taking so long?” she asked, enjoying the jolt of the burly man’s body as it registered her soft voice behind him.

She was standing at a respectable distance, a bartop between them.

“Just a moment,” he said, visibly flustered as a curious blush rose in his cheeks. He was busy wrapping a white napkin around his bleeding hand.

Gabriela noted the size of his hand, the length of his fingers, and the shape of his nails -- how they ended in neat, white crests. Perfectly manicured. Her love and hunger only grew with admiration. She found herself rather enamored of the lines across his knuckles.

She wanted to ask his age.

“I cut myself,” he stated, like an accusation, a sharp and hard look over his shoulder.

“You should be more careful,” she replied, matter-of-fact.

Her golden eyes were upon his face. Studying the distress in his expression. He didn’t like her. She felt the distrust that shook his sturdy bones. However, there was also attraction, as evidenced by the mutual admiration shared between predator and prey. Reflected in his eyes, she saw the momentary lust, the way his pupils dipped to her lips before returning to her eyes as daggers.

“All because you asked for lemon for that goddamn tea you never drink.”

A hiss.

Every word was spat like poison from the tip of his tongue.

The blood soaked through the napkin. Bright. Vermilion. Not quite red. Not quite real.. The smell made her dizzy with hunger. Again, she became acutely aware of how empty she felt.

Would blood fill the void?

“I am sorry.”

Her brows pinched, a flicker of something soft—something like pity—threading through the hunger.

“You should tend to it. I can wait for my tea.”

Her hands had gathered on the bartop, and she stared at her fingertips to avoid staring at his.

“Yeah, thanks a lot for your patience,” he responded, his voice a whisper that was thick with sarcasm. He turned and walked the length of the bar only to disappear through swinging double doors to the kitchen beyond.

And there stood Gabriela watching after him.

The Broken Chant Tavern

The Broken Chant Tavern

═════════════════════════════
𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓮
═════════════════════════════

✦ Name: Irene Gabriela DuGrace
✦ Age / Date of Birth: Unknown, Appears Mid-20s
✦ Gender / Pronouns: Female

═════════════════════════════
𝓐𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮
═════════════════════════════

✦ Height & Build: 5'5
✦ Eye Color: Golden
✦ Hair: Dark Brown, Nearly Black
✦ Notable Features: Very Pale
✦ Usual Attire / Style: According to her status, it is usually utilitarian
✦ Overall Presence / Demeanor: Severely serious, preoccupied, thoughtful
✦ Reference Image (optional):



═════════════════════════════
𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
═════════════════════════════

✦ Core Traits:
✦ Strengths:
✦ Flaws:
✦ Passions:
✦ Fears / Inner Conflicts:
✦ Quirks / Habits:

═════════════════════════════
𝓗𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂
═════════════════════════════

✦ Birthplace / Origin:
✦ Family & Relationships:
✦ Defining Moments:
✦ Reputation / Rumors:
✦ Current Goals:
✦ Hidden Truths (optional):

═════════════════════════════
𝓡𝓸𝓵𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭
═════════════════════════════

✦ Occupation / Title:
✦ Skills / Talents:
✦ Powers / Afflictions (if any):
✦ Weaponry / Artifacts:
✦ Allegiances:
✦ Theme Music / Quote (optional):

═════════════════════════════

The Broken Chant Tavern

She sat under the shadow of a wrought iron chandelier at the bar. There were three of them, following the line of the bartop from above, and she sat under the middle one. The fixture, though it looked heavy with its dozen of thick candles burning, still managed to sway softly every time the door was opened. That gentle breeze from outside was more than enough to send the fixture on its pendulum-like trajectory. And it also caused her shadowy spotlight to sway, threatening to let the cascading golden light brush against any of her extremities. At some point, it almost felt like a game, rocking her body slowly, back and forth, to stay in the seemingly cool shadow as if to hide. But that indeed was a silly thought and nothing more than a momentary lapse of a very overactive imagination. She had selected a seat at the bar, right smack dab in the middle -- no isolated and mysteriously dark corner for her.

There was nothing left to hide from.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

“I am the scariest thing that ever was -- or ever will be,” she said aloud, a whisper of comfort to her petrified inner child.

Gabriela had no idea how true that statement was. Her mind barely felt stable enough to start digesting her new reality. The mental fog had lifted, but now she stood before unknown terrain, with deprived vision and a sore lack of understanding. She remembered everything, but she did not understand it.

It was to hold a thing of dimension, weight, and volume but be unable to grasp its concept.

Somehow, that is what life had become. But at least she was no longer some dirty and utterly mad little savage thing. At least now she was no rotting corpse, digging with her nails into the ground with an internal desperation she could not explain mere moments before sunrise.

Golden eyes blinked. Molten gold shifted as smooth as liquid metal, burning everything in their path, down to her hands, which rested on the bar top. She examined her glass-like fingernails. True -- there was no dirt stuck under them and no blemishes to the long, slender, pale fingers. She had not slept in the moist earth last night, the night before, or the night before. She wore clean clothes, a white blouse with long cuffed sleeves that encircled her tiny wrists. Fabric was abundant because the shirt was simply too large, but even so, it had been neatly tucked into the waistband of her breeches. The bottoms fit her perfectly, a second skin in black that hugged the curve of her bottom and the shape of her thighs, down into where they disappeared into the folded edge of worn brown leather boots.

It was her traditional outfit. Yes, she was sure of that because when she saw the clothing upon the bodies of others, she had wanted them enough so that she stole their lives along with their outfits. She remembered that, but again, it was a distant thing. It made her physically flinch when her eyes lingered on the small white button on her cuff.

Best not to think of that for the time being.

“Let me guess, a cup of chamomile tea with a slice of lemon and honey?”

She regarded the man. He was large, old, and gruff -- but there was no beard upon his face. This man was not Frank, and this was not the Broken Chant Tavern back in Orisia. That place was destroyed. Had she destroyed it? Her brows pinched in a frown as she tried to remember, but she was looking at the barkeep. He seemed uncomfortable, as humans should rightly feel when in the presence of a lethal predator.

“It’s what you ask for every night,” he said nervously, by way of explanation for his intrusion into whatever reverie she had fallen into.

Gabriela realized her frown was distressing the man. Her expression smoothed. Her pale pink lips curled into an apologetic smile, and she lifted her small, rounded shoulders to make herself appear smaller still.

“Yes, sorry… that’s perfect. Thank you for remembering.”

He said nothing else and turned away to go about his business.

She watched him go, unblinkingly and wondering if he had suddenly become a problem. And then she felt it deep in the pit of her stomach -- that awful emptiness, that horrible hunger.

The Broken Chant Tavern

Maybe I'll add a description someday.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

Matthias sat alone in the dimly lit tavern, concealed beneath the shadows of a corner table. Gingerly, he sipped of a viscous, ruby liquid in a crystal chalice clutched between his steely fingers, keen, red eyes quietly observing the few patrons remaining. Long, damp strands of crimson hair clung to his sullen face, neatly framing his stern, angular features, sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin ending in a meticulously trimmed goatee. Over his broad shoulders was draped a long black cloak, barely covering a modest, charcoal Victorian suit with a frilled, white button shirt and an elegant red cravat tied around his neck...

@Vlad Tepes

The tea had grown cold, evident by the absent swirls of steam. She could still smell the tiny, dried-out, white flowers, which had been steeping for well over an hour. And there was still a hint of sweetness from the honey. But the warmth was gone, so the perfume lost much of its potency even to her heightened senses. Now and then she would stir the small golden spoon in circles inside the rim of the cup to reawaken the fragrance.

Yes, it had been an hour since she entered the tavern hoping to find some sign of him. Proof of his existence in this strange, new land -- proof of the life she had lived, of the world she had destroyed. But there was nothing. Not so much as a hint of his smell -- the brimstone, the leather, the spice of his skin. And as that hope dwindled and died away, she began to ponder the possibility of seeing any familiar face at all.

No -- everything had changed. In the span of a few months, the world had turned on its head, and the already unfamiliar terrain shifted and transformed like a distant mirage.

Rounded hips shifted forward until she was sitting on the edge of her seat. Her booted feet settled on the floor, legs mostly straight to make up for the height of the stool. This position allowed her slender fingers to slip into the pockets of her skin-tight breeches -- nearly an impossible task.

She was fishing for something in that pocket of hers, just as one of the few patrons that inhabited the tavern made his way to the bar. Her golden gaze narrowed, and by way of a side glance, she saw the creature that approached. Exquisitely elegant in his attire, and rather curious-looking with that ridiculous facial hair, Gabriela took measure of his presence as he whispered an order to the bartender and then claimed a seat -- besides her own.

Ice-cold fingers touched the edge of a cool coin, and with a wiggle of her digits, she freed the small treasure from its tight confinement. It was a slender silver coin, with the depiction of some unknown monarch upon it -- an unfortunate-looking man. She knew so little about the governing forces of this world and much less about its history. But she had figured out the currency system and made sure to get ahold of enough coins to keep herself out of trouble.

The coin was set upon the bartop, beside her untouched cup of tea.

“It’s a bit much,” she said out loud, tilting her head toward him, but not turning to look at him directly. A flick of her fingers pushed aside a strand of dark hair, chocolate-brown in color, and in this dim light, nearly black. It was her profile that the man would see if he turned to regard her voice. And it was a glorious sight, a straight and narrow nose, plump lips, a noble and thoughtful brow, with eyebrows that seemed perpetually pinched in concern. And then those eyes -- golden and distant, as she looked straight ahead.

“You’re cloak,” she finally went on, after a meaningful pause, “...you’re cloak is a bit much.”

Her brows lifted, and she at last deemed him worthy enough to look at.

She drank in the sight of him.

“Curious creature indeed,” she said, mostly to herself, before moving to leave.