[When all was knife-sharp palatability in the dark, crass humor remains a heady thrill he's still not truly normalized quite yet— and to that extent, it's exactly why there's nothing wicked loitering beneath the surface of that remark.
Well, not overtly, anyway.
Any dedication to packbound levity initially leaned on suddenly recedes the second that his mask is nudged by a pretty nose. One that every last facet of himself is magnetized towards for just an instant, very nearly giving chase; all that saves him from the humiliation of taking things too far is a single, shifting step towards the left timed to the rhythm of the music (and a memory he can't quite place— deja vu— have they done this once before....?) wherein centimeters of empty air do the hard job that he can't: redraw the line between winebound fantasy and reality.
And it's effortless.]
I don't know which is worse: children or Orlesians, for criticism.
[Ah, but 'where you're from.' He likes that, he realizes. The way it makes him seem like he belongs here, rather than the great pretender that he is.
And it's far, far from effortless.]
Dances vary by the region, and much like....[well] pursuits of an undeniably different shade, one hardly needs to know every step to follow a keen rhythm. But shockingly I'm finding this particular dance almost exceedingly familiar.
Then again, there are only so many ways the mortal body can move.
no subject
[When all was knife-sharp palatability in the dark, crass humor remains a heady thrill he's still not truly normalized quite yet— and to that extent, it's exactly why there's nothing wicked loitering beneath the surface of that remark.
Well, not overtly, anyway.
Any dedication to packbound levity initially leaned on suddenly recedes the second that his mask is nudged by a pretty nose. One that every last facet of himself is magnetized towards for just an instant, very nearly giving chase; all that saves him from the humiliation of taking things too far is a single, shifting step towards the left timed to the rhythm of the music (and a memory he can't quite place— deja vu— have they done this once before....?) wherein centimeters of empty air do the hard job that he can't: redraw the line between winebound fantasy and reality.
And it's effortless.]
I don't know which is worse: children or Orlesians, for criticism.
[Ah, but 'where you're from.' He likes that, he realizes. The way it makes him seem like he belongs here, rather than the great pretender that he is.
And it's far, far from effortless.]
Dances vary by the region, and much like....[well] pursuits of an undeniably different shade, one hardly needs to know every step to follow a keen rhythm. But shockingly I'm finding this particular dance almost exceedingly familiar.
Then again, there are only so many ways the mortal body can move.