SALAMMBO

𝙸’𝙻𝙻 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃, 𝙸𝙵 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙱𝚈 𝙶𝙸𝙵𝚃 𝙼𝚈 𝙺𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙴 / 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚅𝙴 𝙸𝚃 𝙾𝚄𝚃. 𝙸’𝙻𝙻 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃, 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴

[deif1ed-deactivated20240502]

"there's only one prickly cunt at this table." pakorn pervades this poison to be on the green; little else does he mention about it. his pulse flutters in the human part of his neck, that anticipation, that sensory issue: something is going to fucking happen. you feel it, when it's like this, when fate is winding itself around your neck. the same as the first time he saw yamato after everything died. her silky fur does not detract from the fact that rabies lurks within her incisors. that she is looking for the softest and the most vulnerable part of him to bite down & disease him with it. somehow, this both mimics and contrasts the surroundings. the shifting of the others. the sculpt of her shoulders, fitting in with stone. she is adorned in her terror and pakorn doesn't bother to glimmer back. he is dressed in a suit's shirt and slacks, one sleeve torn off to make room for what does not keep him human. "i haven't needed a fucking thing from you in years. and by the gods, i never will."

silence is the lie. words are the truth. he continues shuffling, and then begins to distribute the cards. lavinia suggests playing for old time's sake; only two others are stupid enough to join this debacle. pakorn hums, a huff, an annoyance. she might be fox but she is also fly, fucking buzzing around his ear, smelling for the maggots. "be my guest, ma'am." she gets a full hand of cards as the others do. but the stakes must be raised. it is written in the digital codes, in the red ropes of fate, to be this way. pakorn does not fight against such superstitions. only watches them. "no money then. of course you wouldn't. you're an endless font of wealth and fortune." but he's a gentleman or fucking something. "name your stake then. i'll name mine after." call it even. call it drawing the sticks into the cup. call it pulling the shortest one. the other two go ahead and bet money. that's the safest option. good boys.

[audeamuus]

── “the world will bestow me with many more monikers. cunt is a little too simple. you can do better than just parrot my words. so we can turn this into a joke. two cunts sit at the table and — well, I'll let you finish the rest.” she leans forward then, resting her delicate chin atop entwined fingers, deliberately slow as she drags her fox-like gaze across his features, her intention set on picking apart his every nigh imperceptible expression. he may be adept at deciphering his opponents after years of playing the game, but so is she. astute as ever, unavoidably distant even as they sit so close to each other, she's willing to challenge him even on his well-trodden terrain. “but you do finally admit it. that's all i needed to hear.” lavinia offers him a smile in the way one flashes a knife in the dark. by the time you see it, the blade is already at your throat, drawing blood.

with a set of cards in her hand now, she looks back at him, disregarding the comment about her wealth with a single shrug of her bare shoulders. “i guess you could say i'm looking for a gift. it's not quite the proper term for it, but certain people just can't be reasoned with. the only language they understand is that of flesh and blood and bone. i suppose i ought to show them just how fluent and eloquent i can be, in any language really.” she knows what her request entails, knows that he could ask for anything in return — but her heart, body, and mind are all too aware that there's someone she's willing to risk herself for. “so i want a part of you. any part will do. something real. there's this one saying that goes something like: give them a finger, and they'll take the whole hand. but i'll be magnanimous and modest and twist these words around because i don't think that the crowd here could handle that much entertainment. the choice is yours.” he must accept the terms.

“but if you agree, then i demand that they bring us a knife. one of your men could do it. the sharpest one they can find of course. it can rest here on the table while we play.” it's his ruinous decision. his game, the one he knows best. his weapon too.

[gravefed]

Not hunting season,   but she had thrown a carcass into the waters.     She knew of the consequences,   felt them on the back of her neck as she walked down the hallway,    hellmouth stretching open at the end of it.      How the skin is taut and rigid over her body.     How it has already begun to eat itself.     How it knows that the way out is through    —   this bloated belly of a wife’s duty.      Still,    not quite fearful.    Still,    not quite what she had seen in Russia.     Still,    not quite that rage that Danill Belikov had bitten into her with.     Spoiled she is,    so used to the monstrosities of humans that she forgets that vengeful women have a different appetite.     She’s felt it.    Had a feast of Lavinia’s lover’s hand and here she is herded into the final slaughterhouse.      She thinks it wouldn’t give that horror that those darker kept secrets give her.    She thinks more blood.    She thinks more violence.    She can handle violence,   pain    —    suffering that is visible.     Except she’s greeted in that name.    That crawling black eel that slithers from her stomach and comes out of her mouth like a ghost of a dry heave.    The nausea returns.     Stoic as ever in her face     —    besides that slow clench of her jaw as she swallows the bile down    —   she meets the gaze of the usurper.      So bitter with that knowledge that she saw her husband in a state not unlike a snake writhing around on the ground searching for its tail.      The clock above the doorway ticks.       She should respond,     Margosha should respond.      “Toying with my ghosts are you?”      Her vision blurs,     the pulse races     —    some kind of sign that her body might be willing to jump away from her soul at any point in time.      Heeled boots follow her regardless,    she avoids looking at the pile of folders.    She avoids any glossy shine of a photograph peering out at her from the collection.    She knew the vision anyway.      Chin tucked slightly,     but the head is not bowed    —   not broken,    not yet.     Margosha doesn’t waver until the last second    —   until the spine gives out.     She remembers this game.     She remembers that to win one still loses everything.    Time to play and she speaks plainly,     tiredly,    without much willingness to hide her sickness that coils in her abdomen.      “What do you have,    Lavinia?”

[audeamuus]

── “it's madam to you. madam attorney general. this is a government establishment after all.” the words come out as an instantaneous reminder. she's not just a woman. not just a wife. lavinia would not be denuded so easily of the prestige and stature she had earned and not simply inherited. “you'll never escape the winter. ” it's not a threat — only a prophecy. she had followed her to moscow, chased her twisted shadow down the sadovnicheskaya street by the cold and hardly tamed moskva river, and beheld the same men, those with relentless eyes like grisly frost. she knows her now, almost intimately, quite well from within. “do you happen to remember ilya yurievich antonov? your very first target. he was rather pleased to hear that you're alive and well — and here in new york. i'm certain that a warm reunion awaits you after all these years.” the first photograph slips from the binder, that of ilya, dated back to aranya's first year as a field agent, vivid in colour. it's nothing more than a subtle provocation.

to be the best, one must be sharp, focused, and unhurried. she can't let herself be carried away by anger nor led astray by unabashed passion. it can never be personal. the heart needs to be elsewhere, beneath the floorboard that bends under her heels — yet the lines blur, weakening her strength needed for restraint. “i have to digress here for a minute, chiefly out of curiosity. i've done such extensive research about your life, but there's this one thing that baffles me still. let's call it a loose thread.” how much will she have to pull until she can unravel and undo the stitches that hold aranya together?

this is only the prelude.

“you're so self-righteous, you act as if everything that you do is in the name of those you love, but that love appears to be selective, especially when it comes to your own blood. i'd say it's much simpler to be hated than it is to be loved by you. eight years of lies, deceit, and sorrow. they cried for you, mourned you. somehow everything that you do makes its way back to them, in one form or another.” she pauses then, canting her head to the side. “so tell me, how much more pain are you willing to inflict upon them? because when the blood of your adversaries stains your fingers, what sets it apart from the blood of your parents and brother? all blood looks the same. it's always just red.”

[audeamuus]

𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄, featuring akira @descorts

── she's too useful to sit idly. too useful to feel heartsick, even as excessive anguish waxes and wanes like a tide under the influence of her lunarlike mind. it's much simpler to trail after the russian snake in the garden, to seethe with lust of retribution than it is to face the vehemence of her own emotions. sleep evades her, decadent food does not sustain her, and now, not even the heap of unpublished documents scattered across the dinner table can elicit temporary comfort. declassifying such well-encrypted files is needlessly tiring, with each record and report being more baffling than the last.

growing impatient, she attempts to rise from her seat only to be pulled back down momentarily, her intention thwarted by sudden lightheadedness. when was the last she actually ate something? hours ago, yesterday perhaps. it's colder too than it should be. she feels it in her fingertips when she pulls the crimson robe de chambre closer to her chest, adamantly refusing to be deprived of her usual temerity even with her head bowed. half-focused, she hears akira before she sees him, straightening her spine in tandem with the sound of approaching footsteps, remaining proudly poised. “do you need anything?”

[deif1ed-deactivated20240502]

the world goes still. glances up from the three other patrons at the table, stares from those surrounding in the crowd, a sudden quiet overlapping through the voices. pakorn himself continues moving. flipping the cards over, preparing to act the part of dealer in tonight's match. dealer, observer, from behind his own panel of black glass, a clouded mirror — and she leans through, parts the masses, to stare at herself in it. the human eye remains upon the backs of the cards, undressing them; the eye with cybernetics, infusing him anew, flicks to her visage.

𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 … /// 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚁𝚈 : 𝚄𝙽𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳. 𝙄𝙉𝘿𝙄𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂: 𝙇𝘼𝙑

l̶̹̇͂a̶̰̗͊v̶̲͛͂inia nishiguchi." the switch in his cerebellum to that part of himself is evident. the cybernetic within, threatening to burst without, emerging in the croak of lacking humanity. she, circling closer, eyes peeled, and there she sits, as though she wishes to become little more than a fox's skin upon his arm. more glances exchanged. shift of discomfort. her face, painted in its lacking-fury, causing furies to awaken and to wind the strings of fate to their strings, scissors shining to snip. not yet. he stopped believing in faerie tales long-the-fuck ago. this is only violence. "and to think. didn't have to send a cat to drag you in by the scruff of the neck. but we're about to start." his human eye joins the other. locking gazes with her. unblinking. "to what do i owe this — joyous fucking herald of your company?"

[audeamuus]

── they say sharks never stop swimming, impelled to either move or drown. yet for all their might and ferociousness, they only ever hunt when they're hungry. “don't be such a prickly cunt,” like your sister. “you used to like my company. you all do when you need something.” a resonant laugh tenaciously clings to every word, cutting through the cacophony of feverish and yet soft-spoken prayers and obscenity, accompanied by the perpetual ringing of slot machine bells and sultry jazz. she belongs entirely to this moment. the earth no longer spins — only the two of them exist. he asks her something but she doesn't answer. silence is just a more convenient lie.

“let's play. for old times' sake.” the silky fur that envelops her body ceremoniously drops, blink and you'll miss it, revealing her bare, sculpted shoulders and a string of diamonds nestled against her collarbone, glistening under the thrawn casino lights. even from this distance, she thinks how easy it would be to gouge out his remaining, nonaugmented eye. the last window to his soul or whatever is left of it. she wouldn't need something sharp or jagged, not even a pen. all it would take is one of her long fingernails. the eye, of course, she'd place between her front porcelain teeth, savor every second, and then swallow it slowly. justice is always blind, isn't it? “but perhaps we ought to make this interesting. shall we raise the stakes? though i must admit i have no interest in money. only people who don't have it are willing to gamble with it.”

[audeamuus]

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐒𝐒 . @8blud

[8blud]

“ SING FOR ALL THE DAMAGE WE’VE DONE AND THE WORSE THINGS WE’LL DO. ”

[audeamuus]

𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐎, featuring pakorn natharuetai @deif1ed

── always in motion, both hurried and slow-moving at once, like thin coiling mist or billowing smoke, she comes clothed in apathy as if it were a fox-skin, ready even now to be courteous and audacious in conversation and repartee. the veil of pretense never drops. it simply changes its length and defining pattern. inscrutable woman, scorned woman, who do you espy? “pakorn natharuetai,” she greets him by name, enunciating each syllable, using the sound to sharpen her own teeth; she's held that name for too long in her mouth, all its dirt, she's made a pearl of it by now. “mind if i take a seat?” a buccaneering challenge awaits her at his oval-shaped table, a trial of self-control and internal undoing, and yet she still besieges him from one side and sits, neither waiting nor needing to hear his retort. “i was hoping we'd see each other again.”

[descorts]

"any judge would rule in your favour in any case." this sort of praise comes easy: simple, self-evident, and utterly thrilling. if she so decided to impale him right then with the very mask she wears in the courtroom, that'd be his own fault to not have seen it beforehand; not have called monstrosity by its name, and carved open a space between his collarbone for its blood-toothed cove. and if it laughs, what else can he do but echo it? she's grown inside him, tender song-in-throat. "just a plush one? i can get you one like minoru has. get our mechanic on it." look at him now, decorating the weakened wrist with a clenched fist around a ring. he could have kissed her then, and instead, had the audacity and the courage to look away, trading his attention from one sense of purpose to another. one ring makes it; and another; and, though the third one fails spectacularly, he's got a fourth to make up for it. this isn't something he can beat with a bat. this is a directive he sinks his teeth into and offers; were it appropriate, he'd do so with his knees kissing the ground, as if to bless it with the luck to feel the heavy heels his wife wore. "what'll you name him? or her — it has to be regal, though. memorable. something fitting for our first born." he says it like a joke, of course. to share her attention with anyone else — and a parasite that would take up space in their home, besides — might as well be a far-off nightmare. they'll talk about it some other day. maybe.

[audeamuus]

── “well, i don't think that auggie and tibby would appreciate a mechanical cat around. besides, there's some charm to it. i could always bring it with me to the office and use it as a pillow.” and with that, she takes a step back, leaning silently against a wall, her rapt gaze once more fixed on his face and not the promised prize. she likes to watch him, regardless of the angle or position, be it when he cooks for her or falls asleep first; from the inked ridge of his collarbone and distinguishable slope of his chin which she so fervently kisses to the obsidian wisps of hair that obscure his countenance as if to irk her. “our firstborn?” she echos it only a moment later, grinning thoughtlessly. some things she promises, others she offers to give at once, effortlessly, and this too, if needed, would be no exception, a sacrifice of spine and blood. “naming a child ought to be a joint effort.” after all, who and what are we without a name? if she could, she would sew her own onto his clothes, and then skin. “but i shall go with dominic, the modern version of dominicus.” she asseverates as her deft fingers sink into the stuffed toy, wondering just how pliable it is and if it bends to her will. captivated by it only for an instant, she averts her attention back to her husband, trailing a hand up his chest until she reaches his chin. “come closer and claim your own prize, my love.”

[audeamuus]

𝐆𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒, featuring aranya natharuetai @gravefed

── in the early frostbitten morning of late february, imbued with a deep-seated anger, lavinia finds her way back to her formidable dominion, nearly three weeks after abandoning it of her own accord. a strenuous worker, but an even more devoted wife, she refused to let herself be deterred and doleful, suffering instead from sheer rage and self-imposed starvation. at night, she did not sleep, but she dreamt of feasting upon aranya's fresh liver, of anguish that would be both eternal and internal.

the clock is always running, except here and now, it's counting down, rather than just ticking. akira fancies himself a god, but lavinia thinks of herself as something inevitable. a thought, a breath, even death. fate perhaps, if you would name yourself a believer, one of the moirai, the very disposer of lots. it doesn't take much to execute her ambuscade, not when she knows the breadth of every corridor and hall, not when she instigates those around her to whisper in her ear at the sight of any disruption. now she's here, to cleave her world in twain. “hello, margosha,” she begins, smiling cordially, for in sobriety of conduct, no one could rival her. arrogance would so often misguide many, weaken their vision, or blind them entirely. raising a single index finger, she signals to the government sentinel to step aside, needing them only as a bulwark. “come now, i have something that you may want to see.” undaunted in hand and heart, she raises her tablet computer and a bulk of printed files and photographs, ready to scatter them before the other's feet. “i swear, this is not something that you should miss.”

[8blud]

closed  starter  for  lavinia  de  vera.

𝚒𝚗𝚝.     𝚊  𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜  𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖,   𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍  𝚋𝚢  𝚊  𝚍𝚢𝚊𝚍  𝚘𝚏  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

encumbered  by  your  own  written  word:   a  white,   pressed  collar  and  the  lurking  vestiges  of  your  good  manners.     the  black  jacket  drapes,   uncreased,   over  the  back  of   @audeamuus’s   plush  chair.     watching  with  eyes  that  would  glow  in  the  dark.     (   nowhere  is  left  unseen:   even  when  none  sit  upon  the  spared  seat.   )     a  feline  pair  hidden  in  the  bushes,   lowered  to  the  ground  like  a  mere  guideline  for  passing  cars.     its  lupine  companion  balances  on  broken  white  lines.     the  marked  boundary  of  a  road’s  middle.     a  hunter  and  her  bait:   may  you  speak  in  the  dark  tongue  of  cracked  bones.     each  feast  on  the  same  carrion:   lips  stained  with  the  same  blood.     the  razor  catches  on  his  skin.     a  rough  thumb  traces  above  his  jaw.     jack  forgets  to  hiss  until  a  droplet  of  blood  pools  into  the  fabric  of  his  shirt  collar.     ‘   ah,   look  at  that.     look  what  you’ve  done  to  me.   ’     his  inflection  leaks  into  a  pout.     crimson  smudged  up  to  his  cheek;   a  pinprick  of  pain  nestles  right  where  it  belongs.     ‘   bled  me  with  my  own  hand.     smart  cookie.   ’

[audeamuus]

── from the beguiling depths of her morass mind, on such somnolent forenoon, it's his knavish cry that reels her back in, trounced at once by the image of the collar beset with blood. hanged man, drowned man, do not let thy heart flitter, for in the eternal darkness the very she returns to thee. in the mirror, from her vantage point, there's only one wicked thing that she looks at, one wicked thing that looks back — is it her reflection or him? awfully attuned to his every move, lavinia dismisses his trumped-up accusation with a deft wave of her hand, eluding his eye. “well, at least you finally look decent.” an index finger finds itself pressed against the cut, skin to skin, now stained with cardinal red. leaving a sudden cleft between them, she runs a finger across her cheek as if using crimson tint, or some recherché blush, and not his blood. “i quite like this shade.”

[audeamuus]

𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐀 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, featuring aiden garvey @morningncws

── the anguish of her husband's absence, sharper than any knife in her kitchen, bleeds their shared space dry of all its beauty and allure; nothing and no one compares, for what could rival that which cannot be replaced? on most nights, to avoid succumbing to disquietness or boredom, she would work, inspect legal proceedings, emend future legislations, or merely conduct personal research even far from her lavish office. tonight instead, she bids a welcome to aiden garvey inside her spacious home, bestowing privilege upon him that many, regardless of their adjacency to the attorney general, could never truly procure.

she rarely cooks, and on days when she does, it's solely for herself and her husband, but for aiden at least, she's made an exception in the fine print of her sacrosanct rules. if anything, the most challenging part of cooking thus far has been keeping her two beloved cats off the kitchen counter, and so, with red wine pan sauce simmering in the back and one of her felines in her grasp, she makes her way to the dining room, nearly ebullient. “tell me, aiden, what would you like to drink? akira has quite the collection, so i could make a few suggestions. whiskey perhaps? yamazaki, shipped directly from japan. it's older than both of us but it's closer to your age than mine.” she teases, allowing a laugh to trail after her words. “then again, we also have gin, singani, wine, anything your heart desires.”

[stcnehearts]

since coming back home, emiko feels like that her heart has been slowly defrosting, like it's coming out of hibernation, ready to start letting people back into her life again. five years that she's denied herself of warmth that the first taste of it makes her crave more and she's forgotten why she had put herself in that position in the first place. it feels almost foreign to her, receiving that kind of kindness from akira and lavinia, being treated like family even though she was so adamant on not being involved in that kind of life anymore. who was she to close the door on the one chance for her to feel like she has a family again? she won't throw that away. "thank you, it's beautiful." she leans forward slightly, an invitation for lavinia to place the flower in her hair. "you look fabulous as always. how has your night been so far?"

[audeamuus]

── the amaryllis, nestled now near the girl's ear and amid sable strands of hair, is more than just a flower; it's a symbol, a mark, an indicia of lavinia's lingering presence. “thank you, emiko. you flatter me.” her lithe hand, still in the vicinity of the other's head as it hovers mid-air, catches a lock of the medic's hair, twining it around a finger for only a moment. “it's just another social affair. i'm awfully used to them by now, so just between the two of us, i'd much rather be at home.” she says as her lips curl into a strained smile, making no effort to conceal her lack of interest in the scene that unfolds before them. “but i must admit that i approached you with an ulterior motive. given that i spend quite a lot of time around akira, i can attest to the fact that whenever he speaks of you, he speaks rather fondly, and thus, i thought you could join us for dinner, or lunch, whenever you're free these days. just the three of us. he'll cook of course, as i'm forever in awe of his culinary skills.”

[descorts]

there should be myths and legends written about this devil of a thing, who can entrap the heart with a smile and a glance. his arm around her shoulders is near immediate; holding hands is far better suited for those who cannot maintain stoking the intimate body against another soul, many-eyed and covered in flame, like some christian horror. there should be stories and fables about women like her, who engrave themselves in the marrows and veins of every poor lover, whose nerves have turned to blistering affection at the mere mention of a moment alone. when he leads them away, the crowd closes behind them, and with his only other free hand he waves away everything and everyone else insignificant to his wife's desires -- and why would they be? if he were a coat or a cover or a debtor to her whims, why would she need to be aware of anyone else? it's a silly thought. "i do. and a kiss. and a good time, but don't i always deliver?" his hand rubs her upper arm. farther away, now, and towards the handful of prize-cows waiting for someone to scam -- he walks past the rest of it so he can remove the mask and inhale deeply, kissing her cheek within the next grateful, grinning breath. "what prize do you want, then? a stuffed toy, or a dance? i only have these two hands -- what'll you have me do with them?"

[audeamuus]

── raptly, without a second glance spared to the mise-en-scène, she bows and bends her head forward so that her right ear may rest close to his heart and chest, close to the venae cavae that sing the most delightful tune, the only sound powerful enough to lull her to sleep. she cranes her neck only a moment later, delicate and fastidious in her retreat, so that the diamond strands arched into a diadem upon her head may not prick his throat and cheeks. “you do. but i did not question your ability to give, not once. any judge would rule in my favor in this case,” lavinia counters, laughing genuinely, her eyes and gaze riveted on his well familiar face. “i can't help it that i want so much. a prize, a dance, you, and of course, i want your name to fill every corner of my mouth,” to reverberate from soft tissue to teeth, like a devotional cabaletta or hymn. “yes, i want everything, though i must admit that i haven't had a stuffed toy since i was a child.” what a foreign thing it is to ask for something so simple, void of any deceit. “so then, win me a plush tiger, this one right here,” her fingers, sleek, nimble, adorned with rings, carefully point at the desired prize, almost touching the glass. then, on a whim, she seizes his free hand with her own, pressing a searing, loving, awfully prolonged kiss to his knuckles. “for good luck.”

[bloodiedfields]

location: heian-kyō

closed: for @audeamuus, lavinia de vera nishiguchi

The moment DIlan had stepped into the restaurant, she had felt out of place. Beginning with the ambient lighting to the looks the other patrons gave her as she passed them. Dilan wasn't quite sure why she had took the stranger offers. Maybe it was the promise of a nice meal and company without the requirement of a transaction at El Anhelo. However, even if the other seemed sweet when they had met, Dilan understood that she needed to keep her guard up to protect herself first and foremost. Quietly she waited for the woman who invited her out to this, but it still didn't quell her anxiety.

[audeamuus]

── ushered and greeted by the maître d' at a remarkable speed, lavinia sheds her formidable guise at the entrance of heian-kyō, as if it's the skin of a viper, donning instead a smile as she tilts her head in the girl's direction. she'd done this far too many times to gauge an exact number, sat and dinned with questionable clients, worthy associates, complaisant confidantes, and self-assured contenders; all in exchange for a mutual agreement. under the resplendent chandeliers, she sinks into an ornate chair, strategically making herself look taller than she truly is, even while ensconced in her seat. “i'm glad you decided to join me for lunch, dilan. call me old-fashioned if you wish, but i've never been a fan of eating by myself.” always observant, always gracefully quiet in her assessment, she pauses for a moment, using the large looking glass that hangs upon the wall to peer at any meddling strangers. “order anything that you want, anything that catches your eyes. we'll feast and indulge in drinks, and of course, we'll talk.”

[gravefed]

A boar’s wife placed in the middle of the ocean.     Where are those forests of hers now?      Where are the thick roots of cut out trees hiding?      Can the smell of deception seem similar to that of a home burning?     Perhaps.    Aranya smiles,    but it is a politician’s buffer at best.     She slips into Margosha-skin here,    she thinks of a blade pressing against Lavinia’s neck only in the smallest crevices of her mind.    Private.      Some rush of a fantasy drowns out the other woman’s words.    This is good.      False myths tend to talk too much.      Danill did too.     The mouth slacks,    smile widens and a laugh    —   exhaled and breathless   —   is formed.     Feigned,    like a rehearsed opera singer in the middle of a bass note.      There are too many eyes on them.     An elegant sway of her right hip,     she lingers to the side of the attorney general    —    half-present.     This ghoul has just returned back from the dead for the love she now viciously protects.     The stomach curls her toes with a sharp hunger pain.      “Look at this crowd,    hm?     Many sheep.     Not so many clever wolves.     I wonder what they believe?”

[audeamuus]

── in the interval between a sentence and a smile, between each bite and remark, she shifts her focus once more to the neon city lacking its everlasting luster, seemingly inattentive, nearly indifferent. lavinia acts, others react. not a single emotion dares to break the smooth surface of her countenance, reflecting instead, like some inland, manmade sea, or a polished mirror, the elegance of the feverish night. “it's a voyage of self-discovery. then again, it's a little arbitrary, pointless even to judge others based on their appearances when they can be so deceiving. i don't need to look to know.” the words, far from humourous, are still accompanied by a laugh that tangles itself around them. someone is always watching. “it's a trick of the trade. people always tell you who they are. i much prefer to listen.”

[davikahoorne]

[sens0r]

𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋   𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌     private,   ongoing 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾   +   𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇     midday,   government   office 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽   𝗂𝗇   𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾    sabrina  draper,  lavinia  de  vera (   @audeamuus   )

 a   vision   of   elegance   graces   the   space   behind   the   mahogany   desk.   neat   hair   is   secured   in   a   tight   bun,   gracefully   complementing   the   slope   of   her   neck.   artfully   placed   beauty   mark   rests   above   of   her   lip,      a   testament   to   the   meticulous   attention   given   to   her   appearance.   unfortunate   the   the   same   couldn't   be   said   for   her   occupation.   

 in   sabrina's   defense,   the   aftermath   of   the   holidays   has   left   the   office   recuperating   from   the   the   season.   while   she   files   her   nails,   the   subtle   presence   of   another   body   lingers   before   her   desk.   "detective   holden   is   away   for   lunch.   what   do   you   need   ?"

[audeamuus]

── she walks in unannounced, neither stopped nor questioned about her identification card, moving past the security guards who only offer to take her heavy coat and rid her of the weight that could slow her down. her perfectly measured, even steps, howbeit, do not falter, denting the tiles beneath her feet until she at last comes to a halt, tilting her head thoughtfully. “good day to you, miss draper. i'm not here to see the detective.” clean, sharp, straight to the point, like a knife to the throat. “certain files appear to be missing from the archives, both in digital and paper form, so given your field of expertise, i was thinking that you could help me locate them.” her hands, jewel-laden, half-concealed beneath her silk shawl subtly point at one of the doors, steering none of her ingenious ire toward the other. “and whoever is responsible for this is getting fired, to say the least. now walk with me.”