@failnaughtt
What is between a dream and a nightmare? A sensation without title, burrowing in the boundless expanse of her intestines, Dorothea wonders how the bells on a jester’s hat would ring on her head. She beams and twirls, an incandescent light of long, brunette hair and the slightest trace of emeralds in her eyes, but it does not quell unease – what if she isn’t desired? What if there is nothing more for her than destitution, where the glamour of the opera fades to obscurity behind crimson curtains and she is downtrodden on the stage, mourning the loss of her legacy?
Even as a thunderstorm swirls within her conscience, worming into the confines of her very soul, she flirts without abandon: a honeysuckle sweet harmony of compliments escape rosy lips, ever so non-descriptive and vague. She knows. Oh, does she know. Just a romp and nothing more, always devoid of the substance she desires.
Yet, here she is, wrapping her claws around the nameless (because she can’t remember whether he belonged to this house or that, some insignificant baron’s son with an obsession with women, currying favor before information – a tested tactic that only seems to work some of the time) nobleman’s neck and squeezing until she feels his final exhale. Her eyes glitter and gleam, long lashes brushing against the swell of her cheek with every timed blink, but there seems to be more behind them than a crack of lust – sorrow, pain, fear, obliterated by the carnal desire to want and be wanted. Is that so much to ask for dear, old Dorothea?
“Erm,” but her actions do not linger, as she observes another noble as he approaches: Claude, heir to the Riegan house and leader of the Golden Deer. What could he want with them, at this hour, at this very moment? The other man doesn’t seem to realize, entranced by her metaphoric dance. She stumbles when Claude becomes close enough to interrupt, staring with wide, inquisitive eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”
