“Money is the shape of this world. It’s the muscle that bends power, the neuron firing signals into the minds of these mortal beast.” Jezebel coiled her hands to clasp about the right palm of Ezekiel, their arm drawn in snug to her form in an embrace that guided the pair in a stroll of the city.
“And to me, an orphan of the father god I murdered? The church left me morsels, not a profitable inheritance. How would you suggest I manipulate the wealth?” Cool eyes like rings of mercury floated with casual intensity about the evening crowd about the Berlin streets. This gaze dropped, curious to sync with Jezebel’s own soft, sooty orbs to seek the silent answers hidden there. Her eyes moved before the rest of her head tipped upwards toward Ezekiel, subtle amusement at the lips that never seemed to pool enough pink into them to suggest health.
“You’ll never be wealthy, you only need to steer those who are. Will I always think for you?” The directness in Jezebel’s tone shifted its weight, lightened upon her last words as she tilted her head to rest against her entity’s shoulder so that they might not pull away from the teasing remark. She wore a coat, long nearly to her knees where Ezekiel did not so that to onlookers they appeared begrudging of their assumed partner’s wishes to share a walk.
Ezekiel turned their vision now to the passing buildings, scanning each sign for some window into the nature and business of income and finance. “Indoctrinate the rich, facilitate the poor, correct?”
“In a word, yes.” The raven haired woman hummed. She pulled away just enough to watch Ezekiel work the idea around in their mind, arms still entrapping the entity’s right; affection or threat indeterminate. Ezekiel suddenly became something like a marble statue, still and silent; sterling eyes locked as a cat’s on a wounded bird. The greatest ruckus to sweep the city originated from visitors commonly; the ilk of which was broad enough. Obvious however were those of a particularly pampered tourism, of national privilege. Jezebel need not follow her Entity’s view to perceive what was understood between them both, taken once again to resting against that stiffened shoulder whilst beaming upwards at Ezekiel. A group of young Australian men striding ahead of them made a grand enough cacophony of their plans in the Pergamon Museum that evening that she could recognize their fate without a hesitation to the thought. Well dressed and groomed, lavish in the comforts of high society, decorated with impudence of an education only money could buy. These were heirs, seeds of a garden primed to produce an abundance of crop for harvests to come; but where there is rich earth there are weeds, and such a beautiful bloom has the Devil’s Snare.
