#mediocris fabula

[glassheeled-blog]

❝ Lie for your own ear’s sake. You and I both know what kind of creature you truly are! ❞

“And what would that be, Roman?” The words drip from her tongue like quicksilver as she stalks closer, hips swaying with every step like a big cat readying to pounce. “Or are you too frightened to name it? Something ready and able to kill, willing to lie and betray to get what it wants? Something like you?”

[glassheeled-a]

Tiptoe Through Tulips

closed RP with @cpring

Bare feet trip and stumble across rocks and roots in a pitiful shamble, shoes long forgotten and weeping red footprints seeping into soft grass as heavy breaths strain the shattered cage of her ribs. No matter the damage the little runt in the cape dealt her, Cinder needed to return to Salem’s side victorious; she stood now as the Fall Maiden and her mistress’s champion, and a champion never begs for help.

Every step is agony, jostling splintered bones and tearing open slowly healing cuts, the empty socket of her eye throbbing with every exhausted beat of her heart and left arm hanging limply at her side in useless, shredded tatters. It hurts, and yet she runs. She runs as fast as the ragged remains of her legs will carry her, and then further until the road rises to meet her.

A pitiful whimper escapes her as she collides with the dirt and remains motionless, the world spinning and taunting her until her chest heaves, stomach rolling as a cough wrenched itself from her chest, blood spattering across the ground with a grotesque retching. There’s nothing more she can do, and she lays amidst blood flecked grass and wildflowers, uncharacteristically bright for the season, and she waits for the darkness to steal her away until she wakes to run again.

[glassheeled-a]

“Professor, I’m not quite sure I understand this interpretation from the lecture.”

@cloqwerk liked for a starter

[glassheeled-a]

Fingers drum against the arm of her chair. More battles, more blood, more entertainment; all in the name of a festival. The empty seat beside her fills, taken by a combatant from the last round and Cinder turns to greet her.

“Quite an interesting match. I’ve never seen strategies like that.”

@delincuenta liked for a starter

[glassheeled-a]

“Is that little red runt of yours also going to turn into a bird?” Hands itched to wring the neck of every robin that crossed her path until claws finally wrap around the girl’s neck and snaps it like a twig.

@qrcwbranwen liked for a starter

[glassheeled-a]

Gold eyes narrow on the red cloak before her, the scar across her face throbbing at the memory of their last meeting. Oh, she was none too happy to see this little whelp again.

“You’re a little far from home, little girl.”

@slcyer liked for a starter

[glassheeled-a]

Curled in a ball, she sits atop a crate of dust in the back of the warehouse. Heels discarded to her side and stocking clad knees drawn to her chin in a feeble attempt to collapse in on herself and wink out of existence for even a moment; but no matter where she goes, Maman will find her, and drag her back by the hollow of her throat clutched in a vice of claws. A small bottle of gin hangs loosely from one hand as the other hangs limp to idly fiddle with the chain of crystals around her ankle while dim eyes stare blindly into the shadows of the building.

These nights were always the worst; the nights spent awake as the spirit of the fall maiden thrashed about in her body, beating and berating her own soul in a manner most agonizing, and she thinks of cursing the name of her benefactor. She wants to curse her. She wants to spit in the face of the woman who took her in, who gave her life purpose, who granted her every wish. To curse the name of the most powerful woman to ever draw breath. A sad smirk crosses her lips as she lifts the bottle and takes a heavy swig as a thought crosses her mind.

                                Maybe if I were desperate.

Soft footsteps reverberated through the metal beneath her form, but tonight she would have welcomed a knife between her shoulder blades. But no pain comes, save for the shrieking suffering clattering about within the walls of her own skull; the heavy scent of cigars and expensively cheap cologne meets her nose and she curls in further upon herself.

Roman sits quietly beside her, breaking the smothering void with a simple question that she lets hang over her shoulders like a shawl of wet wool; freezing her to her bones yet provided a strange comfort. Another mouthful of gin and a cough most unladylike as she underestimates her drinking prowess, and Cinder answers with another question:

     “Do you believe in destiny?”