@miinstrel
There’s glitter in every crevice, in e’ery nook of the bar’s backstage vanity, and Roland is borne ‘twards a lap, and some in his styled hair. He scoffs hard, and makes faces at the mirror; work’d on his eyelashes.
“Dost thou have spare greasepaint, Maryden?” asks he; looking o’er his shoulder, festooned in tassels and the bright green glitter of a forestry eye-shadow. The wings of his liner are sharp enough to sieve daggers, and Roland’s finely-shaved and trimmed eyebrows rise with beautific brilliance; unknown and Known his miraculous, outer Beauty.
He’s e’en adorned his nails; a sharp, amber yellow, decadent with gold, heavy rings.
“I’ve run out. I’ve forgotten to shop,” he admits sheepishly. His nerves are rampant like young butterflies in the Spring, and he thinks to demand ale, later, and even During their empathic, earthly Performance. He breathes silently for inner Calm; his paint giving the Impression of added weight to his naked face.
