@shedgrace : [ lift ] —— WORD PROMPTS
He can taste magic in the air, sharp and biting, both foreign and not, yet there is something far more HARROWING which comes, he presumes, from Lunafreya herself. Eyes are watching ——— aren’t they always? Unspoken tension lingers in the air, a heavy thing, dull and weighty, prepared to bludgeon any one of them over the head at any given time. Dorian flourishes beneath it, truly, was raised to blossom beneath attention, and he presumes that she is primarily unaffected by it, too. Another side effect of a deeply specific upbringing, he supposes, the line of her back steady and her steps measured, head held high. She makes for a pretty picture, in fact, unwavering beneath the stares and whispers half hidden behind hands, heads ducked together.
Untouched by the weight of it all. Or so it appears.
A decision is easy enough to make : to bridge the gap between them, a slight hurrying of his pace to meet her as she approaches the base of the stairs, the doors open wide before them, opulent and glorious in its macabre splendor. Both of them are relatively well trained and therefore well mannered and when he offers her his arm she glances at him sidelong, the arch of her eyebrow graceful.
❝ Shall we, Oracle? ❞ he carries with him intrinsic charm / embodies it, in fact, the curve of his mouth nearly roguish as they pause for a moment and then another. When her hand curves delicately against the angle of his elbow his smile only widens. Attention is fixated on them, now, whereas before it had been somewhat scattered, quite the pretty picture they make : both dressed in dazzling whites and walking up the stairs in time with each other, movements perfectly synchronized. Dorian follows Lunafreya’s lead, allows her to dictate the speed at which they walk ( somewhat slower than his preferred pace, given that he’s practically rushed at any given time evenin the absence of pressure nor external forces ), folding his free hand over hers. Not squeezing nor grabbing, simply laying over.
Her hands are cooler than his. Smaller, not as heavily ringed, yet not quite smooth, either. They are the hands which reach for ———
They walk into the maw of the beast ——— willfully and wllingly, allowing it to swallow them whole as eyes follow, always, always. He tilts his head towards her, an innocuous motion belied by the fact that he doesn’t bother lowering his voice to speak to her. ❝ Save me a dance some time tonight, if you would. We would be the envy of all those around us, ❞ mirth colors his tone brightly and he can see her smiling / not quite suppressed / the perfect line of her posture maintained as her elbow nudges him subtly.
❝ I assure you it would be a sight to behold, ❞ he says around an open grin, stepping away from her / allowing her arm to slip from his, though not before he cradles her fingers gently in his, leaning down to press a fleeting kiss to the back of her hand : A SHOW OF CHIVALRY !! He bows properly, while he’s at it, straightening again to meet her gaze properly, whereupon she fixes him with an intent look before turning, and he gestures broadly. Allows her to make her entrance, her titles ringing out for all to hear.
And he follows : ankle deep in blood.