status : closed to @rvsethorned !! location : wonderland / main floor timestamp : october 15th , 1:50 am
SHE IS BASKED IN A LIGHT SHE DOES NOT BELONG IN -- where, rather, she would perhaps be more comfortable in the easy anonymity of the dark. Even here, draped over velvet booth like a king upon a throne, unseen by all but letting nothing slip through the sieve of his gaze, he is omnipotent. And as he watches the dancing ember upon the stage, he surmises that she might burn brighter here in the dark. He is never one to play favorites; the king of the underworld is hardly meant to cast favor upon those who dwell on the surface, and yet Wonderland is a place that does not discriminate. He comes here to bask in the light of flame that so many would willingly BURN in - and here he sees why.
He had so adored dear Red. He’d never known her name; he’d never wanted it. But he sees a rose and a thorn turn upon a single vine, and wonders why he ever indulged in the color Scarlet.
She is a dream, a vision. To prick, to burn; there is something dark and luxurious about the way she moves, as if through a shroud. To watch her, as he has fallen into the habit of doing, has become a decadent dalliance that so few know of - not even dear Megara knows that he is here. And if she did, he assumes, she might not wish to peer behind the curtain shrouding his true intent. He pulls his chalice, full to the brim with a Cabernet reserved solely for his patronage, to his lips, and inhales; the place smells of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume, and yet as he watches the performance before him now, the wine begins to blend. This is the last of the bottle, and were he not drunk upon the curiosity blooming within him now - drunk upon the power of a half-clenched fist over delicate petals, and angry thorns - he might have slipped from the room as he so often did. A cursory glance to this decadent Babylon’s masters, a heady bill slipped to the bartender, and he makes his exit, his descent back into cool, comfortable hell. But not now. He wishes to touch the rose, to grasp the thorn, to take in the heady smell of a bloom tended in darkness.
He is entirely too decadent for his own good - he feels it, this pull to the light. But is it light which dances behind her translucent skin? Or is it just a reflection?
When she finishes, he stands, all at once illuminated by the thrumming light cast down upon the floor, the stage. Wine discarded, forgotten, he begins to clap, the sound a sharp cacophony above the fading music. And he calls -- “BRAVISSIMA”, and steps further into the light, the smoke, the haze, if only to pull this single flower down below. He approaches - a predator stalking a wolf in sheep’s clothing - for the first time, not as pathetically driven by baseless lust ( his is very much based in reality ), he wishes to speak with her.
And the king of the underworld is always nothing if not accustomed to getting what he wants. Flesh, meet thorn.
