01-03-2008, 01:28 PM
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This was waay too late. And psh. Dahl, I love the way you write! She caught a laugh by it’s ankle, saving all but a singular tell-tale sharp exhale; her nose wrinkled in wry humor. “Oh, do go on,” drawled Luz Cresceno, naught but darkly amused to be told that she was not ‘so horrible a thing.’ Statements, made innocently enough, had her vaulting into thought these days. How glad she was, that he didn’t stride off into the day, leaving certain she-wolves to their slant-smiles and personal entertainments. How happy Luz had become remain fixed in a moment – instead waxing pensive, pell-mell style, as was her wont in increasing age. A name for a name. The rules of fair play had always been clear on that count. There was a power to the word that said who you were; and yet she knew, in that way we know our own patterns, she would be more wounded if he forgot it within a month than if he tacked it to some spell, as superstition insisted he might, or a bad rumor. “Luz Cresceno,” she risked, accompanied by a finger-flick, as if to indicate that it was of no real consequence. (This was a ruse.) “We’re both ell-yoo’s,” she mused, before ambling onward. “And I was here for a chunk of the summer, but I got... sidetracked.” Luz’s vocabulary failed for accuracy. What words do we have for when misery makes us take to our heels and find solace in flight – whether or not it deals with aerial artifice – to strange places? “I returned at the beginning of winter, and have been at Clouded Tears since,” she finished, eyes fixed on the small mountain-caps her knuckles became with seconds of undue focus. She rarely regretted. Her sins were not innocent transgressions, nor were they inevitabilities, acted out by the demands of personality. Luz was simply an impulse with a name, a caprice that spoke and made eyes at girls and sometimes, if it was a noisy night, sang. Negative and positive reactions to this fact were universally discarded. Some would label this sociopath’s behavior, the assured bad beginnings of a murderer. Yet caprice directed her in different directions. Such as this particular second, when her hand reached out without real permission to his shoulder. It never touched. It simply paused there, at the borderland between touching and separation, close enough to give heat, sufficiently far to not yet be an invasion. To this motion she paired a voice, and a meeting of red and lavender irises. “I’m sorry you forget so much.” The werewolf-hand curled away back to her side, to be neatly folded into crossed-arms. “Usually, a bad memory is a great leap towards a clear conscience.” Her mouth grew half-amused, but sadly so. “But on that count, you don’t seem to catch a break.” Luz Cresceno could dwell on others’ troubles. Perhaps it would save her from her own, and earn acquaintance in the mean time. Maybe Laruku would forget her name before the end of the conversation, in which case it would earn minute’s laughter and a reintroduction of herself as ‘Sally Peachbottom.’ (She suddenly found herself hoping he would.) |