01-03-2011, 03:16 PM
OOC: YAY! Thank you. <3 Word Count: 1030.
IC:
Saraqael dreamed, too. In her sleep-drunken mind, she was in love with a woman who she wanted desperately to have sex with, to feel the warm press of their bodies and the wetness of mouths on mouths, mouths on flesh. She was pretty, thin in frame, but her color kept changing, shifting through the entire spectrum of shadows as well as the rainbow, giving the suggestion that she was also indecisive. Such a small fact mattered very little. She was the object, and so Saraqael hunted. Her job was to complete a quest. If done so successfully, the petite lady was hers to do with as she pleased. Just as her quest commenced, she woke. Disappointment broke inside of her in consistent waves, each one coming to lap the shore of her contentment, persistently disrupting it until she sighed longingly, wishing for the imaginary woman to return. She did not, and Saraqael rolled out of bed.
Wood flooring prompted the claws of her toes to click and scrape, another distraction, another annoyance. Crossing the mirror to reach for something in her pack, Saraqael noticed obelisks of seafoam, cornflower, and pale chartreuse jutting haphazardly, shooting like colored crystals grew, in all directions and pigments and for no apparent reason other than because they felt like it. The hues were kindred at base but she had been sure to separate them, crush their colors from a variety of different plants into exactly what she wanted: three distinct hues. Three baths over the course of a month had ruined them, unleashed a stopper on the power of her white mane, and now it was returning to cursed, undramatic, boring paleness. Originally she had gone to her pack to consider beginning a project to draw attention her from loneliness and sexual frustration but now she was imbued with the desire to finish a new quest, a true one with attainable means and a foreseeable end.
Jars clanked a chipper chorus at her as she rummaged through them, searching for the right ones. Green came to her first, then orange which she replaced hastily, thinking that it was completely unsuitable for her hair. After a moment she retrieved blue and teal then fled back to the mirror. Because it was the least distinguishable of the three colors, being a mixture of both, Saraqael started with teal. The lid on the jar was faux gold and rambled with metallic hollowness as it came off, the dark pads of her hands gripping and rotating it forcefully. A perfume wafted out immediately, clearly having waited this long to escape into the fresh air. It was not unpleasant – just the scent of crushed plant matter and the peculiarly sour odor of pulped berries. Dipping a finger into the pasty pigment, the process began. Her eyes sought all the portions that she could see that looked as though they had been teal once and covered them up with the dark dye. Each tentacle of hair she made flopped over after that, wet and heavy. For the bang, she just piled each sopping piece of hair on top of itself and was careful not to tilt her head forward so as to make them slip and stain her face. She worried not for the appearance of her fingers – they were black, jet as a starless, moonless night, and at most would show a tint in the brightest sun. Luckily for her, before the sun ever returned with such intensity, those pigments would wash away in some stream or rub off on the ground, trees, her backpack, or anything else she deigned to touch.
Months of practice had made her technique virtually flawless, yet no matter how attentive she was, flecks of color spattered her ears gently. The ridiculous white cones were always casualties in the process, but her hair was such a mess that it was difficult to notice once she had it spiked. As she moved on to touching up the remaining two colors, it began to appear as though her ears were naturally shades of blue and green and had been dipped or bleached from the tips down to appear alabaster. It was an interesting illusion, but the mirror tired her and her arms were stiff from the odd angles she held them at to complete the dying process. They had been combing and painting for twenty minutes straight and their frailness could no longer support their own weight. Finished, the toothpick girl allowed her arms to fall, mindful not to let them touch herself until she had washed them.
Springing back to her pack to pluck a spare cushioning cloth, she exited her room, using the rag to open and close the doors behind her until she had made her way outside. Saraqael was familiar with many of the streams and river tributaries that made their way through Inferni by now. While she had absolutely no skill for fishing, water soothed her addled mind and was her favorite outlet for taking comfort in nature. Its fluid sureness set her straight, but today she needed it to perform a service. Both her hands and her hair needed to be rinsed and since she had not sought to discover whether the mansion had running water, the natural way would have to do.
She passed out of the courtyard briskly and headed into the trees, the ragged piece of fabric balled messily in her tiny hand. She wore nothing with the exception of her glass star necklace, a trinket that she never removed. So intent on reaching running water was the girl that she almost passed the phantom lady haunting the trees. Saraqael's head snapped towards her in a double-take of surprise. The two were equally pale, the other perhaps more so for lacking any bits of coal. Stripes, too frequent and precise to have been painted, rippled across her body in soft lavendery-gray. Her eyes were dead white, and Saraqael wondered immediately if she were blind. Perhaps the dyed coyote had not been seen staring, then, but she was frozen anyway, unsure of what to say or do, whether to greet her or flee, continuing on her journey.
IC:
Saraqael dreamed, too. In her sleep-drunken mind, she was in love with a woman who she wanted desperately to have sex with, to feel the warm press of their bodies and the wetness of mouths on mouths, mouths on flesh. She was pretty, thin in frame, but her color kept changing, shifting through the entire spectrum of shadows as well as the rainbow, giving the suggestion that she was also indecisive. Such a small fact mattered very little. She was the object, and so Saraqael hunted. Her job was to complete a quest. If done so successfully, the petite lady was hers to do with as she pleased. Just as her quest commenced, she woke. Disappointment broke inside of her in consistent waves, each one coming to lap the shore of her contentment, persistently disrupting it until she sighed longingly, wishing for the imaginary woman to return. She did not, and Saraqael rolled out of bed.
Wood flooring prompted the claws of her toes to click and scrape, another distraction, another annoyance. Crossing the mirror to reach for something in her pack, Saraqael noticed obelisks of seafoam, cornflower, and pale chartreuse jutting haphazardly, shooting like colored crystals grew, in all directions and pigments and for no apparent reason other than because they felt like it. The hues were kindred at base but she had been sure to separate them, crush their colors from a variety of different plants into exactly what she wanted: three distinct hues. Three baths over the course of a month had ruined them, unleashed a stopper on the power of her white mane, and now it was returning to cursed, undramatic, boring paleness. Originally she had gone to her pack to consider beginning a project to draw attention her from loneliness and sexual frustration but now she was imbued with the desire to finish a new quest, a true one with attainable means and a foreseeable end.
Jars clanked a chipper chorus at her as she rummaged through them, searching for the right ones. Green came to her first, then orange which she replaced hastily, thinking that it was completely unsuitable for her hair. After a moment she retrieved blue and teal then fled back to the mirror. Because it was the least distinguishable of the three colors, being a mixture of both, Saraqael started with teal. The lid on the jar was faux gold and rambled with metallic hollowness as it came off, the dark pads of her hands gripping and rotating it forcefully. A perfume wafted out immediately, clearly having waited this long to escape into the fresh air. It was not unpleasant – just the scent of crushed plant matter and the peculiarly sour odor of pulped berries. Dipping a finger into the pasty pigment, the process began. Her eyes sought all the portions that she could see that looked as though they had been teal once and covered them up with the dark dye. Each tentacle of hair she made flopped over after that, wet and heavy. For the bang, she just piled each sopping piece of hair on top of itself and was careful not to tilt her head forward so as to make them slip and stain her face. She worried not for the appearance of her fingers – they were black, jet as a starless, moonless night, and at most would show a tint in the brightest sun. Luckily for her, before the sun ever returned with such intensity, those pigments would wash away in some stream or rub off on the ground, trees, her backpack, or anything else she deigned to touch.
Months of practice had made her technique virtually flawless, yet no matter how attentive she was, flecks of color spattered her ears gently. The ridiculous white cones were always casualties in the process, but her hair was such a mess that it was difficult to notice once she had it spiked. As she moved on to touching up the remaining two colors, it began to appear as though her ears were naturally shades of blue and green and had been dipped or bleached from the tips down to appear alabaster. It was an interesting illusion, but the mirror tired her and her arms were stiff from the odd angles she held them at to complete the dying process. They had been combing and painting for twenty minutes straight and their frailness could no longer support their own weight. Finished, the toothpick girl allowed her arms to fall, mindful not to let them touch herself until she had washed them.
Springing back to her pack to pluck a spare cushioning cloth, she exited her room, using the rag to open and close the doors behind her until she had made her way outside. Saraqael was familiar with many of the streams and river tributaries that made their way through Inferni by now. While she had absolutely no skill for fishing, water soothed her addled mind and was her favorite outlet for taking comfort in nature. Its fluid sureness set her straight, but today she needed it to perform a service. Both her hands and her hair needed to be rinsed and since she had not sought to discover whether the mansion had running water, the natural way would have to do.
She passed out of the courtyard briskly and headed into the trees, the ragged piece of fabric balled messily in her tiny hand. She wore nothing with the exception of her glass star necklace, a trinket that she never removed. So intent on reaching running water was the girl that she almost passed the phantom lady haunting the trees. Saraqael's head snapped towards her in a double-take of surprise. The two were equally pale, the other perhaps more so for lacking any bits of coal. Stripes, too frequent and precise to have been painted, rippled across her body in soft lavendery-gray. Her eyes were dead white, and Saraqael wondered immediately if she were blind. Perhaps the dyed coyote had not been seen staring, then, but she was frozen anyway, unsure of what to say or do, whether to greet her or flee, continuing on her journey.