He watched the shifting, changing tides of her motions, studied the sway of her movements, the strange balm of apprehension winding its way through her columns; secrets spilling out of her consternation, but with no names, no faces, he couldn’t put the pieces together. They were unknown, strangled bits, little pieces of destruction and devastation, fluttering from her mouth like worn sonnets, and he wanted to laugh at her talk of ruin and wreckage (what did she know of upheaval, of insurrection, of sedition when it was spread throughout empires, sown between seeds and swords? Had she tasted the sentiments of revolution, of havoc, or merely yearn for them?). Was she experienced in the taste, in the indulgence, of power stripped from another, of life carved away from a living, breathing entity, when immortality became obsolete, or was she merely playing a part, a ruse, working her way through lines and blocking out her stage? How many masks did she wear? How many masquerades did she waltz within? How many hours did she practice and perform her role, hoping they wouldn’t see her cracks, the slips of her veneer? The Reaper’s brow arched the slightest of fractions, his gaze seeking out Thranduil’s in an amusing machination, then lancing towards the gilded femme all over again, waiting for her pretenses to fade or her damnation to tip. Perhaps in time they’d see the prowess she so proudly boasted, the promises and oaths she so readily claimed, all the heads she sought and all the charms she contained, the essence of her hisses, the regard of her sibilations. Many came in with rhymes, with declarations, with pledges, and faltered, stumbled, or disappeared entirely when their whims cracked, when their thin, slender wiles twisted, snared, and maligned; if she was made of stern, resolute, determined factors and factions, maybe she could rise to her statements and bestowals. The deep tenors of his voice crackled again, ignited and stoked by wicked entertainment, by chilling disregard, giving away naught in the nonchalant shade of his features, in the stoic regard of his parting lips. “Then you may be suited for our spies.” Here, his glance sharpened into harpoons and rapiers of the relentless, a brief, curt nod of his demonic skull proffered towards the other gilded cretin in their midst. “You can consult our Thief on the matter.”

@[Thranduil] @[Rexanna]