02-16-2023, 12:33 AM
Where the girl tugged, Seven followed, but it wasn’t without the whimsy of an accomplice. He was enjoying watching her rapture. Such freshness to behold, it was like witnessing someone enjoy your favorite movie for the first time. Seven enjoyed life with similar passion, the little things and the large. In Seven, Visha had discovered a kindred spirit.
Like the way she toyed with the bracelets. The glove was cool against his wrist, but when he turned the supple flesh over, the line of a vein ridged fresh warmth. He brooked no shame in enjoying the paw of her touch. The compliment was well-received.
“This one,” he began, curling one finger from the other hand beneath the band. It was a braided leather. “Is from a department store in Paris,” he nodded for himself, suitably impressed. Paris was an incredible city, but still, it was far away and more brilliant fashions could be found within their own Moscovian borders. He pushed it up to reveal the next. It was a silver box-chain snapped upon itself with a lobster clasp. “This one is a David Yurman. I traded an eighteenth century silver Repousse tea caddy for it in Salzburg,” his lips pressed with a playful smug. “Which is far less practical than an attractive accessory,” he added a playful smile at the end, eyes dancing.
There was one more bracelet. A brown cord held a polished turquoise owl in place, right where the vein pulsed beneath its body. He simply smiled and did not elaborate, watching for a reaction first. If she was the unsuspecting fish, he wondered which lure she would nibble first: the tale, the jewelry, or the intrigue.
But before he could find out, the lights changed. The volume of the room settled. Visha continued to hold his arm, and frankly, he did not so much as lean away from their conspiratorial secret-sharing postures. His gaze did study what unfolded on stage, however. Brows loomed high as the fire danced and threats were issued. Atharim was a word he knew from a distance, even if others were not so lucky. He hadn’t seen Nox since that night at Almaz. Seven had watched what happened from on high, and taken Jay away from all of it afterward, but the story of what happened remained a mystery. He pieced together something from the ramblings, but he never asked, and the night carried them far away from the throws of fists and slinging of runes. He was likewise infinitely curious as to what would happen tonight. More so if he could stitch that fractured picture together again, or perhaps meet Nox himself.
Nox left, promising retribution and charms, but Seven was not one to be frightened easily. He looked back to Visha, wondering how she would react to the showmanship. His brows were raised. They were not the only ones freshly studying their neighbor. Rather than fling suspicion, Seven chuckled. “Atharim? Most people say they are fairy tale. Do you believe they exist?”
Like the way she toyed with the bracelets. The glove was cool against his wrist, but when he turned the supple flesh over, the line of a vein ridged fresh warmth. He brooked no shame in enjoying the paw of her touch. The compliment was well-received.
“This one,” he began, curling one finger from the other hand beneath the band. It was a braided leather. “Is from a department store in Paris,” he nodded for himself, suitably impressed. Paris was an incredible city, but still, it was far away and more brilliant fashions could be found within their own Moscovian borders. He pushed it up to reveal the next. It was a silver box-chain snapped upon itself with a lobster clasp. “This one is a David Yurman. I traded an eighteenth century silver Repousse tea caddy for it in Salzburg,” his lips pressed with a playful smug. “Which is far less practical than an attractive accessory,” he added a playful smile at the end, eyes dancing.
There was one more bracelet. A brown cord held a polished turquoise owl in place, right where the vein pulsed beneath its body. He simply smiled and did not elaborate, watching for a reaction first. If she was the unsuspecting fish, he wondered which lure she would nibble first: the tale, the jewelry, or the intrigue.
But before he could find out, the lights changed. The volume of the room settled. Visha continued to hold his arm, and frankly, he did not so much as lean away from their conspiratorial secret-sharing postures. His gaze did study what unfolded on stage, however. Brows loomed high as the fire danced and threats were issued. Atharim was a word he knew from a distance, even if others were not so lucky. He hadn’t seen Nox since that night at Almaz. Seven had watched what happened from on high, and taken Jay away from all of it afterward, but the story of what happened remained a mystery. He pieced together something from the ramblings, but he never asked, and the night carried them far away from the throws of fists and slinging of runes. He was likewise infinitely curious as to what would happen tonight. More so if he could stitch that fractured picture together again, or perhaps meet Nox himself.
Nox left, promising retribution and charms, but Seven was not one to be frightened easily. He looked back to Visha, wondering how she would react to the showmanship. His brows were raised. They were not the only ones freshly studying their neighbor. Rather than fling suspicion, Seven chuckled. “Atharim? Most people say they are fairy tale. Do you believe they exist?”