a fool's gambit

I don't know who you are. Don't know what school you follow, which side you're on—could be heads, could be tails. Could be the edge. Could be you shoot before the coin lands.

Just know I'll be the one picking it up.

animal.     rat & snake color.     green & red  month.  november     number.     9 day or night.     night  plant.      snow on the mountain smell.     wood smoke & ozone gemstone.     jade season.     winter place.     back alleys & city underbellies  food.     any & all zodiac.     scorpio element.     fire

The sincerity in his voice strips her more than his prior words had, than the shedding of her robe had. Perhaps if he knew her better she would see the tell in the way her eyes shift before she can catch the movement; as it is in the dim light her eyes are only a faint glitter, and she leans into that sensation of being shrouded out of habit, out of comfort. 

“Symbols are powerful,” she answers simply, her voice a soft husk. His eyes on each little scale, picked out in painfully thin lines years and years ago with nothing more than a bone needle, nearly makes her shiver, which in turn gives her the sensation that the snake moves beneath his eye. Just a trick of the mind, she assures herself, evening her breathing with a few measured beats. 

If she trusted him she might tell him of the Missionaria Protectiva, of the carefully seeded superstitions implanted into budding cultures millennia ago by her forebears. How the Bene Gesserit use such vague prophecies for their own manipulations, for their own protection should they desperately need it. How the snake tattooed into her arm might garner her a position close to godhead on the right planet, at the right time, with all the right movements on her part. Not something she ever hopes she needs to use, but the knowledge of the Panoplia Propheticus is there nonetheless. 

Never mind that the tattoo had since taken on its own meaning for herself.

“When you see a snake—or a symbol of a snake—what is your first thought?” she asks with genuine curiosity, head tipping delicately to the side from the long straight line of her neck.

Symbols are powerful, sure. Depending on what they drag up. He watches the snake on her skin shift as she does, like it’s some thing that lives on its own. He thumbs over the scruff of his own jaw as he looks at it, looks at her. 

“Mind the fangs, yeah? They’re vicious enough to make ya think twice about steppin’ on ‘em-- if you seem ‘em that is. Sometimes they don’t wanna be. And if you get bit? Well, you’re gonna pay.” He chuckles, waving his hand casually as he talks. He’s a snake, really. Admires their qualities, at least.  

He leans back, relaxed again. Looks at her with a twinkling eye-- amused and curious. Those are things he can show in earnest. 

“‘S why I’m curious. You’ve got fangs, sure. ‘N you’re sure hidin’ under a flower. But you’re not someone who seems like she relishes the venom.”

There are moments where Orin wishes she could shed her training. Moments where it feels too invasive, incisive, excising. And all of it clinical. But there is an unspoken intimacy that goes beyond physical nearness. Speaking of it would only shatter it. Better to continue excavating, mutual destruction hanging over their heads like a guillotine. 

In the end, she is a Truthsayer, and it is instinctual to listen and watch for all of the little tells. The subtle inflections in the voice, shifting even a quarter of an octave. The dilation of pupils, or the shifting of minute muscles in the face. 

None of that is present. He speaks the truth. She almost wishes he had lied.

“‘Before you can kill the monster, you have to say its name,’“ she whispers, some ancient proverb millions of years old ringing through her head. She doesn’t say it to him directly; it seeps from her throat like liquid smoke, pooling between their feet. 

Without waiting for him to say anything she takes one step away from him unclasps the robe from her shoulders, lets it fall in a dark puddle around her ankles. Her shoulders and arms are bare, a soft tan shade that in this light looks almost blue. Stark against her skin is the tattoo that winds its way from the inside of her forearm, around her wiry bicep, curling to rest over the cap of her shoulder. A simple design; when she shifts her muscles the slightest bit it looks as if the snake were gliding. 

She watches him with wary, hooded eyes, expression almost defiant. This is not a mark she often bares. 

Before you can kill the monster, you have to say its name. The axiom makes him restless for just a moment. A bitter thing like a snarling of teeth and acidic taste swirl in the back of his mind, kicked up by the words. They’ll never have his name. They’ll never touch him. He’s sure of that. 

And yet she said it, and in some ways it feels prophetic. It makes his skin crawl. 

He’s struck from his thoughts as she steps away suddenly. He looks up to see her unclasp her robe, watches it fall to the floor, watches the room bathe her skin in light. Laughter escapes him-- but a quiet kind, barely heard, like a fanatic seeing his god for the first time.

He drinks her in for a few moments, not caring to look for the object of interest-- her tattoo-- just yet. He could be blind to the world for this moment, and he’s drained of his usual quips, simply smiling. Finally his eyes shift to the snake, noting each scale, the way it curves over her muscles, how it stakes a claim over her arm.