Sugar Peanuts

He's beautiful.

It shouldn't matter that he's beautiful, but Cyri supposes that consequence doesn't always care for truth. And the truth, significant or otherwise, is that he's beautiful.

With his broad nose and all the sharp lines of his face, he seems more like a work of June. Made all the more perfect for his flaws—if the line cutting through his brow could be called as much. In this light, the raised line is cast in a silver glow. The contrast to the rich color of his skin suggests artistry more than violence.

Cyri had heard it said that the more scars a man bore, the higher he ranked in Andruil's service. And While she often doubted that Andruil promoted her Hunters based on the exact count of their scars, Cyri put some merit into the spirit of observation. And if the whispers that reached her ears were little more than hearsay, she isn't foolish enough to doubt that this man could rip her throat out with his teeth.

Under different circumstances, she might not be so opposed to the concept.

As it is, she's already been far more arrogant tonight than was wise. A sentiment which is suppressed by the fur and leather pressing in around her. Sweat slicks the skin beneath her armor, the compounded body heat only serving to exacerbate her current conundrum. Cyri takes in a measured breath, fighting the urge to squirm away from the feathers twitching against the side of her throat.

A banal hiding spot by all accounts, the wardrobe.

Watching crimson rivulets spill between the flagstones on the floor, Cyri is forced to reckon with the fact that she'd had little choice—in hiding places at least.

It is difficult to pinpoint the singular choice which led her to this point, peering through the sliver in the wooden doors as her killer creeps undoubtedly closer. More likely, it'd been a series of precipitant impulses which took her to the point of no return.