#(cassandra.)

name.   utp. age.   utp. gender / pronouns.   utp. faceclaim.   utp. curse id.   #0276372. classification.   infamy.* danger level.   medium. status.   open to applications.

there is something to be said for your backbone, not stubborn but unflinching, assured in your knowing. do not forget this conviction, it will try and save you later. when a god comes to with promises of affection and grace, remember the steel in your own voice when you tell them no. this is the same determination which could help you survive.

scream your warnings, you a grieving banshee of coming fates with no one to heed your foretelling. there are kingdoms which could crumble around you in visions of the future, and yet any omens of these eventualities refuse to come easy, and so you are doomed to watch it all again--- you as the prophet scorned, they as the ones who suffer your fates.

SCENE I.

cassandra.   i do not trust you. i’ve seen it, the chaos you bear. paris.   it’s too late for me. why must you make it worse ?  do you hate me or do you fear me ? cassandra.   you don’t matter enough for me to feel either. you are simply a catalyst--- i know you as you are, a war-bringer. stay far from me. i refuse to be caught in your inevitability.

SCENE II.

cassandra.   why won’t you help me ?  you’ve got a skill, same as i do. how is it you do it right and i do it wrong ?  medea.   i cannot fix whatever is broken in you. neither of us can redirect the current of anyone’s fate. all we can do is watch.

Curiosity had stirred within this daybreak. As others dreamily contemplated of wine, flowers or the blades of colors on the feather of a peacock, Paris had entered the indoor gardens of the palace for the treasure that had offered little contemplative reward: the lion.

For this reason, Paris had taken to a small shard of a mirror - big enough to observe the shadows behind him yet small enough for his fingers to fold over it. In this undertaking of the rare lion, Paris was poised in uncharacteristic stillness, flashing the mirror this way and that from his own corner of the gardens until it seemed that the beast would not appear. O, must unwelcome lion. He would have sworn he’d seen the sway of a woman in a lion’s tail disappear in the shadows.

Though, precisely the moment that the sun’s eye had winked into the mirror, Paris slowly recognized the silverly clarity of Cassandra’s eye. To be true, her eyes were brown as his, though the quality of her stare and intention had lent her eyes to an otherworldly appearance. 

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