#i. open.

mortality oft comes with a reverence; like a god so pale it resembles the smoke of cedar. his flesh glints with the dews of water, softened by the vaping steam that were unfurling like white ribbons, unveiling the marble like a dream between each glimpse. muscles, hard earned and immaculate, cut out from the water like an ancient mountain, spreading out next to him upon the sculptured stone. yet beyond veins of steam and the columns of stone, he hears the faint trace of distant footsteps, arriving muted and spectral, as though it had drifted from space to space, shaped by the anticipation of bated breath. his ears perk as his head lolls backwards. the water moves gently. 

" come out then."  spoken with the grandeur of silk, like a wandering spirit. still, beneath the sanctuary of each of his syllables, there’s a sharp point of a nail.

the sea salt vapour clings to her linen shirt, open by the throat. an assortment of gold resting against her skin, hanging around her neck like laurels, most victory seized from the blood and brine of various treasures and ports. her waist is bound in leather, and above it, near her midriff, her linen resembles a cloth of white with smears of watery pink. " i can smell you over the herring. "  sitting upon a wooden box on the plank, morgana speaks over the silvered fin, like a tide whispering beneath a storm, the sharp edge of her voice slipping between her knife and the fishbones, clean yet impatient. and as her knife cuts down in violence, her hands and fingers move in haste.