#murderpawn

❛ have you ever had a recurring dream? ❜ @murderpawn

The question, whatever its intentions, catches Feanor off guard - his trepidation laid bare in the firelight. Yes, he knows of recurring dreams. Dreams that came to visit in the latest, darkest hours of the night as an old friend would ; although lacking all the warmth of a drink or a meal shared between two companions. A dream that seeped into the recesses of his very being and wrenched whatever it could of a restful sleep from him. Images begin to swirl in his mind's eye, the edges of which dance as if black ink in water. Faces of those long gone. Echoes of the past.

There's a curiosity in her voice, as if seeking a kindred spirit, a shared malady. Almost as if to say ❛ please, show me that I'm not alone in this❜. He briefly wonders if that is simply his own want, however, projected onto her.

Her fingers lightly trace over the deep scar that runs from the side of her face, down her jaw, and across her neck. It’s been a long time since she really thought about it, even longer since she got it. It and most of the other litany of scars that paint her body - as if she was the canvas for a particularly twisted artist. It’s an art she mostly keeps covered, the only parts of her skin visible her face, neck and hands.