#venomousovereignty

She stared at @venomousovereignty while ever so gently twirling her wine within its glass like he'd said the most ridiculous statement ever. She WANTED to be alone.

...

╼ ༺ :||           Daneil circled curiously, closely, around him and gave him a look over. Working with the necessities, she still needed energy from someone. Seducing someone in the human realm shouldn't be an issue either if he didn't agree, but a deal is a deal if he wanted out. It really wasn't a bad trade off. She could continue admiring his cute horns as well~

So... this was Esto Gaza. Having been told this settlement was considered holy ground, a place in which many a divine spectacle (in theory) of the “Shimmering Island” could be witnessed via terrace-view, the seeds of inquisition quickly took root. It was a lovely, albeit cold place…

Though the main attraction bore its own sort of pious beauty, there was much to be admired about other venues and loci as well. Among them, more notably, was an art museum. As the trio presumably kept to musing about the wiles and wares of a neighboring shop, classically, Sal would once again fall victim to her curiosity, going solo for a spell. It would lead her to this discernibly decorative depository, where wayfaring-sorts such as she could both wander and wonder. At least, until the others found her. Had she even told them where she was going? Did she ever tell them where she was going?

Treading the gallery with mindful steps, the starry-eyed stray perused its collection...

Soon, before her stood a grand, poetic display of artistry - like any other present here, and yet, so many of its tales and interpretations were entirely its own. This one in particular brought her to a stop, however. One that lasted longer than a minute or two.

Upon a placard below rested a title: “Unrealized.”

Glimpsing its name, it received careful consideration as she studied the concept portrayed - its shapes, colors and even the perceivable strokes - its creative DNA.

Within the gold-imbued frame was a traditional painting of a figure - or at least a part of one - cast against an abstract backdrop of various hues. It was not obscured by a scenic element within the paint, but rather, a lack thereof. In fact, the whole piece was. It looked to be unfinished. It was presumably by design.

To her, it was not the first of its kind. These works of art always managed to draw her in all the same, however. To some, surely, it elicited a feeling of subjective loss. And she was no exception to this.

It had been a while…

For a moment in time, she was pulled under. Again. Into a very particular pool of memories, often buried deep within what felt to be a dark, forsaken corner of her psyche…

Perhaps it was fitting to find herself somewhere like this with such thoughts. This was a sanctified space... she could attempt to pray to a higher power of unknown existence for a means of "real" closure. A reprieve that she was, on occasion, foolish enough to ask for.

“A fellow appreciator of the arts, I see.” There was then a welcome distraction.

Well, well… if it wasn’t this one in yet another time and place. Ever since this peculiar giant of a man had discovered that she more or less moonlighted as a natural radiator, it seemed he would put this “profession” to good use. She did not directly pay him mind, however, whatever she could catch within her peripherals begged her to question…

Was he… actually holding his hands up to her, today? As if she was an open flame to warm one’s hands over?

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 💭  𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝚨 𝐓𝚮𝐎𝐔𝐆𝚮𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝚮𝚨𝐒 𝚮𝚨𝐃 𝚨𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

This...

|| WORD PROMPTS COMPILATION ||

@venomousovereignty​​ sent:  [ smile ] (from Dirk)

|| ||                    The Angel of Death felt him before he saw him-- A wave of intense malice and dread had slammed into him out of nowhere. The very moment that the smallest, downiest of his feathers stood erect, he whipped around--

      There, as predicted, he stood. That confiscator of creamy treats. That pillager of puffs. Dirk. There stood that smarmy bastard with his head held high and his lips pulled back, like faded umber curtains being raised on a stage of salaciously sharp teeth.

     Who had invited him? This was to be a party for the upper classes of Alexandria’s territory... And whoever this man truly was-- Besides a liar, a thief, a charlatan, Kuja was utmost certain that he had NOT been borne of Alexandria’s beau monde--

      --Why not even Kuja had been; but being Terran, he was naturally completely above all of that sort of thing. Exempt.

Who Are You? 

“Ser Jorah Mormont.” He answered without hesitation, his eyes trained on the stranger before him as his hand remained near the hilt of his sword. “Knight of the Queen.” He pointed out, making it known that he would not hesitate to strike this stranger down should he continue to demand entry. “I will inform the Queen of your arrival, but your weapons stay behind should she agree to meet with you. I trust you were told about the terms upon your arrival.” The Knight knew he had been, but the issue was the man not agreeing to said terms, thus why Jorah was here now, helping to deal with the man. “I ask again that you lay down your weapon or you will be meeting with the Queen in the dungeon rather than in the Throne Room.”