[ SURVIVOR. ]

' ————ackerman. a dull tone. it rips through her tongue & sinks venom between pearled teeth. summon hell’s fire and a lone twisting vine—- coiling around that is her bare spine. * a bitter take of breath; these azure eyes are yet but void—- because she is naught but dead. she is but a hollow corpse; her rotten flesh & her decaying skin—- she is so close, so fond of death. within her she harvests withered stars and unearthly moons; she—- meddling with the hands of death, does not exist.

            Eyes of abyssal inferno ignite within the waters of unending depths, black, dark, and dreary. They are stained with the events of such haunting past and do not hesitate to rid of what stands in their way. A mark of a warrior, the strength that shrouds the weakness, lowering and lowering its levels until it exists no more. She is unearthly and she is powerful. The gates in which voice does not hide behind, but sits idly by, are open if only to reveal the dull speech that would flicker from tongue's movement and throat's correspondence. She speaks. 

                                    “ …. ”

                        he sidles past.                          ( is she gonna attack him           ? )

                            ‘ ... ’ 

                                    “ ooo        it worked         !  ”

                        he stands there, ’cause what ?                           give him a minute to wrap his head around this            

                            ‘ Are you going to move? ’ 

             ❝ My point is, why are you bothering               to put effort into something if there is no               reward. It just makes you look stupid. ❞

            Hatred courses through the thick rivers of crimson that stem from only one another, flowing endlessly through body's entirety. A glare that stings, burns, as a stab wound, deep through flesh. Eternal darkness is offered through exterior of sight's ability and she is merciless, just as the world has taught her. 

                            ‘ … Annie. ’ 

                            ‘ Who are you--? ’

                             “ oookay…          ”                                  “ uh, please step aside ! ”

▐│∶☽∶; —                   нιѕ єуєѕ gℓαηcє over her dullen features. She wears a veil kin to his own; it makes reading emotions, thoughts, difficult. He understands it’s purpose even if only a little, and he won’t prod too much. For now he extends himself only enough to offer help.

                   ❝… were you looking for someone?❞

            A question strikes reaction as lids may part, dragging lashes further from their partners of rest and whites are extended about fortress of irises. Almost immediately, same vision would drift, exiting the scene in which she views and contact of curious pupils would hide behind the mask that obscures such honest ways.

            She lies, as such would deem unimportant to another.

▐│∶☽∶; —                   нє cαтcнєѕ мσνємєηт αη∂ turns his head. There’s a soft tinge of disappointment when he meets a pair of dark eyes. She’s one of their own, white and black feathers displayed on chest, shoulders and back. Not that this revelation brings him any relief; he doesn’t know who she is.  

                    ❝Getting supplies.❞

            She stands idly, cold, distant, giving feel of independence with her strength and stride. A mild sensation of despondency would show evident upon faces features. Eyes sunken in the deep of abyss of cruel past, they fall with a blink as she stares at the nothingness that seems beneath them. Perhaps she is lost, yet she speaks hardly, if only to signify her understanding.

        Tired smile spread across pale complexion slowly, young girl content to have done something kind, albeit only a small show of such a thing. Water was nothing, in the long run, if only to replenish and refresh the drinker, but it was all she, in all her power and in all her ability was capable of. Surely anyone else would have been able to do such a thing, but it had been her nonetheless, and with a precise tilt of her hips, of her shoulders, and a slant of her torso she nodded gently, almost passively, eyes both solemn and alert at once. Juxtaposed emotions oftentimes had a place on any face those days, anyways.

                "You’re welcome. It’s the least I could do, really."

            Provider is kind, each language in which body speaks would inform her so; she is not one she had gotten to know so much as others, though not surprising. Tending to cling not so closely to those unworthy of such difficult trust, she is distant, foreign to her own world; her own reality. Ebony shines with the reflection of natural sun that lights room's area and pupils drift, following one another as a close companion, from the exterior of one who's introduction lays hazy in memory, to the transparent moisture that ripples in every movement of table's reverberations. Previous conversation seems to go disregarded as cup is paced gently upon wooden make, and a question is initiated through voice's blandly curious tone.

            Stare is blank as if sight drifts into ocean’s depths of clear nothingness, expression blank, lost, perhaps never to return to what once was. She offers not even a glance as fingers wrap about edible substance, crumbs falling at the creases of fingers’ joints, and arm fall back to previous position. She then takes mental note of offering and the provider, perhaps in an effort to one day repay the even slight respect that exists now, gripped within the palm of blistered purple, handle-prints pressed into ivory flesh. She eats it not, as exit is made after a simple sign of gratitude.

            Cold air bites porcelain flesh with every gust it breathes. As prey of a thirsty spider, such sensitivity of stinging ivory would become bothersome in many ways more than simple. Strands drape across the bridge beneath nose's coverage and it tickles lightly against frigid cheeks, tinted purple in color as one who chokes for breath of life. Scarf floats with earth's breaths, coal fibers drifting with the flow of the world. She is not alone; she knows of one's other presence, ghost-like, she senses with not a glance in abyssal movement. Eyes like a trench, black like the dark that haunts its beneath, she speaks. Voice as cold as air that holds them, she speaks through the dry land, spilled and tainted with the crimson blankets that fail at warmth.

                                   ' h a p p y ? ' 

            Such a familiar word for such rare occurrence— she remembers times dubbed ‘happy’, yet she believes this word faulty. A facade to obscure the cruelty of the world from a fearful mind. The world that she lives in a world of danger, of life’s risk, and of fear— the only thing that once hid her from such truth was the ignorance behind innocent eyes, stained with the beliefs of others, never living by her own regard. 

            The word is untrustworthy as she believes that she has never truly felt 'happy'. Time is trivial, constantly dancing in winds of the past, being gusted away with every second that carries on, and she puts not a label on her emotions. Deep thought is put into answer as explaining such complicated view would result in not gain, but wasted effort. She looks not for a discussion, but an answer suitable to herself, and the superior who stands so curious before her. A glance is offered toward the scarf, woven black about her neck, and she answers plainly.