WRITTEN

 “Do you ever not get cold?”

It was rather droll, but common politeness on his off hours is requested , to a extent as he can to someone who he has never formally met before. 

One of the many cons about being sent back through time is not having access to the modern conveniences he’d grown accustomed to.

Piers had quickly realized that, without his bleach and hair dye, the white bits in his hair were slowly fading into the black shade his hair naturally was. It wasn’t a massive issue, but he was still a bit grumpy about it. Thankfully, Miss Cogita had figured out a solution.

“ Ah-, sorry… it jus’ feels.. weird, that’s all. ”

He grumbles as he places his hands flat on his lap, trying to keep them from instinctively reacting to the odd sensation and reminding himself it was just paint.

“ … It’ll look jus’ like b'fore, right? ”

 a sigh of detachment, of devastation to how piers itches in his seat  -  at his very core  -  just to scratch at layers that canvas hair. this should become daily routine, of morning applications  &&.  thorough washing-out come nightfall. paint was not to sit overnight, nor to be slept with. overuse could damage, let alone cake  &&.  rot into hair. a hand presses to her temple, kneads edge of nails along her throbbing headache.

breathe ;   in  &&.  out. it’ll be fine, he can handle this. he’s a grown man, one you’re nursing like a sickly bidoof mind you, but piers can handle his own cogita.

nevermind the dulcet tones of settling dusk, or of crickets chiming in for the solemn solitude of their clashing persons. fan waves, spreads a splash of air that gusts up a few hairs from mid-woman’s face. she breathes a new generation, of time ticking on,  &&.  as she is canvased for perusal, cogita makes note to once james over as well. 

 ❛  i  find  it  fitting。  ❜    mold  spores!  mold  spores!  an  affront  to  his  character  if  he’s  ever  heard  one!  (  and  he  has  heard  several          completely  unfounded!         pronouncements  about  his  character,  all  so  light  as  to  tremble  like  a  desperate  leaf  to  a  branch,  that  were  oriented  as  defamation  )  but  wind  does  not  carry  the  spore  for  nothing,  and  injured  pride  spreads  so  thin  as  to  fade  away,  back  from  whence  it  came;  the  eery  darkness  (  he  swears!  )  she  must  have  hidden  …  somewhere  …

 is  he  searching?

 she  beckons。  he  comes,  easily,  as  a  droplet  in  a  river;  lost  to  the  whims  of  the  tide  itself,  deep  &  cast  away  into  the  ocean。  one  step。  two  steps,  three  steps,  until  table  taps  against  layered  guild  clothing。  as  of  now,  his  pack  lies,  dormant  and  resting,  by  the  tent。  he  must  let  his  shoulders  rest。  energy  is,  as  it  is,  something  to  be  conserved。  to  his  fortune,  his  restlessness  has  already  spanned  the  land,  causes  him  no  discomfort  now  to  simply  stand  and  watch  her;  she,  her  natural  intellect,  innate  smothering  aura  which  seems,  always,  to  swirl  and  steep  in  his  saliva  for  just  a  bit  too  long。

 but  the  keeness  to  speak!  that,  in  itself,  is  something  volo  has  yet  to  tamper  down  after  his  three  decades。  if  he  must  wait  to  speak,  it  never  lasts  for  long。  words  seem  to  gather  in  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  itch  inside  his  palms,  yearning;  painful。  she  focuses  only  on  her  drink。

 a  subtle  movement;  a  lean  down,  balanced  of  forefinger  and  thumb  on  the  table,  tantalisingly  close  to  her  plate。  ❛  i’ll  wait。  ❜

hunger pangs in his very being, a deity of deceit  &&.  distrust, standing idly by as the mistress of time displaces her drink two centimeters off to her left. unamused, she looks to him, corners his thoughts with a mere jest of eyes narrowing. why the forlorn look, dearest? she beckons with her gaze a mere plight of the man, how lips turn wicked in a simple twitch of muscle.                  why do you yearn for her attention so?

“ well go on, ”   purrs in tandem with the settling of porcelain upon cup, set aside beverage for proper dictation of intentions. skirt shifts beneath the waves of wind passing between seated  &&.  standing forms, brushes the muk of caked boots, allows dress hem to lift  --  to let her delicate shoe rise to ghost along outer shin in greeting. a sign of affection, a testament that though she may not rush to his cravings, she will always be there to settle his scores. retreat does her heel, back beneath the fabrics of darkness, of cogs turning behind clockwork. 

if he’s to stand there like a simpering child wanting something without the use of words, what more can she do? gloves move to fold under her jaw, rests her weary chin upon lithe fingers that long since woven their threads of poetry. glossy eyes blink, flush lashes for fresh air upon gaze, revitalize her vision for a brighter sunlit view of her telltale merchant.

a petite sigh, ill of any conventional emotive semblance. it’s vague, clearly muddled with tempering of morning tea’s blend  &&.  obvious favoritism towards the merchant, the memoir of time flushing her lashes shut at the very thought of raising her voice. oh.  .  .  to be so crass as to allow a shudder ripple down her physique, to feed into theatrics that plague her eardrums.                volo, her sweet ginkgo guild guppy, why do you torment her eternally so? .  .  .

“ come now, sinnoh-born. you know how i loathe that word floating about like mold spores in your vocabulary. ”   pinkie extends, flicks out from under her slim jawline, grants him permission to approach. her tableside is lacking in presence, she craves him closer still. to see him loom over her, shadow her nestled perch upon garden chair, blocking sunlight from glimmering ‘pon teacup’s surface.                 it’s only a few hours past sunrise  &&.  yet he still wanders nearby. has he a debut to reveal? some intrigue not yet shown in his wild wonderment often displayed by her natural intellect of eras ago history  &&.  knowledge of the gods?

the eye, outside to visitor’s view, opens to find his vision. sharp is she, quick to cut him down if words were to form in slack. cogita refuses any backtalk or idle prattle. out with it, walking man-child. as whole as her love remains in you, she still finds your self-quoted flawlessness gaining friction against her mediums. watch how her tongue smooths along teeth within tightly pressed smile, only dotting out at lips corner upon volo’s approach. how eye revels in her trust with the guild member as it strays, finds tea still steaming soft simmering clouds.