The truth is, Alecto doesn't feel cursed. Even though she knows she is, even though she knows that with the first kiss of sunlight tomorrow morning she'll become nothing more than a burst of feathers and song, she feels, beneath it all, still the same as she's ever been: a cool, chilly beauty with a sharp wit and a stubborn heart.
Tonight, while the night was still young, a clear black evening encrusted with stars, she is sitting insight on the bannister of the large marble staircase, her legs crossed idly, one dainty heel kicking, with obstinate, lethargic rhythm as she looks about the grand ballroom with a studied carelessness. Alecto - who was rarely content to sit still but was always itching to do something, anything, play cards, go for a picnic, or a ride - was bored and restless, and made no secret of it. Finally, as much to humor her as anything, Philip suggested she please try and talk to someone, anyone, while the eldest Crabtree, Prince Hector, urged the orchestra to stir up a jaunty tune. "It's a party in your honor after all, Ali, and can you pretend to be enjoying yourself," he said, and Alecto pursed her lips at the childhood nickname, about to make a comment about how there was no one or thing of any real interest here to her when suddenly, she sees him.
He looks...the same. Just a bit taller now, more mannish and sharp, but nonetheless identical to how she remembered him: a shy, warm thing, cautious and gentle of spirit. Even the way he penned his letters had a distinct softness to it, the way the ink sunk dark and wet into certain letters because of how careful he was to shape them. It was a stark contrast to Alecto herself and how she returned his notes with quick, winding paragraphs - spontaneous with her word choices, a near stream of consciousness - in a particular shade of dark red ink indigenous to the Riverlands, that echoed the cheerful hoarseness of her voice, the boldness of her absolute certainty in so many things.
She gets up in one sharp, intense motion. Her dress seems to move on its own all around her, a delicate geometry of fine, white fabric strings that lock together around her body like the echo of fish bones and fins. It gave the effect that she was wearing practically nothing and yet she was completely covered. The sound of her pointed heels on the marble floor seemed incredibly loud and decisive.
Once she gets close enough, passing by multiple greetings and offers to dance, her voice rises stridently above the clambering of the crowd gathered around her.
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Tonight, while the night was still young, a clear black evening encrusted with stars, she is sitting insight on the bannister of the large marble staircase, her legs crossed idly, one dainty heel kicking, with obstinate, lethargic rhythm as she looks about the grand ballroom with a studied carelessness. Alecto - who was rarely content to sit still but was always itching to do something, anything, play cards, go for a picnic, or a ride - was bored and restless, and made no secret of it. Finally, as much to humor her as anything, Philip suggested she please try and talk to someone, anyone, while the eldest Crabtree, Prince Hector, urged the orchestra to stir up a jaunty tune. "It's a party in your honor after all, Ali, and can you pretend to be enjoying yourself," he said, and Alecto pursed her lips at the childhood nickname, about to make a comment about how there was no one or thing of any real interest here to her when suddenly, she sees him.
He looks...the same. Just a bit taller now, more mannish and sharp, but nonetheless identical to how she remembered him: a shy, warm thing, cautious and gentle of spirit. Even the way he penned his letters had a distinct softness to it, the way the ink sunk dark and wet into certain letters because of how careful he was to shape them. It was a stark contrast to Alecto herself and how she returned his notes with quick, winding paragraphs - spontaneous with her word choices, a near stream of consciousness - in a particular shade of dark red ink indigenous to the Riverlands, that echoed the cheerful hoarseness of her voice, the boldness of her absolute certainty in so many things.
She gets up in one sharp, intense motion. Her dress seems to move on its own all around her, a delicate geometry of fine, white fabric strings that lock together around her body like the echo of fish bones and fins. It gave the effect that she was wearing practically nothing and yet she was completely covered. The sound of her pointed heels on the marble floor seemed incredibly loud and decisive.
Once she gets close enough, passing by multiple greetings and offers to dance, her voice rises stridently above the clambering of the crowd gathered around her.
"Is that my little minnow, I see?"