ftxcassandra

[ftxcassandra]

eyeliner as black as my heart, lipstick as red as the blood of my fallen enemies

[ftxcassandra]

There was something almost daunting in regards to having an individual who was perhaps of her caliber. Her tastes were quite livid in the mundane world; elegance, class and expensive were adjectives that clearly described everything and anything in which her very digits grazed upon in thought. Perhaps to some extent did the sea witch find some fascination in her own possessions; whether it was the thousand dollar shoes, or the crystal gems that were embedded within the black plastic that proved its worth.

Pulling out this said clip from her hair and brushing those locks over her shoulder; dark hues glanced elsewhere as this pathway brightened in her own consciousness as she walked. Two digits clutched the long cancer stick between her digits, the smoke nonexistent from the black electronic puffer that waved in the air with every step.

Though her attire was quite strange in such a time frame during the cold winter weather; a black jacket that clung to every curve upon her torso and fell at her sides as a makeshift dress that hid the nakedness that were her legs. But of course by the length of her calves clung black boots with brilliant red soles that contrasted against the surface of the snow.

Perhaps her own attention had given her the reason to collide into the male before him – though her senses told else wise amidst his familiar visage of what he was – and who he worked for. Alas, eyes closed momentarily as an inhale of frustration was heard through her nostrils before slowly being spewed from her ruby red tiers.

Cassandra paused; her silence questionable as she refused to utter words before finally speaking in the most clear voice. “Ah.” A sound much less words before those questionable words registered in her own consciousness. Her electronic smoke had fallen upon the snow, while a black bruise had formulated upon the length of her arm; the pain itself faint and nonexistent. Though it was a shame to have a body created in by her own design; it marred much too quickly from the slightest touches of contact.  

Rolling up the black sleeve of her jacket before she revealed the bruise upon her arm before the male. “Ah.” Another sound of acknowledgment. “Perhaps I have been injured. Are you a healer of some sort and will lick my wounds?”

All too often Max forgets that he is Max. There would be terrible lapses in judgment where he would write his name as Jang Hyunseung, the alias becoming his identity the more he introduced himself as such. Recently the reappearance of a certain Kate Batts allowed him to remember, even for a fleeting moment, the war and the spoils of the victors. Particularly, he fondly recalled the unfortunate few who fell under the spell of his enchanted flute, whose origin itself cannot resurface from the thick darkness of his dim mind. The Piper, even with his protestations against the mental cage and the occasional outbursts of influence, was also growing weaker. Or perhaps that was Max. They were one and the same, and it was fast becoming a more demanding trial to distinguish one from the other. He needed a break from music entirely, but he cannot live without it, either. Notes were not only the bars of the Piper’s prison cell; it was also his.

He could not blow his cover now, not when he’d spent decades perfecting it. The Pied Piper’s suffering was far more haunting and agonizing than any of his victims, for they had the privilege to die by the skilled dance of his fingers across the keys of the magical instrument at his hip; he was given no such refuge.

It was why, on a particular dreary day at the tattered edges of winter, he found himself sitting on a lonesome bench at a nearly-desolate park, eyes scanning those carefree souls who did not bear the same weight of a homicidal maniac in their conscious. He remained a silent observer — which was uncharacteristic of him — with his headphones covering the passage to any sound other than Bach’s soothing melodies. Today he was inconspicuously dressed in black, the only splash of colour coming from his red checkered shirt. Even then he blended in well with the usual crowd, who he assumed made their own music through the beating of their feet against the pavement.

Realising that this was no good for his sanity, he stood, ready for a change of scenery. A few flowers, perhaps, would eradicate the churning blood lust. Fire was no longer at his hip, but was now concealed and strapped within a special coat he’d sewn a long pocket for. He all but looked down momentarily to change to a tune fitting to the shift in his surroundings when a person seemed to appear from the ground for him to run into. In his shock he almost dropped the prize phone-slash-music-player, and he schooled his features into what the stranger would hopefully perceive as apologetic. The scowl never surfaced. “I’m sorry for the collision,” he amended. “Did I harm you in any way?”

[ftxcassandra]

[ftxcassandra]

Though her own persona which dwindled upon the remnants of her own thoughts as she chose that moment to wander almost aimlessly. Books were a tragic creation in which their writers chose that moment to etch thoughts and desires upon pages in which their own thoughts inevitably consumed them and only pinpointed and written within the duration of their own reality.

There was a visible pause as black cladded pumps now stood to a standstill, the owner of the very Louboutin’s paused to linger upon a series of books that stood in silence, seeking to be purchased.

Inhale.

Delicate digits that curved upon the very spine as the blade ran across the newly designed paperback cover, pausing once more before those dark obsidian orbs pulled away – along with her attention to the sound of an unrecognized baritone voice that echoed in her own ears.

/“Welcome.”/

As simple as a welcome was and perhaps in his nature something that now became of a custom to those who worked in retail; questioning and almost amused to the very manner in response to such a mundane and monotone.

Exhale.

Air that expelled through ruby red tiers and later brushed the lock of hair behind her ear with her free hand; cocking her head in one direction; eyes officially peeling away from the cursive script of the title before those emotionless features shifted in response.

“Ah, thank you.” A reply so simply as she acknowledged the coffee bearer. His very features recognized by her own memory and new found amusement. – yet visibly she was still quite stoic and calm.

Her own calm mannerism ever so evident in her cool response; she truly was very impassive.

“I have a question, good shop keeper.” Her voice quiet, though audible amidst her state of mind. “What would you recommend a politician? Perhaps a dictator? Something not of a best seller and something known to some I’d hope. Anything… interesting?”

Though her voice was audible, the sound itself that refused to match her own vocals. Scratchy and hoarse though her elegant features refused to suit such a songstress; she was the sea witch after all.

{ ` ✧ DYSTOPIA ; HC & KWB ❞ }

[ ☆ ]

[ftxcassandra]

{ ` ✧ DYSTOPIA ; HC & KWB ❞ }

It was almost a convenience to find herself in a place that was, most definitely not her humble and closed doors of her happy confinement; her laboratory. The art of potionry manipulated into the mundane world into that of chemistry. Those elegantly manicured digits twitched, folding into small fists upon her tabletop. Eventually the grand woman stood to her feet, dark suede heels clicking against the marble flooring of her own office before she exited the room.

With a dark jacket that hugged her petite frame; locks that curled upon her sides and swayed in the movement of her own footsteps. She was, elegant by all means. Dressed in the top class of all things that were fashionable. Though no smile lingered upon those features, the brightness of her own visage revealed elsewise. Kindness was an adjective misplaced upon her skin. She was a bitter woman with no desire to appear as happy and as jolly as the season foretold. She was, quite the opposite.

Now the elevator she now stood in, brought her to the ground floor; the ding alerted her attention yet she made no visible notice of the notice. Walking outwards and paying no attention to the employees' who's heads now bowed in sequence. But alas, as she stepped out through those doors did the rest of the building rejoice. The foul witch had finally disappeared, and peace was now restored. At least, until a new day.

Snow crunched beneath the footing of the woman in question. Snow and grime that clung to boots that were perhaps as expensive as her entire attire in question. Now entering into the sleek black car that waited for her and drove as soon as her form was situated and seated in such away that car drove calmly without a single hair upon the hood of her jacket twitch.

Moments after, the witch raised a leather gloved hand, halting the car soon after. "Stop here, I have to make a visit." 

West of the Moon. 

A store that was, perhaps in all her manner unfamiliar and strangely open. Opening the door with a push of a button, the fashionable witch stepped outside her confinement once more and out into the open world of the cold. A shiver ran up the woman's spine as palm pressed against the glass of the door and pushed open the door of the bookstore. Though the shopkeeper was momentarily absent from their throne of a post -- and she was free to wander about the store. For now.

A bookstore? How strange, was her response. Questionable as those blank features continued to observe the entire area; a gaze so observant yet strangely emotionless. To the sounds of footsteps, did she choose not to raise her head to answer.

[ftxcassandra]

BNT Magazine

[ftxcassandra]

Who do we have here, eh? A witch, hm. Surprised you come in this guise of all. But whatever suits your need for power. For the riddle, a welcoming gift. Now let's get on with it, shall we? "What is so delicate that even mentioning it breaks it?" I'm sure you're familiar with it. Curious of your own answer.

A villain with a tongue, or a fickle human with the guise of a  masked individual. Well, with your last friend, I've already stated I have no time for your petty games. { -- a quiet snort of disapproval as oxygen halted between her own lungs. It was evident that she did not enjoy the mocking tone of the stranger she now came face to face to } Your neck, I'd say. Come closer and let my lovely tendrils lock upon your throat, child. For you, silence is all the more reasonable of an answer to my ears. Move along now, I don't have time for your redundant games. I have many things to do, and no time for your childish woes to be impressed upon my existence.

[ftxcassandra]

WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER WHEN YOU ARE IN A BAD MOOD?

With all unpleasantries aside, the female arched an elegantly curved arch, lips parting breifly as a sound of disgust nearly slipped through artfully glossed tiers. Impatience; bless the forsaken adjective for it described the woman's entire brilliance in a single word. Undoubtably, delicate palms pressed together and curved beneath her chin. Head rested upon the very slender bridge in undeniable reluctance -- for her response was poised and momentary; disregarding all reason to even attempt to answer the question.

Alas the woman finally chose words to speak, inhaling air as those lips parted once more -- words now forming and sound released. "Destroying foul mouthed creatures as yourself." Quiet as the threat was; such hinderance in retaliation to a reply that had yet to be truly given. Amidst all reason to be playful in such a moment -- she was, evidently calculating. "Now must you be such a tedious instrument in my desire to complete my tasks in which your infernal behaviour must be disregarded; I have no desire to stand in the presence of an infernal machine that will do me no use in the near future. Please move your disgusting self away from my eyes, or else I will truly destroy you and your distasteful guise." A scoff as those hands now pulled away from her chin, leaning forward to grasp the inanimate object in her hands and crushing the very robotic creature against the surface of her metallic desk. The said bot, shattered as the pressure exerted against it's fragile surface.

Cassandra stared at the broken pieces that were now scattered before her. A pause as she considered the event before brushing the palm of her hand with the digits of the other; moving in quick sweeping motions before finally clutching the same hand. "I am never in a good mood. Oh well."

[ftxcassandra]

ariel. conjoined seahorse spyglass necklace. bloodmilk ‘sea witch’ series