leave a word, set of words, or quote for one of my folks. or leave a comment and i'll respond with a word/words or a quote. (if you're searching for words, you might try this site or this site.)
The Outsider isn't accustomed to the notion of places he shouldn't be. For so long, all of space has been within his reach, echoed through the Void or glimpsed just across its shimmer. For so long, he's seen into everything and everyone. The notion of privacy is laughable to the Outsider, and the notion of place - of occupying only one infinitesimally small area - seems strange. Isn't it only natural that he should be anywhere, everywhere? (Even if it's stranger in this place, harder to see everything.) Why shouldn't he be here, watching her?
He hadn't spoken her name expecting any particular reaction. Had chosen the full appellation because that's who she is, what she's called, and he'd wanted to feel the sound of it in his throat, let the words filter through his voice. Still, the smirk is singular. Doesn't strike him as the response that most would give. Again, again, she proves herself an interesting young woman.
"Cassandra."
Again he cocks his head at her, and now the strangeness of his eyes - black through-and-through - might be discernible, might be seen as something more than a trick of the light. "Avoid the question as you like, but you can't avoid what follows you. Do you think your past will ever rest? Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, I see the weight of your broken childhood, the way they held you, the years spent cowering beneath their fangs.
Cassandra goes still, shock, and horror, and anger echoing through her at his words. But there’s no thought to flee. Not anymore. Not from the stranger in the shadows trespassing on her castle’s rooftop. Throwing her past in her face as though it’s nothing. She feels his words like a physical blow, although none of that shows on her face or in her bearing. She’s had far too much practice at maintaining the façade of being fine.
“Only one of them had fangs, actually.” Spoken casually, as though she’s not haunted by the both of them day and night. As though she’s not filled with a slow simmering fury towards the man in front of her. Fury, and hurt, and guilt, and a thousand other things. “I will avoid any question I like, as a matter of fact. I don’t find the need to answer to strange men I find on my roof. But I would be interested to discover how it is you’ve come by your knowledge of me.”
She is toe to toe with him, now, or she would be if he was doing anything as mundane as standing upon the roof’s surface, gazing up at him with sharp blue-grey eyes. Every inch the young noble she was born. Fiercer, though. Stubborn and blazing.
But she’s close enough to see him, to note the endless void of his eyes, and realisation clicks neatly and abruptly into place with certainty. Oh. Accompanied by countless questions and thoughts. The loudest of which is Daud is not going to be pleased. She knows exactly who he is. What. He is. “So.” She says, rather abruptly. “You’re the Outsider. You are a very long way from home.”
And more to the point... why is he here? HOW is he here? She highly doubts he felt the selfsame need to find her that Daud did. It’s... curious.
"Daud's spoken of me." It's the logical answer, and the one he perceives played out across her fingertips. She knows Daud, somehow. From somewhere that isn't here or the Isles. From somewhere the Void has never touched. But when had Daud been to such a place? After Jessamine, it was after Jessamine, after Delilah; something changed in the assassin, changed in the very way he moved through the world, in the experiences he carried. It'd been something more than the empress's death, though the Outsider had been unable to trace the source. It evaded him, somehow. Slipped from his hold the way nothing in the Isles could.
He'd gone somewhere. Met this woman. And of course Daud had mentioned the Outsider; his wayward Chosen has never stopped speaking or thinking of him. Never stopped blaming him, though it'd been Daud's own hand that felled the empress and so, so many others. The Outsider wonders what Daud's told this girl. Almost wonders what she sees in him, his Void-struck eyes, his presence here. So few have ever seen him. Really, she might count herself fortunate.
He doesn't expect that's the case. Given the anger she's flaring, the complicated spiral of feelings caught around her. Perhaps he'd spoken too far, but she's a puzzle, this one. So many unsettled pieces, so much to be stirred up at the lightest prick of a word. It's enticing. And he's never felt obliged to reign his curiosity in.
As far as home goes... It's an interesting notion, isn't it? Is home the Void? If that's the case, he's brought home with him, for he can feel the Void's energy around and through him. Is home the central chamber of the Void, the place his physical form remains frozen? No, no; that's more a tomb. A relic. If home's the Isles, then yes, the girl seems to speak true: he's come a long way, and even he can't say how.
He doesn't mind. Being here is not so different from being in the Isles. Only he's closer to the physical world, here. Only he can almost touch the world that in the Isles only ever shimmered beyond the Void.
He could touch her, maybe, if he wanted to. Feel the warmth of the blood beneath her skin, or come closer to it than he ever has before. Such a strange situation.
Look at those eyes of hers. So filled with fervor.
Such an interesting young woman.
"Yes. He would. How strange that such a man should speak to you. How strange that you should speak in kind, after everything you've witnessed. You've seen great harm. Seen the world fall before you. Cassandra, I wonder if you understand what you've gotten yourself into."
“Not in depth, no. But I know enough. Who you are, on the surface at least.” The bare bones; because she has no doubt that there are untold depths to the god floating on her roof. That has nothing to do with his godhood and everything to do with who he is. “I know your eyes. Have seen your Mark burned upon his hand.”
She can understand some of Daud’s frustration with his god, now, as well. Although she supposes you don’t need tact when you’re godly. (Or perhaps he’s simply never been around anyone long enough to remember what exactly it is.)
“With Daud? Yes. I do. I know what he’s done. Who he was.” Was. Was. A very important distinction that she doesn’t know if the Outsider sees. Noticed in his Chosen. (But he must have noticed something. He’s here, isn’t he.) Let alone understands. “I know who he is, as well. Who he’s becoming. Who he’s trying terribly hard to be.” She tilts her head, gazing up at Daud’s god with brilliant blue-grey eyes. Holding his gaze easily. “He’s better than he thinks he is. The man he was wouldn’t have cared for the broken young women he met upon a bridge late at night. Wouldn’t have concerned himself with a war of the gods. Wouldn’t have done quite a lot of things.” Wouldn’t have been so terribly torn apart by the one time he’d taken part in the arena.
“So yes. I understand exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.” Spoken with certainty. Her faith in Daud has never wavered. Will never waver. (She has more faith in him than she has in herself, most days.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
He hadn't spoken her name expecting any particular reaction. Had chosen the full appellation because that's who she is, what she's called, and he'd wanted to feel the sound of it in his throat, let the words filter through his voice. Still, the smirk is singular. Doesn't strike him as the response that most would give. Again, again, she proves herself an interesting young woman.
"Cassandra."
Again he cocks his head at her, and now the strangeness of his eyes - black through-and-through - might be discernible, might be seen as something more than a trick of the light. "Avoid the question as you like, but you can't avoid what follows you. Do you think your past will ever rest? Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, I see the weight of your broken childhood, the way they held you, the years spent cowering beneath their fangs.
"Your life has not been easy."
no subject
“Only one of them had fangs, actually.” Spoken casually, as though she’s not haunted by the both of them day and night. As though she’s not filled with a slow simmering fury towards the man in front of her. Fury, and hurt, and guilt, and a thousand other things. “I will avoid any question I like, as a matter of fact. I don’t find the need to answer to strange men I find on my roof. But I would be interested to discover how it is you’ve come by your knowledge of me.”
She is toe to toe with him, now, or she would be if he was doing anything as mundane as standing upon the roof’s surface, gazing up at him with sharp blue-grey eyes. Every inch the young noble she was born. Fiercer, though. Stubborn and blazing.
But she’s close enough to see him, to note the endless void of his eyes, and realisation clicks neatly and abruptly into place with certainty. Oh. Accompanied by countless questions and thoughts. The loudest of which is Daud is not going to be pleased. She knows exactly who he is. What. He is. “So.” She says, rather abruptly. “You’re the Outsider. You are a very long way from home.”
And more to the point... why is he here? HOW is he here? She highly doubts he felt the selfsame need to find her that Daud did. It’s... curious.
no subject
He'd gone somewhere. Met this woman. And of course Daud had mentioned the Outsider; his wayward Chosen has never stopped speaking or thinking of him. Never stopped blaming him, though it'd been Daud's own hand that felled the empress and so, so many others. The Outsider wonders what Daud's told this girl. Almost wonders what she sees in him, his Void-struck eyes, his presence here. So few have ever seen him. Really, she might count herself fortunate.
He doesn't expect that's the case. Given the anger she's flaring, the complicated spiral of feelings caught around her. Perhaps he'd spoken too far, but she's a puzzle, this one. So many unsettled pieces, so much to be stirred up at the lightest prick of a word. It's enticing. And he's never felt obliged to reign his curiosity in.
As far as home goes... It's an interesting notion, isn't it? Is home the Void? If that's the case, he's brought home with him, for he can feel the Void's energy around and through him. Is home the central chamber of the Void, the place his physical form remains frozen? No, no; that's more a tomb. A relic. If home's the Isles, then yes, the girl seems to speak true: he's come a long way, and even he can't say how.
He doesn't mind. Being here is not so different from being in the Isles. Only he's closer to the physical world, here. Only he can almost touch the world that in the Isles only ever shimmered beyond the Void.
He could touch her, maybe, if he wanted to. Feel the warmth of the blood beneath her skin, or come closer to it than he ever has before. Such a strange situation.
Look at those eyes of hers. So filled with fervor.
Such an interesting young woman.
"Yes. He would. How strange that such a man should speak to you. How strange that you should speak in kind, after everything you've witnessed. You've seen great harm. Seen the world fall before you. Cassandra, I wonder if you understand what you've gotten yourself into."
no subject
She can understand some of Daud’s frustration with his god, now, as well. Although she supposes you don’t need tact when you’re godly. (Or perhaps he’s simply never been around anyone long enough to remember what exactly it is.)
“With Daud? Yes. I do. I know what he’s done. Who he was.” Was. Was. A very important distinction that she doesn’t know if the Outsider sees. Noticed in his Chosen. (But he must have noticed something. He’s here, isn’t he.) Let alone understands. “I know who he is, as well. Who he’s becoming. Who he’s trying terribly hard to be.” She tilts her head, gazing up at Daud’s god with brilliant blue-grey eyes. Holding his gaze easily. “He’s better than he thinks he is. The man he was wouldn’t have cared for the broken young women he met upon a bridge late at night. Wouldn’t have concerned himself with a war of the gods. Wouldn’t have done quite a lot of things.” Wouldn’t have been so terribly torn apart by the one time he’d taken part in the arena.
“So yes. I understand exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.” Spoken with certainty. Her faith in Daud has never wavered. Will never waver. (She has more faith in him than she has in herself, most days.)