And as her eyes scan over the people in the room, she comes to the conclusion that she doesn’t belong. She never has, never will, if the clusters of people are anything to go by.
And as her eyes scan over the people in the room, she comes to the conclusion that she doesn’t belong.

She never has, never will, if the clusters of people are anything to go by. maybe stories
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necromancienne
necromancienne Your local cryptid
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
To those undeserving.

And as her eyes scan over the people in the room, she comes to the conclusion that she doesn’t belong. She never has, never will, if the clusters of people are anything to go by.

She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a sip of the sweet ruby liquid, casting her gaze elsewhere. Bitterness flashes in her eyes, but it is quickly covered by a glacial mask.

What of it, if she’s meant to linger on the edges of the party? For years she’s been seen as the temperamental outcast. A sarcastic smile plays across her lips as she looks into the object of her other hand, reflection golden in the apple’s skin.

Yes, what of social status, of the pawns that flock to those of questionable appeal? While they’re admired by mindless sheep, she owns the ability to twist words into something more malicious, the ability to create havoc and undo the most well-created act.

For a fleeting moment her eyes connect with another from across the room, the latter narrowing in a silent challenge. “Say something,” they seem to taunt. They beckon the vixen to unravel and speak her mind.

She considers doing so. The grip on her fruit of chaos tightens. Instead of falling victim she crosses her arms, head tilting upward. This time the challenge burns solely in her eyes.

“So be it,” she murmurs.

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