RP Hurricane

[illirica]

The ship was still. It rested in the air, hanging suspended upon the magics that governed it, but the wind was gentle and the air didn't rush or scream as it went by. There were only a few whispers, barely the hints of a breeze. Above, the winged ones flew - harpies, he called them, though sometimes his Princess forgot.

Today, they were busy on errands and she had deigned to leave the wheel to join him at the table set upon the deck, all lace and fineware and elegance, as he was accustomed to. Her hands cradled a teacup, the liquid within lying chill and dormant beneath a skin of ice. She had no desire to drink it, but he had known that before he'd poured it. Perhaps it was something about appearances.

Hers was idle, pale and washed-out in white shirt and gray trousers, her hair dripping little raindrops onto the deck, her cheek rested on the back of her hand and her arm across the back of the chair. Perhaps she was not a very good teatime companion, as her eyes seemed always drawn skyward whenever one of the - creatures, whatever they were - they flew overhead.

Perhaps the Truth Teller didn't care, or perhaps he was watching her in the same way that she watched them. She lifted the teacup to her lips, then lowered it again, untasted.

 

[Delfi]

The set he had picked for this afternoon was jade green, with golden carvins of intricate patterns. Solomon couldn’t taste it, but he could still feel some of the warmth as the liquid slid down his throat; the only kind of warmth he’d been able to feel for the last few decades.

“Are you comfortable here?” He asked, putting his cup down delicately. She clearly didn’t care for the beauty of his tea set, and was more interested in watching the corpses flying over their heads. Solomon didn’t like it, but up there they wouldn’t take up space on his ship. It was a necessary, temporary measure.

 

[illirica]

"Comfortable?" An echo, somehow not as distant as it could have been. She set the teacup down on its saucer, her fingers tracing the golden lines on its surface. "Why would I want to be comfortable?" The last word was said with distaste, or perhaps with no taste at all, much like the experience he'd had with the tea itself.

"It's very comfortable here. Little rooms and little teacups and little ceremonies." She pushed the saucer away, irritably, knocking over the cup - though nothing spilled out, for the tea had become ice once again. She seemed to draw herself together, but there really wasn't enough to draw on for a proper rage, and nowhere to direct it, and so she released it again with a soft exhalation, letting her eyes drift half-closed, as if maybe through her lashes she'd find something to draw her attention. Beneath them, her eyes flickered, ever skyward, watching the creatures above them.

They were...

...No, perhaps they were not.

"Are you comfortable?"