❨ black hole sun | bea&hades ❩
Mar 20, 2019 18:37:46 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Mar 20, 2019 18:37:46 GMT -5
bea.
Weeks of preparation have passed her by, three days of death and a fourth of peace — all of it has come and gone in a blur of coding and bloodshed. Beatrix Alfray has not yet grown comfortable with her newfound divinity, with her crown of dying stars and the mountain peaks that have risen beneath her fingertips. All of it burns and cuts and destroys, like calloused hands around the stem of a dying flower. Like what it means to suffocate.
( She is the bleached white skull of something that was once sacred;
nothing kind will ever grow from the marrow of her memories. )
The light in the GM headquarters has a red glow to it. Nothing more than a faint blush of color, but still enough to highlight Bea’s surroundings with shadows of scarlet. She has found it has a way of soaking up all the emotions under its gaze, bleeding them out and only leaving numbness as a reminder — of what it means to sell your soul, of her purpose in this grand and terrible game. She tries not to stand in that crimson spotlight for too long.
Solace is found in the pale sunlight that shines through her office window, in the moments of quiet that she can be afforded. She prefers to occupy her time with working, failing to socialise with her companions as much as she should. Zaya is too sharp, and Josie is too bright — confidence flows from them in a way that shakes her to her core, that makes her duck head and focus on her computer screen until her eyes begin to sting.
( She is the foundation;
they are the masterpiece.
And what is left of the great pantheon of the gods? )
Hades enters without addressing himself, only a nod in her direction and that same familiar stare. All at once vacant and intelligent; always five steps ahead in any given situation. The hallway lights seem to follow him as he moves, haloing his features and his hair in a way that makes her breath catch in her throat. A girlish reaction, the sign of a woman that gambled away her youth and her love for a chance at fame. She doesn’t humor the thought of making her attraction known, gesturing to an open seat. Not that he needs an invitation.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lochlan.
I was hoping for a report on our little project.”
Her expression says far more than she ever could;
‘the time has come to make my name known.’[ table: dars ]
