Shortcakes & Renegade Blades~ Charmilly v. Anais

It had only been a few months since my crust had crumbled, since Sureau had collapsed into himself. But I always knew his dough was raw. He needed more cooking to just be right. Any baker worth their sugar would know the outer layer doesn’t reveal its hand. To ignore the inside is to allow the card tower to fall, scattering memories off the table’s side. You can scoop the cards and place all fifty-two back into the pack, but over time as the tower falls the cards seemingly find more crevices to disappear into. It becomes less about the taste of the inside, but in keeping up appearances, making sure not all of you fades away. And no matter how Boysen tried doing so, Chicouté would pour your espresso memories over vanilla ice cream. Chilled, refreshing, delicate, yet any situation turns bitter with her. But no matter, not everyone is past reform, I just need to refine your crumbs Sureau into something palatable for her; and we both know just how to do that oh so well. 

Because women like Chicouté are simple; hell, District One is simple. If you know what cards to play, what ingredients to spike, then our district of castles, glass, and gemstone would eat like street dogs out of the palm of your hand. 

A good show, that is all they want. A show of pomegranate passion, split open with bare hands and bitten into with a divine madness. Of a wrath so beautiful that it beads down your throat, with ruby seeds forming a broken pearl necklace alongside your chest. Your hands drip sin below you, and just in that spare moment, of when your enemy lies on the floor as you stride over with your sword, you’ll see them for what they are. The rose hue fades from view and before the pew lays dozens of adults, past their prime, and too prideful to admit it. With their only hope of ever achieving glory is to place all their bets on the young, mirroring fake accents and sashaying in mock dresses that lack the range and audacity to even be considered a counterfeit of what they try to achieve. And so these counterfeit games, counterfeit bets, counterfeit cheers, make do for now. 

As a young woman of charisma, as in my namesake, I pluck from the rack what suits best. The onyx leathered quiver slings confidently across my back, as I beckon forth a steel arrow. My inkwell hair pours out from a camouflage hair tie, frost kissed eyes freezing over my potential friend, enemy, or future ally. Standing at 5’11ft before her, the girl reminds me of what I could have been before Chicouté stepped in, striking me and kicking my bow away. She looked like a tiny tart, but let’s just see the worth of her filling. 

Our instructor’s back faces to the floor to ceiling windows, light illuminating her blonde strands. “I want a clean fight, you two. Keep the blood off my floor and let the armor keep your limbs intact. First one to pass out wins. Is that understood?” 

Licorice strands slink over my shoulder while my head turns to face you, asking with a demure voice and poisoned eyes. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, so let’s get this over with. Shall we?”