Speak In Tongues :: [Train // Cricket + Mason]
Feb 16, 2015 9:03:33 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Feb 16, 2015 9:03:33 GMT -5
To some, the train is a leviathan. The great snake slithers into town like a terrifying metal god, but Cricket Antoinette steps into its mouth without fear of any fangs that might await her. And they do. Perhaps not as poisoned teeth in a doorway, but there are still things in this world that have it out for her. Her neck, her soul, her shamelessness. These are rarely the admissions of the brave, but for today, there may be one or two mouths lying in wait to take a bite out of the Victor.
Mason Hammerfell and Hedvig Fabre. Honestly, the names don't mean much to her. Sitting ringside to this year's Reaping, the extravagant daughter of spotlights and audible gasps failed to catch a glimmer of potential in either face. Not only was there no showmanship in their straight-mouthed expressions and a lack of anything interesting in their walks, but she has a sneaking suspicion that both are bound to be tragically boring smash-and-dash Careers, all muscle and no method.
How expected.
A sigh slips from her painted lips and the tiger at her side tilts his head in sympathy; there is an unspoken reluctance within both to leave the electric lights of Cirque de la Mort behind for something that promises to be such a dull affair by comparison. The dining car they walk into holds little compensation, but she still takes each step like putting on a show, especially since it may be the only decent one she gets. Heeled boots click, a scandal of skin makes the most of the morning sun filtering in from the windows, and everything else is satin, sheer, lace, glitter, kohl, and rouge.
Dropping forward onto her palms, the contortionist's body twists lazily and reconfigures itself in midair, a familiar balancing act of double-jointed knees and hyper-flexed hips. Cricket lands effortlessly into an overstuffed armchair — one leg casually crossed over the other, arms resting on the sides with whatever sense of expectation she's managed to muster despite her pessimism, and a bubbling glass of champagne waiting on the table beside her (because at least one person around here knows how to appease her). Arbor wanders over to sprawl out and rest his massive, furry chin on her toes and, with a golden sip, they wait: a queen lounging on an unworthy throne, in the belly of a beast that couldn't scare her less. After all, she's always known who the real leviathan is.