hook, line, and sinker | {d4 opening ceremony}

Harlem and Jizav outdid themselves. That was, agreeably between Elite and herself, not exactly a good thing. She was dressed like a children's book pirate who'd been thrown up on by a fairy. The leather of her boots was sticky and papery, her black pants shimmered with each hasty step she took. The over-sized white cotton shirt she wore was, perhaps, the most practical item in her outfit, and it was hidden by being tucked into her pants and covered by a thigh-length black overcoat with golden trimming and embellishments. Her eye patch was cleverly designed to look like a red rose, and the fake nose piercings looked passable enough. But most, if not all of her face, was obscured by the hat, with its floppy edges and ridiculous plumes of feather fascinators.

As ridiculous as she looked, she recognized that she was the luckier of the pair. And frankly, she was impressed with the feminist message their outfits sent. Him, the beautiful creature of the sea, ensnared in her net, hooked at the mouth by her fishing line. It would've been easy for them to give her a seashell bralette and dump a bucket of water over head for a matching set, but they didn't, and she was grateful for that much.

You're better than everyone in that crowd, Leon had said. She smirked at her reflection, chin raised into the air. Damn right I am.

Elite waited in their chariot, pulled by a pair of coal black horses with golden harnesses. If she wasn't mistaken, they'd resorted to carrying him to his position to lessen the chances of his fish tail ripping. It made her simply stepping up next to him seem like too meek of an entrance.

"Ready?" she said, hoisting her fishing pole into the air and wiggling her eyebrows at him.