[ bloodiedwolf ]

       it takes her but a brief spell to decide whether he’s gently flirting
       or not – she’s made the mistake both directions, before, and it’s
       ended awkwardly each time – but she eventually reasons against
       it, resolving that he’s just being nice. ( that not everyone – that not
       every man – wants something from her. )

       sometimes she wonders, though, if it’s written into her skin
       somewhere intangibly, if this is why and how she draws att-
       -ention from a world that has tied her up and weighted her
       down with words like assault and victim and – less kindly –
       damaged goods, if the way her self was stolen ( numb for days,
       weeks, dissociated, frigid in a way she’d never been before until,
       slowly, she healed ) somehow shows on her face, if this makes
       her somehow an easy target. ( she catches herself blaming herself
       for things she promised she’d never feel guilty for again, and bites
       down on her own brittle places to quiet them, teeth sunk into her
       tongue until the muscle tissue itches. )

       it’s an ugly collection of thoughts, and she makes herself smile
       more warmly at his compliment before her vague, formless
       skittishness can find her face ; she’s overthinking, and she can
       surely just have a conversation without leaping to those questions
       again.

       can’t she?

image

                  thank you. a nod, a blink ; she tests out his own name
                      silently in her mouth, now behind closed lips, and finds
                      she likes the sound of it, though she can’t place the lan-
                      -guage of origin. the glottal stop suggests something with
                      an arabic root, though, and her head cants, already curious.
                     
where are you from? i’m – sort of an informal linguist, i guess.
                      trying to place the name.

                       ◤ alar  orghulis. ◢

        The art of being able to crawl under one’s skin and toil to see what one is
    thinking is a skill not oft liked when engaging in quotidian discourse. The man
    can sense Zoë’s lapse of discomfort and he wonders if she is unfamiliar with men
    who act as they should, wonders if she would cringe just as a wolf-girl used to
    when cognisant of the House’s servants examining scars for the purpose of
    identification.

        “It is a man’s pleasure.”

        Simple words are not lined with untruths. ( Alas, a rarity when one is a product
    of lies — a child brought into an institution that shakes bodies bare and that chisels
    off memories and that replaces them with falsities and that trains its people to look
    into a mirror and see nothing. ) This man is not blind; he will not say that objective
    facts such as bone structure are unpleasant to look at, be acquainted with.

        ( ‘Where are you from?’ That’s a good question, he has a mind to say. )

        “A man hails from Germany,” he answers smoothly,
                      “but grew up in Italy for schooling.”

image

        Hands once at sides are now clasped behind back, House of Leaves
   
serving as an anchor for fingers to twine around. The question of what makes
    the woman intent to read the genre-defying book is formed in mind, this man
    curious to know if she has read it before as well. Does a woman come here
    often, then? he nearly adds in mother tongue but halts.

                   “—Has a woman study linguistics at university?”

 

R U L E

INDEPENDENT
JAQEN H'GHAR
OF GRRM'S
A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE.

Y O U R

LOW ACTIVITY.
MULTI-EVERYTHING.
#INFERUXS

F A C E.

PLEASE READ
LINKS 02., 04., AND 06.
BEFORE INTERATCION.