[ sxmniare ]

                     ❝ –– Hmm. 

image

          Curiously, bright eyes return again to the work in question as she peers
      at its rippled surface, surveying each brush-stroke left behind by the artist.
      She tries, for a moment, to see it from his point of view–– yet fails. 

                  ❝ But how can you appreciate the artwork if you’ve not found
                     a purpose, or meaning of some sort

                       ◤ alar  orghulis. ◢

        Opposite’s inquisitiveness strikes a chord of ruffled memory which
    thinks to another girl from years ago, a mouse curious as to how the
    man changed his face.   ( How did you do that? Was it hard? )   Arry.
    That was her assumed name.                               Where is she now?
    The faux guise moves not a thread of facial sinew in response to the
    bittersweet thought, does not form an expression; he instead turns to
    face the pleasant-faced stranger.

image

        “ Would a girl say that she knows the meaning of life?”

 

[ sxmniare ]

inferuxs

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     ❝ I don’t quite understand the theme of this piece, ❞ she says quietly to him as other party-goers discuss the work, primarily because he happens to be the closest guest to her and doesn’t seem preoccupied with any other conversation. Her gaze flickers quickly to the painting mounted onto the wall, and then again to the man she’s spoken to –– Do you ? 

                       ◤ alar  orghulis. ◢

        Cant of head towards adjacent follows lowly spoken standpoint, countering
    arch of brow the only misplaced assimilation of sinew beneath visage. A man
    named Jaqen H’ghar inconspicuously scrutinises the stranger.

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        “ Not all works of art are meant to be understood, a man thinks.”

 
                       ◤ alar  orghulis. ◢

        Ever subservient, only where called upon does a man named
    Jaqen H’ghar travel to;  be it across the Atlantic Ocean or in his
    home of Venice, where the  House of Black and White  humbly
 
   stands.

       It is in  Bucharest  that  grim  form  sits longer  than  customary
    within black encapsulation of car as  musings pertaining to future
    assignment  fall  into tranquil mind.  Layers upon layers of beings
    once  known  forged to make  no one.  Present  he  is  physically,
    this man  living under a name  written  on all papers  save a birth
    certificate, but not is he mentally; only the concept of vassalage
    weighs on clothed shoulders, naught else. He flicks his wrist, a
    reminder  of  tangible  presence  when  predominantly  amid
    shadows, ghosts, vessels of beings, and exits his vehicle. 

image

         Thrice he knocks  upon his client’s mahogany door.  The sound
    echoes throughout  the luscious gardens  surrounding  immaculate
    construction, pounding only momentarily against  innermost apses
    of mind. The man holds his hands behind his back and straightens
    his form and  ( quietlyclears his throat and stands feet shoulder-
    width  apart  and  waits  for  the  ensuing,  all  being well  pleasant,
    introduction.

 

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.