Princess Cassandra of Troy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cassie_of_troy) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dear_mun2014-08-13 08:26 am
cassie_of_troy) wrote in dear_mun2014-08-13 08:26 am
Entry tags:
Formerly of betenoire_rp
I can hear those ideas of yours, swirling around inside of your head. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Like a thousand gadflies.
[A brief pause.]
I don't care, you know. As long as they do not involve me, I am content.
Not content.
I am...
[She sighs softly into the abyss.]
Does it matter? I suppose not.
At rest. At rest, if not at peace.
[A brief pause.]
I don't care, you know. As long as they do not involve me, I am content.
Not content.
I am...
[She sighs softly into the abyss.]
Does it matter? I suppose not.
At rest. At rest, if not at peace.
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Well, whatever. It's not as if he's an introvert. Or that she doesn't have a familiar manner about her.]
Disturbing those at rest. Lot of that going around lately.
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Ghosts are stirred. Ghosts of people and ghosts of memory.
Sometimes, they're the same thing.
...although I'm not certain which one you are.
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[He'd argue that he's more alive than he's ever been, but they've only just met.]
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[She's off, moving in a slow circle around him, examining him up and down from every angle. There's some tension in her fingers, as they curl to claws, but she keeps them at her sides.]
I find your accent rather loathsome.
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[That's a touch harsh, but if she's wounded him, it doesn't show. He follows her with his eyes as much as he can, but doesn't turn all the way around with her.]
I don't feel the same about yours. Sounds a bit like Deanna Troi.
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[She actually looks mildly impressed.]
Few people would know that.
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[A little crooked smile at that, privately laughing at his own joke.
How in the hell did people greet one another in Troy? Eliot's going to guess they didn't shake hands, but full-on bowing doesn't seem quite right either. He's going to go with a gesture of respect that feels appropriately old-fashioned without being too ostentatious about it: he puts a hand over his heart, gives a slight bow.]
My name's Eliot, by the way. Eliot Waugh.
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[She gives the name a lyrical turn. And she comes to rest in front of him, eyes now scanning his face.]
A pretty name.
[A pause.]
I don't like the colour of your hair.
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[She will ignore your popular culture references, Eliot. Get used to that.]
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I try to stay away from prophecies when at all possible. Predestination gives me dyspepsia.
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That's rare for an American.
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[She can read that as bravado if she likes, but he shrugs it off like he's telling her his height.]
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[But that's a private little joke for herself.
One that isn't especially funny, but want of humour has never stopped her from laughing before.
And she does now. A rusty, barking laugh.]
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Prophecy, huh? Where I come from -- one of the places -- they might've called that your discipline.
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Does it not?
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Just trying to find some common ground. [Since they've been shoved together like this.]
What's your name?
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[And now for her favorite game of the multiverse: Will Eliot keep his eyes?]
Cassandra.
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But then she says her name, and he does, in fact, keep his eyes, but now both eyebrows do a little leap upward. Oh.]
It's a pleasure to meet you.
[Should he tack Your Highness onto the end of that? He decides against it. They don't need to be getting into titles here.]
I wouldn't be bothered about it, by the way. If you were a wolf. I was a fox once, myself.
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The fox part, fortunately, garners more attention.]
A fox.
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And how long have you been a wolf?
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