Re: Mat & Ren || The Docks
Born of reckless, impetuous vagrants (though, one of the frostbitten blue-eyed, terse men alleged to have fathered her was purportedly a Swedish absurdist & prose poet, whom she quite obviously didn’t inherit any Swedish height from) drama was hookwormed into her DNA, practically parasitical. She’s naturally a mischievous little sylph, and to explicate, she wasn’t joking or being allegorical or maudlin; she was being matter-of-fact. Her subterranean motive in this outer dark by living waters is to efface his memories, or, so she thinks. She doesn’t want him to remember meeting her. And besides, Concilium can be a feathery, simplistic snakerattle of a gesture, painless, a gentle force. The predominantly useful aspect of it being to blur the images the mind harbors like a snapshot gallery, smudge things around, like spray painting over a sentimental polaroid. It can be painful if the subject resists… for both.
When she detects the nightlong air against vivid knobs of her spine, she turns around again to face him, “Not lately,” she says, at the inquiry of her death pattern. Bewitched? By him? Isn’t he hilarious! She’s indifferent to the idea of the waters unguessed threats. She's met monsters, is arguably one herself, and therefore she’s not spooked by the fake, lame water monster mythos this town circulates; hasn’t even thought about it. What’s more concerning are real threats, like bums or a yeast infection or flesh eating bacteria. “Do you often undress strangers?” says she, paring off that mermaidskin dress to stand fair and sharp in black lace undergarments, instantly goosefleshed from the cold. She would not be taking these off. “Or did I just catch you at a particularly agreeable time?”
Wait a minute… with a knit of her lunar pale brow she asks suddenly, “Are you oatmilk latte guy?!” if so, she would definitely be erasing every fucking thing.