Re: Janus A/Eames - log
In the dream, he looked a little like the soldier. Just a little. There were slivers of it here and there, that hint of close resemblance best ascribed to glancing too fast at relatives and seeing some little turn of the head or shape of the nose. His hair, now blond, was still cropped in long lengths over the top of his head and his cheekbones still defined, but now it was not starvation that made him slender, but nature. He was all graceful lines instead of curves or blocks, in a way that the 90's might have embraced as 'androgynous' and his era might more likely describe as effeminate. The pants he wore had long wide bottoms, sewn in with panels of spring flower print pale with age, and he wore a crop top with a fringe that fluttered against the almost invisible button of his stomach.
About the same height, he was, and not large, his bare toes to the top of his head probably no more than five and a half feet at best. When he moved over the plush red carpet of the theater, he left prints of liquid flame that pooled in the way of rain water, one large and five small toes imprinted down into the pile as he rolled his weight forward. He did have eyes: they were colored red from lid to lid, crossroad's eyes, with a black center pupil and translucent lashes as long as Eames' own.
As the red curtain under the exit sign fluttered over his shoulder, he looked neither right nor left, but forward. He recognized Eames' blonde counterpart in a moment and his ethereal features softened with it. Progressing forward, there were traces of torment: fingertips burnt down to the bone, a tear in one lip, lash lines that traced from the top of one shoulder and appeared again at the opposite hip. The overall result was that of an angel fresh from Woodstock and dipped in blood.
"I don't know," he said, in a voice a little higher than the one he had used in the basement, "if we can count this as success."