High Lord of Night's Court; Rhysand (nights_highlord) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2016-05-09 08:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, katherine lokadóttir, ~rhysand |
Who: Katherine & Rhysand
When: 5.8 Evening
Where: Asgardian House > Streets
What: A stroll
Closed
The island was quite beautiful, he supposed that afternoon standing in his living room. He had re-decorated to something not quite so dark, something to remind him of home, after having hemmed and hawed over which home to look like. A large part of Rhysand told him that he needed to keep up his facade, that dark face and allow the entire island to know him as a monster of nightmares, of death, and of cruelty. Let them never see his true face of the Night Court's High Lord. Yet a smaller part of him said that his island was much to his second home, peaceful (generally) and well kept, and that he needed hide from people who expected nothing of him. He had no Hewn City to oversee.
It was a relief and a burden to be here, he realized.
He dressed in his usual finery as he decided that to but one person, for now, he would be that cruel lord until otherwise necessary. That to her, the one girl managing to get under his skin after the awful things he had nearly done, he would allow her to see that face. Slowly but surely. Their adventure the other afternoon had been enjoyable, though quiet, and Rhysand was tired of re-decorating or choosing outfits for the day. He tucked himself together, shadows on the wall an image of gigantic bat-like wings folding into his back, though there was nothing to be seen if one looked at his shoulders just then. Simply an echo of his magic.
Stepping forward he winnowed from his apartment to the sidewalk outside of Katherine's home, that familiar airless pocket a comfort on his back. He felt more energetic than he had expected as he stood there, slender fingers casually picking a piece of lint from his jacket's lapel. His clothes were of the blackest hue, so dark they seemed to suck shadow into itself from the world around, only tinted with the occasional silver fleck. Handsome. Beautiful. Still pale of skin from Under the Mountain, Rhysand ran the same hand through his hair, pushing it back, before he gave a ring of the door bell.