The calloused fingers run over the delicate, sheer material of the dress. The concept is foreign to the young woman and the light but muted pinks and purples, the embroidered gold flowers are alien. Brows would knit together in a furrow, a vague attempt for her higher self to recognize what has been laid out for her. She is still clad in a soft towel from her bath, scrubbed raw and clean from the dirt that marked her skin and the grime underneath her nails. Her mother causes no disruption of startling, spilling emotions. A woman of similar demeanor; somewhat brash and unemotional, for when Lyme announced her intent to volunteer this year, Dyta merely nodded and dismissed the topic while sipping carefully from her glass. But it is not until her eldest daughter pulls the sheer fabric dress to her stature that she softens. The jaw taught to grow taunt and tight at emotion lowers and parts from her upper lip, hanging slightly agape to allow a sigh to dismiss itself from her lungs. But what is emitted from her voice box is expected. "You'll look ridiculous." She tugs at the arm of the blonde eighteen year old. Studies the well muscled but lean bicep, shoulders, and then she tugs the dress away with a particular carelessness. "It's not a reaping dress, anyways."
The eighteen year old is well acquainted and even comfortable with her mother's effortless, natural snap; enough so that she does not feel the need to crumble to her knees like a fool to it as her sister does. What is hidden underneath each snide comment is an intelligent observation. This woman is keen enough to realize how ruined the dress will look on her daughter without having to see it on. Lyme does not respond, pulling the last, soft sponge from her hair with the last golden curl falls gently into place.
Even now while she stands, immaculate and presented in front of the full length mirror there is something feral about her presence. A hard reality which causes her to yank the dress from her mother's light grip and slide the carefully crafted shoulders of the garment from the slim iron hanger, Dyta acknowledges that her presence is no longer welcomed and takes her leave. If Lyme is the little sheep that couldn't, a tear will not be shed, and just as her mother, Lyme will not plead for last goodbyes. She had not been raised for the slaughter, but raised to slaughter; for she is the shepherd, and they, the sheep.
She changes, presents herself just as she had been taught how to. Even feminine, there is no fragility about the female. She is steadfast and prepared for what is to come, not unlike the sea or something as equally as impressive.