Joni spun to her side, watching her wide-eyed, enraptured stare in the large mirror in front of her. The room she had been in the last day and a half now felt flamiliar. At first, it was clinical and cold as she was subjected to hours of plucking and tweezing all over her body. Followed quickly by layers of thick salves and rinsing baths, she felt like a new person. Stronger, somehow. Braver…to a point, that is.
What Orgine had done with their costumes for the Chariot ceremony was stunning. Fabric, golden bronze as sheaths of ripened wheat were laid in rows to form a flaring, gleaming ballgown. Her hair was painstakingly curled into large rings intertwined with gold thread. On her eyelids was patted shimmering gold dust. It only sparkled when she blinked due to the presence of thick black lashes skimming her brow bone.
Sparks and bursts of nervousness shattered their way through the marrow of her bones. Inpenetrable and gelatinous inside her chest, her heart thudded blood to her neck. She swallowed.
Her counterpart, Ben, was dressed in an uncomfortable-looking burlap vest, bowtie and pant set. But Joni was much too fidgety to dwell on that for long. Although, she got the faintest idea that Orgine, their stylist, favored her over Ben. He sent her hate-brimming glares when their eyes touched glances.
Joni knew she shouldn't really be excited – this was her death parade, after all, but yet she couldn't help being so. Everything about her was enthralled and sick and helpless, swept up in the barbaric excitement. It was all too much.
But this is the way it had been for as long as pretty much anyone could recall.
Note: Morgan, you're Orgine.
Ravyn's in soon :)
