Disclaimer: Hatori Bisco's work. Borrowing for self-entertainment. (That didn't sound too... wholesome, did it?)
Rose-colored Glasses
October 3: snow white rose red
Warning for possible spoilers. If you don't know who Eclaire is. )
(Entrance)
She lounged on her private jet, cat-like, peering through her opera glasses, scouting the lay of the land. She was neither impressed nor disappointed----it was conquerable realm, but her interest lay elsewhere.
Accommodation was adequate; hotels had a certain sameness throughout the world. A pink and black arrangement of roses rose from the center of the cavernous penthouse. She was piqued, had paused her saunter to stare at it through her opera glasses.
(Interval)
Roses had thorns. Being wounded by props was not necessarily a bad thing, as it made one more connected to the setting. She discovered she was neither the puppet master nor a mere spectator, just as she discovered that the roses weren't brackish black or weakling pink. The passionate red on innocent white was as beguiling as the faint throb of her tiny cuts.
(Exit)
On the way out, she sat, coated with a withdrawn silence, regal and proper. The feline air still lingered, especially in the sharp, vivid eyes. She was primarily woman, right now: simple, haughty, undecipherable. Her hands twitched, aching for the feel of the metal wand on the pads of her fingers.
She had discarded the toy, as was her manner, as it was no longer of use to her.
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