"Be with me always-
Take any form-
Drive me mad!
Only do not leave me
in this abyss,
Where I cannot find you"
Her hair is loose, grazing her shoulders with a bristley softness that comes with many hours in the sun. She's running her fingers through it, tugging out knots that the comb couldn't attack, one by one, the blue ribbons that hold her tiered buns are dripping to the floor; moving like water in their creamy fluidity. She'd been told to wait in her quarters for a maid to assist her in dressing for tonight's dinner; An important figurehead for the first order would be arriving tonight and Lady Rey was to look her best. Panic begins to bubble and drip in her gut; would she be able to get through the meal without spoiling the ruse? No, no she needed to stay calm. All this worrying would upset her stomach.
And she had gone too many a night starving ever to risk not eating.
One thing she notices is that her rooms are decorated lavishly; her bed took up the entirety of the space and was draped in a silken canopy of a fabric she couldn't name. The door embedded into the wall was a massive oaken piece, and the rest of the room was done in the same dark velvet that she had sung praises of before.
She runs her fingers through her hair as bits and pieces of life in jakku flit in and out of her mind. Rey's eyes gain a far-off quality that was apprehensive in its conquest of nothing in particular.
She's snapped out of her idleness by a perfunctory knock on the door, her head jerks back as if the motion itself would open it. She has to do a double take when she see's the doorknob moving on its own volition; Rey quickly shakes the thoughts out of her head, she wasn't mad. Soon enough the door is opened by a shocking woman.
She wasn't in skirts, no. But in a gleaming silver tunic and pants that were indecently tight to match. Her hair was the color of buttermilk, and her skin had a crystal creaminess that was cold and warm at the same time. She offered Rey a dry smile and introduced herself simply as "Phasma". The woman, upon entry, places a slim white box on the vanity and motions for Rey to come over.
"A gift from Lord Ren," She intones, seemingly indifferent to it all.
A gift!? What in the stars could that man have to give her?! She would simply send it back.
Phasma scoffs and Rey is pulled from her disgust. While she was storming around in her mind the Amazonian woman had selected a cream colored dress; Rey insisted that she stay in her drawers and chemise she had come in. The maid only shrugs and slips a corset over Rey's chest and midsection then, with long- able fingers, she begins to lace.
The process is over within 15 minutes, and Rey can feel tender flesh straining against the new found firm pressure. The next couple hours are composite of flurries of crinolines, bodices, skirts and bustles. Then, Phasma reaches a slender arm over to where the box lay; out of impulse Rey smacks the woman's arm away then jerks her hand back in shameful apology.
"No, I'm not going to wear those," she murmurs, almost inaudibly. Now, the woman seems amused, an eyebrow raised and her mouth is turned up at a corner. She feels relief that she didn't find herself on the woman's bad side.
"And what do you wish to do with them?" She queries, hints of mirth lurking in her loud bell tone.
"Do return them" Rey answers, fearing scrutiny from the woman on behalf of her master; instead, she nods
"Dinner starts on the half hour, be punctual; magister Snoke detests tardiness." With that, she is gone.
Rey is staring at the mirror.
In the midwestern province of Jakku, the glass had been a rarity; so in turn, Rey had never truly seen her own self until she had joined the resistance, only in the serrated reflections of metals and waters had she gotten a glimpse of her features.
Now, she can see herself in full dress; a far cry from her tunic and breeches she had worn during her scavenging days. She reaches out to touch the glass, to feel the cold surface. But just as her fingertips attempt to graze the smooth face, an undulation of sorts warps the mirror. Rey jumps back, shaken at the violent energy that seems to be pouring from the looking glass; it feels dark and cumbersome, like a thick blanket.
"What in the bloody devil?" She whispers, heart pounding.
Anger flushes through him like a cheap liquor, a slow burn that lit his nerves on fire. She has the gall to decline a gift from the commander of the first order?! A spiteful little wench she is.
He's looking at the damage his room had suffered because of her; his desk was cracked, splinters shunting out at dangerous angles, the mirror that he uses to look upon her with is the only thing that hadn't suffered his wrath.
In his anger he finds himself compelled to know why she had rejected him so. His pride is wounded, and pride is known to bleed venom.
He wraps long fingers around the familiar bottle and tips his head back before making his way down to the dining hall.