C.C. SCHNEIZEL || MYTHSaevitasOctober 25 2011, 18:33:25 UTC
Schneizel watches her from across the room. In all essence she is a silent phantom, like stilled water that is breathing. People move around them in bright, beautiful colors, but the Grey Witch of Geass chooses black, lace at her throat, her hands.
He would be a fool not to be a little afraid of her. After all, who isn’t? The legends about an immortal who wandered the earth, you could chop off her head and she would not die, who could cause agony by a single touch. There are all sorts of legends, and he always has enjoyed myths, he reads them, reads the perspectives of the past, fondly musing how confident they were in their ‘present’.
It’s curious how there are paintings, ancient etchings of a woman with green hair and a strange tattoo on her forehead.
He wonders if maybe some of the myths are true.
She lifts her eyes from across the room and stares him full in the face. There is a dark amusement in her eyes that makes the little boy he almostbutnever was cringe at the weight of her time.
He is playing a game not only with a sibling but with a being older than gods.
“Tell me, Miss C.C.” He calls to her, and his hand slides around her waist, as the music begins to play.
“I’d like to hear a story.”
Her hand slides in his, and her pulse is sure, but the sensation is hesitant. There is a ripple of something in his being at her touch, as she lifts her scalding eyes and smiles.
Schneizel watches her from across the room. In all essence she is a silent phantom, like stilled water that is breathing. People move around them in bright, beautiful colors, but the Grey Witch of Geass chooses black, lace at her throat, her hands.
He would be a fool not to be a little afraid of her. After all, who isn’t? The legends about an immortal who wandered the earth, you could chop off her head and she would not die, who could cause agony by a single touch. There are all sorts of legends, and he always has enjoyed myths, he reads them, reads the perspectives of the past, fondly musing how confident they were in their ‘present’.
It’s curious how there are paintings, ancient etchings of a woman with green hair and a strange tattoo on her forehead.
He wonders if maybe some of the myths are true.
She lifts her eyes from across the room and stares him full in the face. There is a dark amusement in her eyes that makes the little boy he almostbutnever was cringe at the weight of her time.
He is playing a game not only with a sibling but with a being older than gods.
“Tell me, Miss C.C.” He calls to her, and his hand slides around her waist, as the music begins to play.
“I’d like to hear a story.”
Her hand slides in his, and her pulse is sure, but the sensation is hesitant. There is a ripple of something in his being at her touch, as she lifts her scalding eyes and smiles.
Legendary.
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