First encounter

“No,” the girl tried for a soft smile, “ I suppose not.”

There was no doubt in his mind; this was a pleasant face with abnormal beauty. It wasn’t
pleasant in the way of subtlety— no, this was a beauty that enriched the eyes with no room for
error; a mistake it would be to shelter a full glance– your neck would soon snap back for another. He
now understood the certain pity for the Mezism race, as if any other could hope to have such
cherub lips, such bright skin, ere the succumbing to falsehood of delusion. She had the delicately
sharp ears of Eleven descent (he wasn’t a believer in Mezava, that outrageous story). Truly, it was a
curse to gaze upon this girl, to gain the knowledge of her unreachable existence on this day, for Lord
Hyíden of Farsureah knew his own worth. Lady Lynette of Typoile was truly, beyond his thoughts, a
doll of the finest craft.
“A doll indeed,” he murmured. There was a real pain in his chest at the thought.
A gentle arch to large, grayed eyes— verily gray, like the cloudy skies of Donhaj in early
winter— rich and dark. He’d never seen a young face with such natural coloring gray; he’d thought
her older from the back. But then, her form was too straight, skin too unstressed, fingers too fickle
to be claimed by age. Her fingers, now that he saw, were perhaps the most dollish aspect of her
being; long and slender, poised straight, resting on her stomach. There was also, perhaps, the
eternal expression she bore: easy neutrality at its peak.
Maybe, he thought, there was nothing more tempting than abstention.
At his words, she stared at him with ample eyes, tilting her head curiously.
“Pardon?”
Hyíden shook his head, feeling slightly dazed. Was it her presence that afflicted him so? Yet
he didn’t think of himself as easily entranced.
“Just an outspoken thought. Forgive me, my Lady.”
“Oh no, there’s no need,” she responded lazily, yet there was a quick look of fondness, for
what Hyíden did not know. “My Lord, thoughts escape me like sunlight after midday!”
The talk of sunlight in such a late hour made him ache for sleep. He was so tired, which was
odd for his body— he thrived under the night. It was a nice night, if not a bit chilly. He was suddenly
very cold. Yes, sunlight ran away as frigid months appeared, a disheartening time for most… yet the
moonlight…it seemed to be her friend. Shining against her figure in soft white, tickling the ends of
her short hair, also a mediate gray, bright against the darkness of her dress— almost granting an
ethereal glow; her skin, a pretty tan under the sun, appeared almost gold against the moon. Peculiar.
Everything about her was strange, backwards— like it shouldn’t exist. Like she shouldn’t exist.
“I do wonder, Lord Hyíden,” she said, “if you’re aware of the hole in your chest.”
But she did, and oh was it terrifying.