The prickle struck him, time and again, an inkling that someone had eyes for him and followed his weaving movements across the ballroom. At first he kept it calm and cool. He would turn, thoughtful and languid, to search for the eyes peering his way. And every time, someone would press him on his shoulder; he would inevitably turn, and by the time he whirled back around his lead was gone, and he was left floundering. He gathers fragments of an impression with every glance, commonalities strung together each time he is teased with a distracting tippy-tap-tap: a glimpse of emerald green out of the corner of his eye, rich dark locks of hair brushing past the shoulders, a regal and mischievous curve of the lips set into a pale face. Another trait would pile on the heap with each of his missed chances, and out of the pool of traits, a full picture emerges.
At one point, he thinks he's seized something, clapping a hand on a shoulder and whirling the figure around to look him full in the face. But it is only a startled and cross Fae woman, the ears too pointed, eyes too light, lips too red, cheeks too plumped and flecked with gold. He murmurs an economical apology and moves on, empty-handed.
Bizarrely, Javert discovers that this hunt kindles a faint spark in his belly. It's not much, but it's something resembling anticipation, not unlike his manhunts which stretched far into the wee hours of the morning. More than once, he is tempted to pull out his Leaf and send a note loki's way. His fingers itch: Madame loki, is it? or Clever mistress, are you not! He stubbornly resists, intent on finding her without tipping his hand.
After some time into the search -- he cannot keep track of the minutes, hasn't any clue how long it's been in his dreamlike drifting -- he flags the attention of someone he swears may have tapped him on the shoulder, asking in a silken murmur,]
Can you point me toward someone who calls herself Loki? I am in the right spot for out meeting, but to my embarrassment, I have misplaced her person.
no subject
The prickle struck him, time and again, an inkling that someone had eyes for him and followed his weaving movements across the ballroom. At first he kept it calm and cool. He would turn, thoughtful and languid, to search for the eyes peering his way. And every time, someone would press him on his shoulder; he would inevitably turn, and by the time he whirled back around his lead was gone, and he was left floundering. He gathers fragments of an impression with every glance, commonalities strung together each time he is teased with a distracting tippy-tap-tap: a glimpse of emerald green out of the corner of his eye, rich dark locks of hair brushing past the shoulders, a regal and mischievous curve of the lips set into a pale face. Another trait would pile on the heap with each of his missed chances, and out of the pool of traits, a full picture emerges.
At one point, he thinks he's seized something, clapping a hand on a shoulder and whirling the figure around to look him full in the face. But it is only a startled and cross Fae woman, the ears too pointed, eyes too light, lips too red, cheeks too plumped and flecked with gold. He murmurs an economical apology and moves on, empty-handed.
Bizarrely, Javert discovers that this hunt kindles a faint spark in his belly. It's not much, but it's something resembling anticipation, not unlike his manhunts which stretched far into the wee hours of the morning. More than once, he is tempted to pull out his Leaf and send a note loki's way. His fingers itch: Madame loki, is it? or Clever mistress, are you not! He stubbornly resists, intent on finding her without tipping his hand.
After some time into the search -- he cannot keep track of the minutes, hasn't any clue how long it's been in his dreamlike drifting -- he flags the attention of someone he swears may have tapped him on the shoulder, asking in a silken murmur,]
Can you point me toward someone who calls herself Loki? I am in the right spot for out meeting, but to my embarrassment, I have misplaced her person.