[ Philomela exhales when he uncurls his fingers and it's there, sitting in the hollow of his hand: the shiv, made tiny by the broadness of his palm, scrounged together from so much sharpened metal and leather and glue, its blade ragged but small, almost dainty. In a way, it's a lot like Philomela — a looming danger couched in such a tiny package, something held up one's sleeve or slipped between one's fingers and being a good little sister, she's never protested Valentine's attempts to wield her (in fact, she welcomes it, her smile spreading whenever she does, a white slash upon the darkness that bows upwards in his direction). ]
I think I like it, [ she tells him, teasingly, that glitter in her eyes more than simply amusement (it's approval and adoration and I love it, I do)
When she places her hand upon the hilt, she doesn't draw it back, doesn't pocket it or take it straight away, just holds the thing loosely as her other hand curls around his wrist (again, tugging). ] I think I want to play a game.
[ Tag. Marco Polo. Manhunt. (Some of these games are bloodier than others.) ]
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I think I like it, [ she tells him, teasingly, that glitter in her eyes more than simply amusement (it's approval and adoration and I love it, I do)
When she places her hand upon the hilt, she doesn't draw it back, doesn't pocket it or take it straight away, just holds the thing loosely as her other hand curls around his wrist (again, tugging). ] I think I want to play a game.
[ Tag. Marco Polo. Manhunt. (Some of these games are bloodier than others.) ]