He moves in front of her, leading her through dimly lit rooms and toward not often used back room. Choice stands in the centre of the room, candles surrounding him, his hazel eyes dacing with the light. In their ever-changing depths, one can see a myriad of paths, of choices, of chances. There is a table tall enough for him to be comfortable standing at, and a smaller table beside him filled with pots of ink.
But there is no needle. Only a paintbrush.
"You lay on the table," Ruin murmurs, his eyes on Choice. "It... I can't say it won't hurt, but it does and it doesn't."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-09-13 05:26 pm (UTC)But there is no needle. Only a paintbrush.
"You lay on the table," Ruin murmurs, his eyes on Choice. "It... I can't say it won't hurt, but it does and it doesn't."