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Everything about her was stylish. She was the type of person who knew what drew eyes and money, but everything about her somehow still clashed despite her knowledge of manipulation and seduction. Her hair was a wild pink, flying up into the air in a styled punk look while her eyes bored into the beholder, speaking of desperation. Her full-length gloves were classy and looked like they belonged at a ball on Cinderella's arms, not paired with the face of a rebel. But it was that act of rebellion that had paired that domesticated untamed look with the clean, sophisticated gloves. And somehow, the only word that belonged to that rebellion that spoke in everything that she wore, did, and said was... virgin. Yes, virgin. For in her defiance was the chaste outlook that could not see that soon, the world would overrun her innocence.

[Well, seeing as there isn't a description for either of you, I'll just have to describe you both.]

There she was again, the stalwart Parari. She looked like an inferno; the living element of embers and smoke pulled together, all those shades of red in her clothes. Or perchance a rose, just past it's bloom; because of the tracing of black in the petals (her skirt, and hair). Trooping along in her Charred Tundra Boots with a mischevious twinkle in her fiery eyes. They glowed with a smoldering secret that she wouldn't share, but I desperately wanted to know.

[And to the second..]

I'd never seen her before, and almost didn't see her this time, all her dark attire hiding her form in the shadows. The things that stood out to me were the blazing eyes, and stark blue hair that one could only do a double take for. I took a good look at those dangerous-seeming claws, and the restraint on her head. Maybe she wasn't as ... (evil seemed too harsh a word) malevolent as she seemed? Of course, she could always be trying to lull you into a false sense of security, just to capture you. But then again, wasn't that what the world was? Liars, scammers, and the innocent who get lost in the fray...

Red eyes glowed from under the metal bars that covered her face. Her eyes seemed to be stuck in a permanent glare that could back down even the bravest of folk. Instead of hands and feet, clawed and padded feet appeared. Or were they simply some sort of costume? No one wanted to get close enough for a second glance. Those things looked sharp. She wore an old rag. Simple, and rather shapeless. Yet, somehow, it added to the general menace of her appearance.

She turned and glanced around, sharp eyes raking over anyone who could see her. Some just tried to forget she was there, yet her presence was unmistakable. Silent, observant, and menacing.

Watching.

Waiting.

He seemed similar to me. Minus the brown eyes (and the fact that he had clothes), we could be considered nearly the same. Though his blue hair was styled differently, it was still blue hair; rebellious no matter which way you looked at it. Wondering about the similarities between us, and the differences too, I wondered how many others around here had blue hair; each person that did took away a little bit of the novelty of it, until I was left looking down at the Prisoner's Ball and Chain that I had found on my ankle. It felt like a weight of conformity, and I wanted to shake it off. Glancing at Daykurfin one more time, it seemed he was free of that; his inner strength and confidence keeping him above all the stupid things in the world that weighed the rest of us down. I envied him, but not because of that. He had clothes, and I didn't. *pout*

[ mrgreen ]

present always, not far from here
laced boots and plaid, pair of chii ears
to one, the next, anon the same
straight dark hair set, her face in frame
with pleasant words for all present
and soft black gloves, though not peasant's

(sorry, it's short and i kind of drifted off into alliteration there near the end)

It was odd really. He felt no need to put on clothing, but he freely put on a metal ball and chain. Was he really that imprisoned by poverty or is that just what he wanted us all to believe.

She was tall, wearing a blood red gown that flowed gracefully off her slender form. Her eyes were masked - one could feel her gaze from underneath the black covering. On her head she wore green laurels, the symbol of the Greek athletes of old who competed for honour and glory. Who was she, this figure steeped in mystery?

I thought I recognized her from somewhere; it seemed like she'd been one of the large crowd milling about, one of the few I caught eyes with. But what eyes did I see? Hidden by the mask, all I felt was a penetrating gaze behind the white slits. Spying the small spark of a phoenix circlet, I smiled lightly. She was good enough to donate her money to someone else, and karma repaid her. Noting her rather eccentric outfit with a quirk of one brow, I nodded my way past her, and wondered what she'd have in store next time.