Her dress glitters as she takes the spotlight at the center of the ring. Her blonde hair brushed out into silk, eyes and lips painted gold. It had seemed a little odd that the girl and her manager had said all she needed was a microphone, but maybe she was just a solo act; a diva. Maybe this was about to be good. Either way, she'd been a draw for some of the crowd. For someone the coordinator had never heard of, there was a surprising cluster of spectators shouting the name Saffron.
Ilde takes the mic after she is introduced, curls her hands around it carefully, steadying herself.
She is not immune to her own power, and she needs to focus to keep from showing it outwardly and drawing attention to the magic she works on the rest of the crowd. She can, at least, guide the direction of her effect to spare those fighters she is meant to be assisting.
A soprano range that does not quaver, and at first the blood thirsty lyrics seem fitting, charming even when the rest of her act is a bit staid for the otherwise gaudy proceedings.
Inside her own head, she thinks about other things. A discussion she once had about the Godking with his weaseling cousin, surprisingly frank as to the reality of their situation in his court, such as it was.
( Does one love the wolf, even as one is devoured? )
She lets her mind twist in on itself, bursting with doubt and anxiety and anger. She lets down the wall of ice, all of her restraint. A grander thing than what she had done to Petre, making the netting of their Hive reverberate, a muffled static beginning to ring. The kind of ephemeral sound that accompanies a headache. Meanwhile, what spreads physically through the room is silence, tension, self-doubt; fear. Fear that comes from nowhere, prickling up spines and through veins.
Ilde is shaking by the time she stops singing, trembling all over, but the dazzle of light and sparkle disguises it. She's able to smile, wish the fighters good luck and hand back the microphone well enough. She only needs to keep her composure long enough to get out of the ring, back out of sight so that she can sit down and shiver...
ILDE | BOUT IT OUT | 'SAFFRON'
Her dress glitters as she takes the spotlight at the center of the ring. Her blonde hair brushed out into silk, eyes and lips painted gold. It had seemed a little odd that the girl and her manager had said all she needed was a microphone, but maybe she was just a solo act; a diva. Maybe this was about to be good. Either way, she'd been a draw for some of the crowd. For someone the coordinator had never heard of, there was a surprising cluster of spectators shouting the name Saffron.
Ilde takes the mic after she is introduced, curls her hands around it carefully, steadying herself.
She is not immune to her own power, and she needs to focus to keep from showing it outwardly and drawing attention to the magic she works on the rest of the crowd. She can, at least, guide the direction of her effect to spare those fighters she is meant to be assisting.
An inhale, an exhale.
"And you once said, 'I wish you dead, you sinner.' I’ll never be more than a wolf at your door for dinner. And if I see you ‘round like a ghost in my town, you liar, I’ll leave with your head. Oh, I’ll leave you for dead, sire..."
A soprano range that does not quaver, and at first the blood thirsty lyrics seem fitting, charming even when the rest of her act is a bit staid for the otherwise gaudy proceedings.
Inside her own head, she thinks about other things. A discussion she once had about the Godking with his weaseling cousin, surprisingly frank as to the reality of their situation in his court, such as it was.
( Does one love the wolf, even as one is devoured? )
She lets her mind twist in on itself, bursting with doubt and anxiety and anger. She lets down the wall of ice, all of her restraint. A grander thing than what she had done to Petre, making the netting of their Hive reverberate, a muffled static beginning to ring. The kind of ephemeral sound that accompanies a headache. Meanwhile, what spreads physically through the room is silence, tension, self-doubt; fear. Fear that comes from nowhere, prickling up spines and through veins.
Ilde is shaking by the time she stops singing, trembling all over, but the dazzle of light and sparkle disguises it. She's able to smile, wish the fighters good luck and hand back the microphone well enough. She only needs to keep her composure long enough to get out of the ring, back out of sight so that she can sit down and shiver...