Margot has a mind both labyrinthine and simple. One could carve a path as straight as the narrowest arrow; or one could find themselves lingering wistfully amongst overgrown hedges, lost but not without the distant sensation of being in a childhood home. The little mare is capable of crafting the most safe spaces and the most dangerous. Such unpredictability has allowed her to climb both social and food chains, top dog and fierce predator, moody and yet terribly calculated.
Survival, she says—and pleasure. So much pleasure.
Merely a woman, he thinks, though Margot has no clue of his thoughts. Just as Ramiel has no clue of how much more than a woman Margot already is nor the monsters she hides within. She blinks at him—eyes so pale and beautiful they are nearly creepy—watching as the specter gathers his thoughts. Ever patient with her own curiosity, quiet and seeking. Persistent, despite her silence.
“Frailty means nothing to me,” Margot states. So certain of this fact that she almost sounds offended. Though her skin gleams brilliant beneath all the dust, Margot does not offer quite how fragile her own body is. She only stares, solely focused on the metallic, withered ghost.
“Hm,” the woman answers, contemplative. “Things are always changing.” She blinks again, slowly. “But yes, there are new and old lands, so I’ve heard. You’re in a Pangea that is only slightly different from the Pangea that was sunken, and even more different than the Pangea sunken before that.”
A smile lifts Margot’s mouth, pantomiming Ramiel in its phantom, distant nature.
“I’m Margot . . . Is there anything I can do to help you grab this . . . second chance that looks more like a fourth or fifth chance?” She pointedly looks over his bedraggled body, that supernatural smile turning into something more shark-like.
@Ramiel