abyssum_invocat | PSL: abyssum invocat

Venice has, Sinthia knows, only four bridges crossing the Grand Canal; her favorite is the Ponte dell'Academia, the quaint little wooden bridge arching up and over the water with the lover's padlocks still adorning places. She walks along it today, face turned up to the late afternoon sun even though it's beginning to chill again; her feet never touch the steps, though, heeled shoes held loosely in one hand as she pads along the wooden rail with impeccable balance.

In her pale blue angora sweater she was comfortable with the cooling air, the hems of her khaki trousers never touching the ground as she turned a graceful circle, a soft faint smile touching her mouth.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

cook_the_rude

A gentleman in an impeccable suit is lingering by the vaporetto station nearby, watching her.

While the hordes of tourist ebb and flood, he remains behind.

Some of the tourists are looking for a hat to put something in, for her display.

From:

abyssum_invocat

She doesn't have a hat; she only has herself, and her acrobatic feat, and that mysterious little smile. Her gaze tracks over the tourists that think she's local, the locals that studiously ignore her as a crazy tourist herself, but when she passes over the gentleman in the suit, something about his face makes her stop.

Sinthia balances on the ball of one foot for a moment, the other held out over the edge of the bridge to keep her from tipping over as she stares at Hannibal for a split second that seems eternally long, brows faintly creasing. He reminds her of her father.

From:

cook_the_rude

He stays where he is, like a stone in the eddies of the ever-flowing tourists, and smiles at her.

He's not even close, but it's clear he is looking at her.

From:

abyssum_invocat

He's most definitely an anomaly, and one that she's not focused in one like a honed beam of light as she swings around the lamppost with one hand barely but effortlessly holding her weight until she steps forward again. She reaches the edge of the bridge and crouches just long enough to slip the wedge-heeled shoes back on before she looks back up.

"Who are you?" she murmurs while still too far away to hear, head tilted and eyes not narrowed but intent.

From:

cook_the_rude

Slowly, he wanders towards her, seemingly aimless in the crowd of milling tourists all headed for specific attractions they want to see.

He, so it seems, is going nowhere.

From:

abyssum_invocat

She waits and watches him, only taking her eyes off Hannibal for a half a second when her shoulder is grabbed--a man asking how she could balance--and she whirls around, startled before she can turn back.

Sinthia's lost him in the time her head was turned.

From:

cook_the_rude

"Hello," says a voice, quite close to her.

He's come up the bridge and is now standing beside the lamp post.

From:

abyssum_invocat

"Hello," she responds, head turning to meet his gaze. The breeze ruffles her hair into her face, though she never loses the open curiosity and faint wariness. She notes his eye-color, the faint and strange maroon easily mistaken for brown; her own are a deep, placid brown speckled with bright, unnatural, almost glowing blue.

"I saw you watching me walking," she says.

From:

cook_the_rude

His eyes are a light brown, almost maroon.

"I saw you walking on the railing and wondered why."

From:

abyssum_invocat

"I don't like being crowded," she says simply. "And I like the height."

And it doesn't occur to her to not do it simply because others aren't following suit.

From:

cook_the_rude

"Mind if I join you?" he asks.

From:

abyssum_invocat

"I'm not going anywhere, really," she says, but acquiesces easily. "I just like to wander the city." Because she can. Because she couldn't always. "But it's easier without shoes."

She can balance more finely without anything between her and the surface she's walking on.

From:

cook_the_rude

"What bridge would you like to balance over next?" he asks.

From:

abyssum_invocat

"The Ponte degli Scalzi?" she says with a shrug. "It's pretty."

From:

cook_the_rude

"You like the long bridges, over the grand canal?" he says, offering his arm.

From:

abyssum_invocat

"I like the height," she says simply, eyeing his arm for a minute before she cautiously rests her hand there, lighter than air.

"And the view. It's a pretty town here."

From:

cook_the_rude

"A very beautiful city, actually," he says, with a smile.

"I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter, by the way."

From:

abyssum_invocat

She looks up at him at this information as if for a second she doesn't quite know what to do with it, and then nods. "What kind of doctor are you?" she asks.

From:

cook_the_rude

"Psychiatrist," Dr. Lecter says. "I used to be an ER surgeon before that."

From:

abyssum_invocat

She hums at that, a soft noise of acceptance, of the title if not necessarily the profession. She's known doctors, not that they ever did her any favors. "My name is Sinthia."

"Are you from Eastern Europe?" she asks, searching for a conversation route.