[ There is a pure, primal joy in the use of one's body. It's a joy Clea has been denied since her brother's death: There is no time for dancing when there are people to be cared for, positions to be defended, and a manor to be rebuilt. When there is justice to be pursued. There has been no dancing: What would she dance to without Verso to accompany her?
But this.
This is not dancing. This is like the games the Gestrals came up with to challenge her and Verso when they were small: Competitions she had almost always won until Verso had been rude enough to enter adolescence and surpass her in height as well as brute strength.
But control. Control is something Clea Dessendre had in spades.
She leaps with expertly timed jumps, feet barely touching the ground before she pushes off again, inertia carrying through to assist her with the jumps. Each movement is calculated and confident as she grabs the small statues, reveling in the opportunity to stretch her legs, the burning of her muscles and the pounding of her heart a welcome distraction.
Her toes barely graze the edge of a platform before she pushes off of it, reaching her arm above her head to pull a golden cactaur from where it sits on a needle sized platform before falling gracefully with a roll back at the start.
Clea remains in a seated position, a satisfied (and peaceful) look on her face as she pulls statues from her pockets, unaware anyone is nearby until he speaks.
Looking up at him, Clea measures him up and down with an open frankness. A swimsuit would look good on him. ]
Perhaps I should donate the prize to you if I win, Monsieur.
Leap of faith - I'm sorry, Gustave
But this.
This is not dancing. This is like the games the Gestrals came up with to challenge her and Verso when they were small: Competitions she had almost always won until Verso had been rude enough to enter adolescence and surpass her in height as well as brute strength.
But control. Control is something Clea Dessendre had in spades.
She leaps with expertly timed jumps, feet barely touching the ground before she pushes off again, inertia carrying through to assist her with the jumps. Each movement is calculated and confident as she grabs the small statues, reveling in the opportunity to stretch her legs, the burning of her muscles and the pounding of her heart a welcome distraction.
Her toes barely graze the edge of a platform before she pushes off of it, reaching her arm above her head to pull a golden cactaur from where it sits on a needle sized platform before falling gracefully with a roll back at the start.
Clea remains in a seated position, a satisfied (and peaceful) look on her face as she pulls statues from her pockets, unaware anyone is nearby until he speaks.
Looking up at him, Clea measures him up and down with an open frankness. A swimsuit would look good on him. ]
Perhaps I should donate the prize to you if I win, Monsieur.