Lupus In Fabula

[Fiorella de Marco]

Her posture remained regal, her shoulders squared with an air of pride, haughtiness, and an inherent, superior elegance. This aura in her presence was unaffected by the relatively unassuming attire she donned, and a glimmer danced in her steel-blue eyes in response to his words. She appeared to be meticulously considering her options, her gaze fixed on his extended hand.

The enigmatic quality of her expression offered no hints as to her forthcoming actions. Just as she guarded her thoughts from prying eyes, she refrained from allowing her inner musings to rise to the surface. At this juncture, it was nearly equally plausible for her to respond with a disparaging remark to stroke her own ego and sense of superiority, to rely solely on her high-class, yet traditional upbringing to smoothen an ongoing predicament out, or on those rare instances as an Outcast, to bestow a seemingly compassionate gesture upon someone not native to Malta.

A deliberate, drawn-out blink signified the culmination of her contemplation, and she placed her hand within his awaiting palm while taking her seat at the edge of the bed.

"I had originally contemplated gracing the local concert wing with my hands."

No further elaboration accompanied her statement. Life, as it often unfolds, likely held elements of truth in each facet of her decision.

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Fiorella Arianna de Marco | As Dawn Mayflower
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