Up he comes. One foot in front of the other. Never a foot placed wrong, in space or time. A chef must move with precision; he must be where he needs to be without getting in anybody’s way or being noticed before his time.

[i]“The walk is not just swaying hips and flattering clothing. Our precious [b]conquests[/b] may tell a different story, but we’re not here to speak of captives, aren’t we~? Watch these three approach you: Which one could you most easily talk to? Which of them is the highest ranking? Which is the most dangerous? You know, don’t you? And yet none of them have spoken a word to you. The body is an instrument, and oh, what songs it can play…”[/i]

He struts. He sways. The robe hugs his wooly frame snugly, tied with a high-waisted belt of gold. The hem flutters with his rhythmic step. Rivers of flashing embroidery wave up and down his body. His curls bounce, and sway, and draw the eye to the perfectly poised shifting of his shoulders. Back and forth. Back and forth. A soft, delicate little thing. Wrapped and bound in luxurious comfort. Is he not made to be nestled up so lovely, held in a tight embrace?

It’s too much. It’s too much for a sheep to bear. He stops, and he must stop, and his fingers trace up his sleeve. The texture, the material, the shine, he is utterly enraptured. He leans back with ease. The curve of leg to robe over wool to cheek to curls beckons the eye upward. To shining bell. Gentle smile. Parted lips. 

[i]“Eyes closed, now. Fear not the pen and brush. A Daughter of Ceron holds within her a soldier, an officer, a peasant, a princess, a slave, a conqueror, and hundreds more. It is a petty trick to wear paints and masks. Far better to bring forth what always hid within.”[/i]

He is drawing closer now. Close enough for her to reach out and seize him. In the shadow of her claws, he steps through a slow dance. Step, and turn, and lift, and hold. Hold. Offer what the distance so unjustly denied her. 

Drink in his curls, Mistress Vasilia. Are they not lovely? They have been brushed, washed, combed, blessed, and they are as luscious as the finest silk. They are as smooth and rich as fine cream; drink them in. They are adorned with fine, curling ribbons and a single, beautiful flower. Gaze through them. Follow curling lashes flitting through the clouds. Bask in the joy coloring his cheeks. Spy a light splash of pink at his lips.

But spy no more than that. The dance continues. Step, and turn, and [i]stretch.[/i] Be satisfied with only passing glances. Again. Again. Again.

He passes beyond her reach. He passes untouched.

For a moment, his body blocks his right hand.

[i]“Turn. Snap. Look. Hold. It must all happen in a moment; surprise is your greatest weapon. Strike from concealment. Use sudden motion to sow confusion. Find your target.”[/i]

[i]-snap!-[/i]

The fan blooms, bright and brilliant. Noble regalia on a sea of pure white. Your symbol, Mistress Vasilia, and beneath it, his mark:

The long ladle. For serving. For providing.

The keen knife. For sharpness. For precision. 

All this is yours. All this [i]belongs[/i] to you. All this hides behind a thin sheet of silk. Save for his eyes. They are all you are permitted to see now. Shadows of gold and orange - bright as the new sunrise - frame long, curling lashes. Watch them blink, slowly. Here and there, just faintly, freckled dots of stars glimmer in the radiance. And his eyes themselves.

He meets your gaze, Mistress Vasilia. He is startled. Breathless.

Captivated.

[i]“And [b]make[/b] them want you~”[/i]

A slow smile curls Vasilia’s lips. With one hand, she bids him to continue. With the other, she has not stopped kneading the cushions of her throne. With her eyes, she [i]devours[/i] him.

Dolce turns at her command. Dolce faces a long, long walk to the other end of the runway. Where he will turn, and face a long, long walk back. Then Dolce will face her again. And strut for her again. And feel his heart and head melt into a molten puddle. Again.

Dolce can’t do it.

Dolce doesn’t have to do it.

The wolves of Ceron bear him aloft. Again.