Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2006-05-29 07:23 pm
fighting_mad) wrote2006-05-29 07:23 pm
[OOM] Beauty
It doesn’t feel weird when the girl slides it on the back of her head. For years, she’d worn the empty earpieces, and for years she’d worn braids where the veil should hang. It was a silent reminder of the responsibility that waited for her.
She thinks this should feel more different than it does.
Plourr stares at herself in the mirror. The maid rises on her tiptoes to peer over Plourr’s shoulder. “Oh, Princess,” the girl breathes, and Plourr is too startled to tell her not to call her that.
“You look beautiful,” murmurs the little maid, adjusting the veil.
Plourr is never long at a loss for words. “Shut up,” she growls, but her heart isn’t in it. She catches a glimpse of wide, hurt blue eyes in the mirror before the servant ducks away, and she grumbles a quick Huttese obscenity under her breath. “Malia?”
The girl pauses in the high, arched doorway of the chamber, her hands full of bright orange fabric. “Princess?”
She forces her voice softer. “Tell them I’ll be down in a few moments.”
A quick flash of a smile and a curtsey, and then Plourr is left alone with the unfamiliar woman in the mirror.
She doesn’t want to look.
Instead, she walks around the room, picking up the few personal items that she is left with. A blaster here, her helmet there; the bustling crowd of servant women left her with few of her own things after ushering her into the high-ceilinged bedchamber, styled in gold and cream and yellow.
Plourr pauses by the massive bed, brushing a yellow bedcurtain away and resting a hand on the smooth wood post. This room had been for guests, back when she had lived in the palace. She feels like a guest still.
Run, her father had told her. Run, and don’t look back. And, for the most part, she hadn’t.
Now, though, now? Plourr sets the helmet and the blaster down on the bed and stalks over to the mirror, listening to the swish of her train on the marble.
Now she has to look.
The gauzy pants are wide and of a style unique to Eiattu, gathering at the ankle. Her tunic is of the same fabric and allows bare, muscled arms to swing, wrapped tight at the waist in royal deep purple. A heavy red pendant weighs down her throat and bracelets jangle at her wrists; between the jewelry and the train trailing from her shoulders, she can’t move silently anymore. Her eyes are lined with dark kohl, and stare at her out of a face with high cheekbones and a jaw that doesn’t look nearly as masculine now that she has had makeup pressed on her.
She doesn’t recognize herself.
But maybe that’s good. If she doesn’t recognize Plourr Ilo in the mirror, maybe that means she’s Isplourrdacartha Estillo.
Hell, she doesn’t know. She just smooths excess fabric over her arm and then moves away from the mirror.
She thinks this should feel more different than it does.
Plourr stares at herself in the mirror. The maid rises on her tiptoes to peer over Plourr’s shoulder. “Oh, Princess,” the girl breathes, and Plourr is too startled to tell her not to call her that.
“You look beautiful,” murmurs the little maid, adjusting the veil.
Plourr is never long at a loss for words. “Shut up,” she growls, but her heart isn’t in it. She catches a glimpse of wide, hurt blue eyes in the mirror before the servant ducks away, and she grumbles a quick Huttese obscenity under her breath. “Malia?”
The girl pauses in the high, arched doorway of the chamber, her hands full of bright orange fabric. “Princess?”
She forces her voice softer. “Tell them I’ll be down in a few moments.”
A quick flash of a smile and a curtsey, and then Plourr is left alone with the unfamiliar woman in the mirror.
She doesn’t want to look.
Instead, she walks around the room, picking up the few personal items that she is left with. A blaster here, her helmet there; the bustling crowd of servant women left her with few of her own things after ushering her into the high-ceilinged bedchamber, styled in gold and cream and yellow.
Plourr pauses by the massive bed, brushing a yellow bedcurtain away and resting a hand on the smooth wood post. This room had been for guests, back when she had lived in the palace. She feels like a guest still.
Run, her father had told her. Run, and don’t look back. And, for the most part, she hadn’t.
Now, though, now? Plourr sets the helmet and the blaster down on the bed and stalks over to the mirror, listening to the swish of her train on the marble.
Now she has to look.
The gauzy pants are wide and of a style unique to Eiattu, gathering at the ankle. Her tunic is of the same fabric and allows bare, muscled arms to swing, wrapped tight at the waist in royal deep purple. A heavy red pendant weighs down her throat and bracelets jangle at her wrists; between the jewelry and the train trailing from her shoulders, she can’t move silently anymore. Her eyes are lined with dark kohl, and stare at her out of a face with high cheekbones and a jaw that doesn’t look nearly as masculine now that she has had makeup pressed on her.
She doesn’t recognize herself.
But maybe that’s good. If she doesn’t recognize Plourr Ilo in the mirror, maybe that means she’s Isplourrdacartha Estillo.
Hell, she doesn’t know. She just smooths excess fabric over her arm and then moves away from the mirror.