Margot has never been the kind of leader to assume she knows every action taken within her domain. Margot has never been much of a true leader, either; but what makes a traditional leader has never mattered to her, nor has it ever seemed to matter to Pangea. She knows, in the back of her wild mind, that there are those that come and go, those that crept in the silence, those that lusted for what this kingdom stands for.
In these years of peace, of utter stillness, Margot has discovered the belief that Pangea itself wants for nothing. Asks for nothing. That her and the devotion that might be found in others comes from their own hearts. It’s the sweet sickness that lives in her, a bitter flavor others would find were they to ever just take a bite. Margot often finds herself contemplating if she was born with the madness, but seeks to spread it all the same.
Time passes but the silence does not. It does not pass for a very long time; so when all of the quiet dies a sudden death, when it is struck down with the many timbers of stranger’s voices, Margot buries all of her rotting, wasting decay. She puts a saccharine smile on her face. Straightens her porcelain muscles. Remembers the politics of old, her aunts and uncles and mother and father.
“You don’t speak like a stranger, stranger,” Margot calls, having sniffed out the noise like a hound dog. “And yet that is what you are to me . . . a rotting stranger.” Her eyes sweep over Zain, a cold juxtaposition to the warm smile on her face. The others that follow him are less surprising, less assuming. No warmth enters her gaze for them either, but she does offer, “Hello to you, other strangers.”
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Zain @
Beyza @ Oaks idk who all is replying here so i tagged everyone