Perched on moonlit rail crouched like raven, the city stretches before the dwarfed – civilization, self, familiars, death, death, LIES – figure. Sylph cards fingers through feathery hair and tugs at jacket – much too fine a night for that. Resists – likes having human skin, is afraid of ACCEPTANCE, of unknown, of gaiety and bonds to be cast like snapped chains, like sturdy fishing line.
The one Played by the Dice-Throwers, brought alive into second flesh as if Meant To Be. SEES the Weremimic as something strange, but sees only the masks upon masks, flayed skin stitched messily over old bone and petrified wood. Lips scarred and rotten from holes bored from sewing with sinew strands and sharp needles. Nettling. Screaming forbidden, stretching seams and little brands warn him to watch his mouth. Carefully taste his words.
He, the Weremimic, pulls up his own flesh, twists ligaments and pulls bone out of himself and shaves them with a rusty knife. These are what he uses to layer himself up, along with tendons and life and love.
A ghost made of lies built up like bricks in a running bond, whose single mask is ivory and a face transfixed in death, this is who Played by the Dice-Throwers is. Faces the Weremimic, does not recognize him from a lifetime before, another lifeline, a different timeline, but remembers the skeletons that mill about his back. Sees them as thankful, and perhaps they are as they slip a noose around the Weremimic's neck. Sees the way it does not bob; vertebrae strain against flesh, it is too thin to hold it, penetrate and with their quivering tines accusingly point.
Sees how the blood is viscous poison, burning tears into pale skin, dipping in the collarbone. The rivulets and crescent reservoir resemble a child's smile, and Played by the Dice-Throwers cannot help but smile in return. Does not see how the Weremimic has knives as pupils, nor how he sets the Wind against Played by the Dice-Throwers.
And when it comes time for Played by the Dice-Throwers to fly, his wings topple around him like a house of cards, flashing white and red.
The Weremimic is a prophecy that is in the making after the fact, and he lives liminal, and smells butterflies and knows their tragedy. He regrets that time that his true fingers grazed mosaic wings, long ago when sugar water ran over his bare skin.
He almost strains his lips apart, to string out the stitches and cast them out. Almost.