fancy art later i promise.. ITS SO LOW QUALITY btw his costume is based off will-o'-the-wisp, if you can't tell! they're basically ghostly flames that lead travelers off paths, specifically during winter nights. they lead their victims either to treasure or terror… _____ somerset faced a reflection in the mirror. not his, surely, but one adorned with silky whites and a white cloak draped around his body, shielding himself from the cold he was sure to face. it was not him. the real him would have never said a word at all. instead, it cracked a smile, reminescent of the crescent moon, as if it unveiled the enitrety of his being. what was going on in his head? who was he? how much of it was him, truly him, and how much of it was put there? he didn't know. perhaps his costume was all some twisted metaphor. perhaps the milky whites were all that everyone saw, while the golden droplets situated on his night-dark cloak acted as him without lies. in fact, the fur near his eyes was temporarily dyed in a gold color as if he were crying. /take yourself apart,/ somerset seemed to say, his amber eyes a glowing fire against the cold hues of his pelt and outfit. /build something else with the shards of your being. if you can't do that, destroy yourself so no one else can./ mer had a mind that saw the world all too clearly -- far more than anyone else. it is a mind that saw the patterns, yet it fell as soon as something fell out of place. it was like his mirror, a parallel that couldn't quite mimic the world just right. but he did so well enough. it was good he was simply a mirror, anyway. he wouldn't have to rot in the same dirt that everyone else would. he would be a whisper. he would be the winner. _____ the corpse wouldn't stop talking. somerset smiled dreamily and blew kisses at the roaring crowd, as if he was utterly and stupidly in love with the capitol. the dark-splattered tom held a glowing lantern in his paw. the lantern matched his cloak, white with golden inner lining, mimicking blood. the message was clear: somerset cromwell was the pristine, snowy white pearl of district 12. he was the golden boy. he was the torch. especially against the darkness of his cloak, he stood out. unlike the stereotypical depiction of a district 12 feline, somerset held himself high with a graceful energy that could only be bested by those of the capitol. he was the stars that many looked upon. the regal air of one meant to veil and unveil, play and puppeteer. "oh, i simply /love/ you all!" he bubbled, waving to all the cats he could. "simply so stunning, so /panem./" somerset's eyes scanned the crowd, eyes resting on each and every cat who was fixed on him. he had long since memorized the scripts that most didn't even knew they followed -- rules of interaction that somerset could twist to his advantage. if one fits that script, or at least tweak it, others lower their guard. "i'd love to stay and chat with you all, truly, really, but i'm on a chariot, so.." he let out a sheepish laugh, somehow both innocent and guilty. "i'll save a shout-out for you all in my interview. oh, and before i forget, happy holidays!" somerset winked. vengeance was his red rose, his anemone. oh, and he was to pluck it.
