KAFKA ON THE SHORE.

monday january 21 2019 : language of hands

( a dumb oc exploration? all of these kiddos are from my school of magic au with friends)

Zoë's movements are nimble and precise, as if each one will be her last. Cold hands, as pale and luminescent as the ghosts she sees move deftly, turning pages, careful not to cut her thin skin with the edges of the age old paper. Small and thin, they seem weak before you note the heavy silver rings on fingers and are forced to acknowledge the strength in them. The only marks are that of silvery scars and pale freckles, adding humanity where there would be none.
A ghost lives inside of her. But her hands are alive and her own.

Kym's hands are rough, belying their owners age - sharp nails on each finger act as a defence mechanism, pointed and as fierce as claws of creatures. Where the nails meet the skin it is soot stained and burned, tough calluses where heat has made its impression like that of a cigarette burn. The palms, accustomed to heat, pool with heat and magic, dripping red and orange and gold and glory when they get the chance, while their fingers twitch, aching to strike a match and watch the world burn.

Aiva holds colour in her hands, paint bleeding over electrical scars and running up her forearms like fissures and cracks in the earth, smudging purple and green and orange like storm clouds in a dark sky. Skin tanned and dark from ancestry and years in the sun, she protects it like a story, like one of her photographs, soft at the edges but tough from years of use and protection. Her hands show her nature, careful but rash at the same time in movement, both the eye of the hurricane and the storm itself.

Sena hides her past in her hands, clenched in fists and painted over with shiny pink polish. Well kept, with manicured nails and a link to the human world, she still has marks from holding the handles of her knives too hard, slices from years on the coast. Her fingers, nimble and light make for delicate movements, ghosting over books, twitching and reaching for a hand to hold. She is crossed fingers and pinky promises and snapping bones with her fingers for more wishes, held behind her back like a secret.

Mye's hands are still, no movement, much like settled sand at sea. His hands, like his eyes, have seen lifetimes of action, movement, have dripped in blood and ichor and seawater. It's finally time for them to get a rest, one limp in his lap as he traces the shapes of his ancestry and scars and deep blue markings with the finger of the other hand. Pale and pointed and inhuman, they care little for the day to day doings they are put through, energy kept in them for what is to come next. He knows the day they're needed will come.
It always does.