As Volinir's chair scraped across the hardwood floor, boards worn smooth with end's excessive grate, discolored in that darks slipped into sickly cherries, Aello pulled her feet off the table. A tick later, boiled soles, crusted with mud fell to the ground. Clods peeling away from supple leather, long broken in. Muddied flakes scattered across the surface as her chocolate eyes lifted to royal violet. A single hand came off her bow to catch the mug, as her gaze began to graze. Dancing over the Symenesta for a moment. Taking note of skin far more pallid than her own, flesh drawn tight over ivory bone. Pink lines inching around his neck, and crawling up the sides of his face. Marks of brutality the aurist knew only too well. Smiling wickedly, the girl flicked her wrist, sending the glass back down the solid sweep of the table in a heartbeat. "No thanks," she muttered under her breath, as the silver liquid sloshed along the side of its glassy confines. "Don't need that shyke clouding my head," she finished with a small sneer. Her eyes sparkling with glimpses of nearby flame. Flickering as vaporous tendrils rose from the cracks between the planks. Illuminating all that would have been lost, when left only to the mind and its simplistic eye.
The girl fell silent then, for a time, as she scrutinized Volinir's form. Finding it surprising that one such as him would venture so openly into a bar, considering how most of Ravok treated more... exotic races. Aello's gaze settled on his lips, two pale lines stretched thin, from which crumbs dribbled onto chin. They scarcely clung, considering how he lacked a set of whiskers, as though he had yet to grow into his manhood. But his nails, elongated black claws more than anything else, seemed to dig. White powder used to dust, and the occasional frothen grain rested along the supple curve. As though it were but a hammock, and they nameless entities upon a hiatus. The aurist couldn't help but smirk at the man's disheveled appearance. He looks even more pathetic than me, she thought, as her eyes fell to dirt encrusted skirts. Browns rubbed into whites so ferociously, that she appeared to be a fine steak seeking final funeral pyre, so the herbs could settle in.
The woman shifted uneasily in her seat as her gaze rose to meet Volinir's once more. To take note of the clippings which poured out of the corner of his mouth. It reminded Aello of the squirrels she so often hunted, the way he held the loaf of bread. The way most of the sustenance wound up on the floor, or in his lap. Again, the aurist smirked, as she chuckled silently to herself. "That any good?" she asked as her fingers drummed on the table top. |