This one isn’t much for formal vagaries, nor the maidenhair of clandestine, mercurial natures. Nobody would catch her rapt in courtly pomp, despite her position. She is plainspoken, sharpened words and soft expressions and finely honed gestures. She has never comprehended the use of mental politics, other than from a harlots perspective. That is, to manipulate a situation into the direction of one's favor for a gain. With kindred in this particular city not exactly on an even-keeled playing field, but close to it, what was the point? But habits die hard, and being cautious is wise.
“Maybe I just like the aesthetic shit of it, the curls, the fleece,” she’d said of the laudable visual traits of smoking, attentively watching the other woman’s approach, with all the indolence and impassivity of a tabbycat. Grinning, still. “Can hardly recall a time it used to make me fuckin lightheaded, but excitement comes and goes.” she shifted the razor-flare rack of her hips, the balletic legs, moved aside for her. Should she want to join her in sitting on this cold saturated, concrete stair, that is. Or she could stand, didn’t irk her none.
No bloodbeat. No heat from the other woman. The other woman was cold as the morning steam that rose around the hoarfrost, tipping the old wooden gates of that fabled orphanage of her girlhood like chalkdust. It was obvious that she was kindred. “Do you think if somebody’s lacking excitement, it means they’re not an exciting person?” she asked, offered up a black & gold.