“Toreador.” She repeated, impassively. A smile cleaved up a corner of her mouth. They could be fun, exquisite little night waifs with high-chins, high-steps, funereal fashions in delightful D minor. Elly is indolent, too heavy-minded to be calculating in how she presents herself to the world at large. One could say that having had to follow countless steps in getting ready for a night of profitable whoring many moons ago (in teeming, Georgian slums) had given her an unthinkable knack for putting together nicely tousled outfits, without requiring much thought.
It had also exposed her much to culture and the arts, poring over book upon book, absorbing images in galleries, gawking at some so intensely in an attempt to never forget them. It has made her respect the Toreador. All the clans have something to admire. When she grinned wider, the stars grinned with her. “Brujah get in ruts.” she offered, flinting the lighter for her. “Things make us snappy, something on the inside building up, clawing out. Something wanting air. It’s kinda the same as y’alls writers block, or art block, your creative sludge-time. I’m probably in a rut now. Just with less snap, this time. You come to Brooklyn often, or you live around here?”