Re: [Strip club: Nel & Eames]
Of course Eames wasn't aware. It would be rather strange if he was, wouldn't it? Nel didn't make proclamations on the subject, nor would she. Her thoughts were her own, and her preferences for others dying was also her own. She possessed no human compassion on the matter, and that was as it should be. After all, she was the death goddess, and all mortals would come to her in the end. Exceptions, of course, existed, but men and women were not, as a rule, made for Valhalla. Warriors, yes, but those were few and they were far between.
"You asked the question," was her simple response about dreams and rights. He'd asked, and her response negated his request, and she felt that was self-explanatory.
She lifted a brow as she put out the burning-ember tip of her cigarette. "Imperfection equals honesty? Truly? I'll attempt to remember that," she said, and while she understood what he meant, and while it held true in certain instances, she wouldn't say the comparison held water in anything but the physical. Even then, imperfection was subjective, and even ratios weren't considered beautiful by all. Models were indications of that, especially as the years passed and uniqueness became favored over the approved proportions for face and bodies.
She obviously also found fault with his comment about humanity, but humanity was such a small word in a town such as Repose.
Her attention drew back to the dancer. "It'll be costly, but I'll let you know. How do you prefer to be contacted?" she asked. She'd no intention of draining the girl upon the stage, and so there was no risk to be had in the offer. Unlike her brothers, Nel was dreadfully careful about her meals. The girl would live, and she'd find herself well-fucked, and the photographs would be all the better for it. And the dancer's pocketbook would be feeling quite heavy as well. "And, you? Are you here for the conversation or the view?" The question was a throwaway, of course.