The starched clean, stardust thaumaturge is far enough off to avoid the unfurled billow of smoke wrung out from between two lungs. A pool of it threads into the cool atmosphere between them. A slender arm along the circle of her own waist, a palm cusping the opposing elbow, posed there like a torn out spread from Vogue. She watches the other girl, tilting her chin, but takes the first shot of whiskey in benediction for the rest of grimm storytime.
“Who? You mean what?” she scoffs, “He was definitely not human. We went out to the docks to see if we could summon something to help, some top-shelf craft, straight out of Marie LaVeau’s vagina. He was already there, though. He said his name’s Lear. Unnervingly tall, grotesquely feral.” she considers this next part carefully, before admitting. “So naturally, I asked him to come rollerskating sometime.” and, triumphantly. “He said sure.”