Henri + Blair | Late Afternoon / Early Evening, Prime Poaching Time
Despite his nature, Henri had learned a few tricks. He crouched, back against a mossy stone wall, the crudely rolled cigarette dangling from his lips sending wisps of oddly aromatic smoke dancing about his head. The scent was herbal, almost minty, more incense than tobacco.
Little bit of clover. Little bit of milkweed. Sweet pulp. What we could reach through the fence, steal from the larders, set in jars for a month, they'd brave the cells to find the smell. Drives 'em nuts.
Perched on his shoulders, his knees, atop a mop of unruly hair, small golden butterflies fluttered their wings. Every so often, Henri slowly, lazily, reached one hand to cup one of the fragile creatures, guiding it into the small jar he had taken from the bar, sealing off the entrance with a flattened palm. Several of the golden creatures drowzily clung to twigs inside, in a haze from the fermenting plum tucked at the bottom.
Hours had been spent here, smoke trap after smoke trap spent. Delicate work, the gentle deceit, but he was certain Mink would be pleased with his gift. Such focus, however, could hardly last forever. His knees burned, and being alone with his thoughts and plans the smoke was starting to make his temples pound. A motion caught his attention, and he let his eyes focus; the woman from the party, the one he had seen standing next to the folk Viola had called the Belmonts. She followed the flock of butterflies, like a child at play.
Ain't that cute... she a sweet lookin' one, no lie. Wonder if that make it hard to be a monster or not.
Henri stood, sending a cascade of golden wings into the air with the motion, like sparks from a fire as the log finally splits. He placed the lid on the jar, tucked it awkwardly in his pocket, and walked towards her, gold flashing as he grinned.