[Look Red he is a MAN. What could you possibly expect?
They've drifted off the floor. The quaking need to move his feet has dissipated and in its stead is a mighty thirst. He'll be leading them to the drink station, and in a curious change of pace he reaches for the water first.
Richie squints at her messages as he pours her a glass first, then himself, before taking his own phone out. Their first meet and greet in the bush had him yapping while she typed, but when they hit the bar after Richie found he'd prefer to match her. Gave the conversation an even keel.]
Sounds like your place was a good time. you picked up a lot, congrats. What did you do back in the day outside of selecting sunsets?
[ Absolutely nothing, but look at where that got her.
She nods in thanks for the glass, taking a sip before putting it down on the nearest flat surface — raises an eyebrow when she spots the phone in his hand. He doesn't have to, not really, but she can't help but appreciate it all the same ( probably easier on his voice, too, considering the noise in the hall ).
Though — his question, whether he realizes it or not, feels intensely personal all of a sudden. Blame it on circumstances, or the last few days in the Cloudbank that no longer exists; her face flickers to something darker, not at all fitting of a party, before all of it smooths out just as quickly. Not his problem.
... But he does deserve an answer, nonetheless. She contemplates deflecting it entirely, but — it'll have to happen, sooner or later. And she isn't one to defer things to later. ] I sang. [ And as if that's a perfectly normal thing coming from her— ]
[Trust him, Red, there is nearly nothing you could do to wear out his voice outside of making him swallow sandpaper. It's almost as if he's gifted with a fucking terrible normcore superpower??? thanks stephen king it's been a huge help so far
He hums as he waits for her reply but his gaze soon snags on a hook and reels to the left. A particularly pretty woman whose dress slit falls just shy of hitting her arm pit strolls by, lengthy leg flashing through a curtain of green. The scowl is missed entirely. By the time his eyeballs are back in their sockets she's hit send.
All right. He won't prod. She's probably an assassin. Seems like a pretty common gig these days. As long as she keeps the daggers pointed the other way, he'll whistle and avert his gaze.]
I was a DJ. worked a rock and roll station in the big city, we were kicking ass in the ratings. Now when i'm wiping the bar counter clean at three am i can only sigh and dream of the old days.
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They've drifted off the floor. The quaking need to move his feet has dissipated and in its stead is a mighty thirst. He'll be leading them to the drink station, and in a curious change of pace he reaches for the water first.
Richie squints at her messages as he pours her a glass first, then himself, before taking his own phone out. Their first meet and greet in the bush had him yapping while she typed, but when they hit the bar after Richie found he'd prefer to match her. Gave the conversation an even keel.]
Sounds like your place was a good time. you picked up a lot, congrats. What did you do back in the day outside of selecting sunsets?
no subject
She nods in thanks for the glass, taking a sip before putting it down on the nearest flat surface — raises an eyebrow when she spots the phone in his hand. He doesn't have to, not really, but she can't help but appreciate it all the same ( probably easier on his voice, too, considering the noise in the hall ).
Though — his question, whether he realizes it or not, feels intensely personal all of a sudden. Blame it on circumstances, or the last few days in the Cloudbank that no longer exists; her face flickers to something darker, not at all fitting of a party, before all of it smooths out just as quickly. Not his problem.
... But he does deserve an answer, nonetheless. She contemplates deflecting it entirely, but — it'll have to happen, sooner or later. And she isn't one to defer things to later. ] I sang. [ And as if that's a perfectly normal thing coming from her— ]
What did you do?
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It's almost as if he's gifted with a fucking terrible normcore superpower??? thanks stephen king it's been a huge help so farHe hums as he waits for her reply but his gaze soon snags on a hook and reels to the left. A particularly pretty woman whose dress slit falls just shy of hitting her arm pit strolls by, lengthy leg flashing through a curtain of green. The scowl is missed entirely. By the time his eyeballs are back in their sockets she's hit send.
Richie bursts out laughing.]
Good one. And I'm a professional luchadore.
[There was an even split down the middle of the refugees. On one side you had the been-there-done-thats, to whom murder, intrigue, and magic were all blasé as Wonderbread. They'd tell you the make and measurements of their mother's girdle and cap it off with a ten minute interlude of inner torment. Anything that belonged on a shrink's chaise was fair game. Then there were the cagey cats, hissing and pittering around all subjects of truth and nuance. You couldn't get a name or age or even a childhood pet out of them if you lit a forest fire under their ass. Red doesn't sit firm at either end of the spectrum, but she's falling closer and closer to the latter. She was willing to talk about her hometown but swapped focus right back to Richie when it came to jobs.
All right. He won't prod. She's probably an assassin. Seems like a pretty common gig these days. As long as she keeps the daggers pointed the other way, he'll whistle and avert his gaze.]
I was a DJ. worked a rock and roll station in the big city, we were kicking ass in the ratings. Now when i'm wiping the bar counter clean at three am i can only sigh and dream of the old days.