TIPPED WITH WINGS OF COLOR
His mind is slow to register the familiar voice but when it does he shies, tripping backwards, ungainly with drink. ”I-I-Isra!” He’s not quite comprehending the cascades of color, the dripping ink stains, the gold, the gold, the gold (move on) the - the what is that on her back, the setting change, her kindness enough to pierce through his thoughts. Toro gathers himself up, rather like a mistress (discovered) running out of the bedroom with half her clothes on, or at least covering the important parts, you know, and he says, ”Fine dress you have. And lovely…thing. On your back. Very nice.” He bows to her sloppily, golds and whites and filigree sliding down and around his form, though the twining metal is more stable than he, than his decorated horns, his form dips and he slides back up like the best kind of snake, an ophiotaurus, perhaps, and just as impressive (no doubt).
He feels his mind slosh sideways and he takes a sip of the drink he keeps floating so precariously beside him; whatever its color or taste he wasn’t exactly certain now but it served a purpose that was not culinary delight. Not anymore, anyway. ”How’ve you been? Gods giving anybody here a run for their money?” Yes, probably, he had a vague idea of something like that but it skipped when he started talking and - well, it was gone now, so, that was all he had to say.
@Isra
"What I say,"
What I think,
