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Destinations - Emersyn - 08-04-2019
Emersyn felt the weight of her father's disapproving presence heavy on her shoulders tonight. Especially now while the grullo was cooling her heels in the darkest reaches of the bar. It was quite late and only the barflies remain behind for Emersyn to distract herself with. Directly behind her, a pale blue and gold mare, a little mature for Emersyn's choice of company, really. To the right, two figures in black on the opposite end of the bar where she sat (did they have wings? horns? or was it a dragon?). Ahead of her was the ever vigilant server, cute for pink horse with purple hair, but far too naïve for Emersyn to want to commit a conversation to.
Another? Jules, the tender suggested? Another, Emersyn agreed.
She kept it simple with Jules, just as disinterested in the magic being used to pour and mix drinks as much as she was in the people. The people, much to Emersyn's comfort, seemed to feel the same way about the outsider. The grullo stood out for being so mundane against a candy colored crowd, a tall, lean, ghostly gray horse. Aside from her bald face and black striped cheeks she was quite handsome although plain. On her person, she wore no bangles, no chains, no scarves, cloaks, or daggers.
It makes it more easier to have a successful mission when you are not worrying about what belongs to you, only what belongs to them. Nicolai's breath was as real as the breeze against the back of her neck. Magic carted the mug out from underneath her nose so that it could be filled again. It was hard for Emersyn to not give the server a severe look with her suffocatingly deep blue eyes which looked black in the din of the room. If she wanted to keep getting served, she ought to deal with it. Just as she did when 'Jules' decided to think she was serving a man by calling Emersyn "Sir" and "Mister Emersyn".
So she did.
Nicolai knew and always said, that it would do Emersyn well to understand this New World after witnessing such a queer and perverse sight of physics in the wilds of the island(lack there of, actually). It was tactful and wise, to apprehend such magic and learn to use it herself. Most of all, to make sure she knew it well, like the way she knew her weapon, or how to breathe. There was nothing she could do without knowing he was there, dead or alive.
Nicolai was nothing but a personal demon, a specter of her active, rampant thoughts. He was a tall dark figure resembling something between a wild oak and a frightening shadow out of the corner of her eye - no eyes, just a mouth that liked to say all the things she did not want to hear. Everything was between a dull slur with the occasional thumping of a foot followed by resounding laughter to interrupt Nicolai's criticisms. He was particularly active tonight because she turned and ran from the island faster than the turn of a second at the sight of suspended time.
Her ears attentively swiveled to catch the faintest noises in between the chaos, the softest huff of a breath, the sound of liquid filling glass. She entertained herself quietly, eyes focused on a singular vale of glass containing a bright blue liquid. In the firelight it was green, sometimes brown, whenever Jules moved through the light to keep glasses full. Every time she filled, she concerned herself with the crystalline sound the spirits made when they hit their container and nothing else. A conditioning exercise to keen the senses while enjoying the warm buzz of her drinks without being too numb.
Glass, ceramic, bored wood, or maybe even copper, the last cup filled before someone entered the bar sounded like wood but the soldier's attention shifted entirely towards the door. A cool summer breeze and the smell of bonfire and jasmine rolled through the intimate space, everyone looked, even the squaddie herself. Emersyn called for a shot over her shoulder and could not gage the newest arrival. Yessir Mister Emersyn, and Jules was off to get something down off the topshelf. The fire on the surface of the spirit lit up her eyes like two cat eyes as they leered hard at the stranger. It was hard not to feel sized up by Emersyn's critical stare but she looked away eventually. Only to staunch the flame on her drink and saddle her teeth around the rim of the glass. She knocked it back easily and without the same magic most everyone else was using around her. Emersyn was still unwoken by Tempus's gift.
@
~~~
RE: Destinations - Bexley - 08-06-2019
BEXLEY BRIAR
but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
This bar sounds significantly dingier and seedier than Bexley’s usual haunts, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?
Denocte is still strange to her, not quite home, and her usual haunts are entirely out of reach, kept behind lock and key of Raum’s dictatorship. (The thought makes her teeth itch; when she sees him in the back of her mind it is like a knife to the chest, impossible to breathe around.) He took her husband. Her country. And now this. Even her fucking bars.
The markets roar with activity, even this deep in the night. Fires blossom in charcoal pits and violins sing from the street corners, and as Bexley passes through row after row of market stalls, voices eventually start to follow her. Oh, there she goes. That’s her? Yeah, look at the scar—she does not bother glaring as they pass; there are far too many of them for her to pick out one by one, and anyway their comments are far less important to her than picking up a buzz.
At the very end of the stalls rises an old door. Warm light floods out from underneath it and washes the cobblestone in pale yellow. She can hear the dim murmur of voices, leaching from inside the walls, and the knowable sound of glasses and mugs clattering together against tables and stools. It sounds like her old life, something woefully familiar she can’t quite yet back. For a long moment Bexley hovers outside the doorway. She watches the still shape it makes and feels the gentle pull in her chest; watches and waits, as if poised on a step.
Then she shakes her head and pushes in, shedding her doubts as easily as a summer coat.
Inside it’s not much more impressive. A few scattered patrons cast in dim, sooty light. A singular bartender rattling in the back. The customers turn to give her a glance, but one watches longer than all the others with a gaze that burns like ice—bald-faced and slender-bodied, coated in grays and blacks. The gaze does not move for far too long. Does not move even as Bexley saunters toward her, closer and closer to the open seat at the bar.
Finally they are level. Bexley glances sideways at her with a gaze that is both caustic and fuck-me.
"If you want to look so bad," she murmurs,"you might as well buy me a drink."
RE: Destinations - Emersyn - 08-20-2019
The Girl From Solterra
"Top shelf, make it a double - anything she wants she gets. My tab."
There are few moments in Emersyn's life that are allowed such liberating experiences from everything else she has ever known as a hard, disciplined soldier and this moment right here seems to be it. Bexley's gaze is a tangible thing, it is a caress down the side of Emersyn's neck and she isn't sure enough about contact to know if the butterflies in her stomach are normal or not. Still, she maintains her composure. The gilden woman, from what Emersyn can surmount in the mere seconds it takes to make complete contact, is that she has handed her an opening.
An opening for what, exactly? Emersyn dares to venture into ideas that might not be as orthodox as say, a good old fashioned square dance, a walk in the park, or asking Bexley what her sign is. Instead she wonders, quietly -(weirdly)- about the kinds of things that would make a girl like Bexley leave with a girl like Emersyn once the bar closes. Even though they aren't touching, the sheer aura of Emersyn's stranger-friend sizzles like the heat of a thousand suns. It turns the soldier's cold-cold blood into molten fire.
Fire. It is something she can feel in the pit of her stomach, it incinerates all of those innocent little butterflies she thought she felt. It could also be the bourbon elixir making its way through every besilvered fiber of her being - but she is pretty sure it is Bexley that is turning her on.
The bartender mixes the aged spirit with syrups and adds a splash of sour fruit to compliment the hazy dusk that the liquor promises to deliver. Emersyn turns towards Bexley as it is appropriate for conversation, something that she has never been too good at unless it involves war, the drink is sent down to the blonde as well. The mood seems set, the silver-haired woman offers a demure smile, her own deep blue eyes quietly taking all of the girl in (and the scene behind her - men talking - men looking). The tension in the room gathers slowly, like the silence that grows before a storm, but Emersyn sees no reason to act. Not now at least.
"The whiskey has soul here, better than most places." Reassures Emersyn. "You waiting for someone? Or are you here for me?" It ends playfully enough, Emersyn's voice is a low, smoky, velvety drawl. She means no ill intent, her smile says so. Though the mischief that dances inside those fathomless blue eyes might suggest that she isn't content with just sitting here alone, it twinkles like diamond dust on the edges of a lovely but poisonous blue rose.
@Bexleybarfight?
~~~
RE: Destinations - Bexley - 08-23-2019
BEXLEY BRIAR
but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
Bexley is used to this kind of attention. Used to having eyes on her—in this case, both Emersyn’s and those of the men that murmur at the tables behind them. Watching with their stupid smirk, with lecherous, batting eyelashes. She feels it like a light breeze, or a little kiss of sunshine, a pleasant warmth that she’s been accustomed to since the first of her memories, when she hadn’t even understood what those glances and smiles meant. It’s a balm that buffers the strangeness of the world around her. A return to the normalcy of being wanted, of being alive.
She smiles a little at how the stranger responds. Anything she wants she gets. As it should be. (But also how it hasn’t been in quite a while: being widowed has certainly puts something of a damper on your self-confidence). Enjoy it while it lasts, that’s the plan, and as Bexley watches the dark-deep of this girl’s blue eyes through her dark lashes she gets the confident feeling that it’ll last quite a while.
Watching the cocktail come to life is therapeutic. The bartender is good at her job. Watching her peel away the freckled skin of the orange in one fell swoop is comforting in the way watching a doctor perform surgery is comforting—the reassurance that they’ve had eons of practice making this particular type of magic with their hands. The air is tense and hot, but Bexley pretends not to notice it. She makes a concentrated effort not to let any of her muscles tense up as she purposefully (coquettishly) keeps her focus trained on the drink instead of her company. The clanging of the ice cubes. The sweet, dark slosh of liquor hitting the glass.
Bexley pulls it towards her and inhales. The musky smell of the room is now pleasantly suppressed by the scent of citrus and alcohol burning at the edges of her nostrils. From the corner of her eyes, she catches the stranger’s demure smile and smiles back. (Though on her bone-white lips, it is always a sharp thing, sharper than it needs to be. More like a drawl or a smirk than a real grin. Part of the whole wolfish charm, she likes to think.)
“You’re funny.” She laughs a little at Emersyn’s question, blue eyes narrowing as her grin deepens. Though maybe funny isn't the right word--cute? Cocky? It doesn't matter; Bexley knows that anything she says can and will be the right thing. Her head tilts. “I’m not here for anyone. Although…”
And she drops her gaze over Emersyn again, this time slower, and with extra weight. “That could change. I’m Bexley.”
Solterra’s exiled golden girl nods, as if confirming her introduction, and without waiting for a response knocks back the first sip of her drink.
RE: Destinations - Emersyn - 09-03-2019
Blood and Fire
In the old testament of the soldier's life, Emersyn has only ever known two moods. Anxious and Manic. There, between the two extremes, lies a bouquet of unexplored emotions to the young woman. This feeling in her gut, in her blood, in her teeth, can only be described as heat - similar to the tangible color of Bexley's skin. Her blood runs hotter, her heart stronger, adrenaline fills every pore until it is crystallizing across her own flesh like a shield. She can not possibly let this girl get away, no - no.
Emersyn leans into the corrosive atmosphere of Bexley, "I am the one you have been waiting for. I'll show you." She feels the burn. She feels something akin to tasting lightning and battery acid too. Lust, it is so much stronger than any elixir on the top shelf here. Her silver skin melts in the sheer heat of the summer girl.
"We might have some trouble here, Miss Bexley."
Her husky voice warns a bit playfully, unafraid, amused. It is still gentle if not haunting, but she has to lean into a soft neck to speak her words - close enough that she could try and steal a kiss from Bexley if she so desired to. She doesn't, however, because if she did - it would be like walking through a spring wire trap.
Eyes watch them.
Bad moods crawl steadily upward.
Gossip, gossip, gossip.
Darkness spreads.
Magic simmers quietly all around them.
Moral sinks deep below the floorboards with inky fatigue.
The outsider gives Bexley a leopard's grin and finishes another shot. Emersyn may be too forward, then, to call another round for the two of them. Where the money comes from is no issue but it doesn't go unnoticed by the eyes and ears in the tavern. She will keep the well flowing for as long as it takes her to convince a woman from Solterra, to have a dance with her on the backs of these men.
"How many pig heads do you think we will have to kick in to leave this bar, together?"
Someone in the corner thinks he knows Bexley. He has his opinions about her too while the comrade across from him at the table just laughs and laughs. Discussions over 'who does she think she is' bubble like overflowing streams in a dry brook. About the stranger. About the Solterran. Someone else just thinks it's unfair that two pretty young ladies can deny the world their beauty while they sit and talk together.
And then there is always the one who decides he just doesn't like outsiders, the isolationist.
Some how having a conversation at the tavern doesn't seem possible, and Emersyn would rather heat her coal with kerosene and matches than use kindling. The soldier takes her shot quickly, plumes of silver and black curl around her dramatic neck like a lion's mane. The bourbon warms her, it soothes her, it brazens the pathway. In mere seconds, she is as courageous as a lion.
The room swelters with scandal, distrusting patrons are already talking. Emersyn is already rising to her full height, hair swooshing past shoulder as she finally looks away from Bexley for the first time since .. she lost track of when she saw her .. and black fills her eyes when she gazes into the dark room. Until now, the unwashed and surly crowd has been behind her and therefore no challenge, but now she faces them, and their clamoring is unacceptable to her.
"I'm Emersyn, I'm from out of town." To Bexley, she says.
A shotglass flies across the room and the tall woman ducks her head in time for it to shatter behind her. Pieces of cheap crystal spray like sea mist behind the bar. A table overturns in the far left, a fight opens up between the two men over a discovery of one cheating at cards. What misery, what luck. She watches the targets, paces them with tactfulness, shuts down the first fool by simply shoving the drunkard over at the right moment. When he stays down, she tosses the sway of silver back out of her eyes and continues.
"I'm out of commission now, apparently Delumine doesn't have much need for a soldier. So I thought I'd travel a bit. How about you?"
Emersyn leans into the corrosive atmosphere of Bexley, "I am the one you have been waiting for. I'll show you." She feels the burn. She feels something akin to tasting lightning and battery acid too. Lust, it is so much stronger than any elixir on the top shelf here. Her silver skin melts in the sheer heat of the summer girl.
"We might have some trouble here, Miss Bexley."
Her husky voice warns a bit playfully, unafraid, amused. It is still gentle if not haunting, but she has to lean into a soft neck to speak her words - close enough that she could try and steal a kiss from Bexley if she so desired to. She doesn't, however, because if she did - it would be like walking through a spring wire trap.
Eyes watch them.
Bad moods crawl steadily upward.
Gossip, gossip, gossip.
Darkness spreads.
Magic simmers quietly all around them.
Moral sinks deep below the floorboards with inky fatigue.
The outsider gives Bexley a leopard's grin and finishes another shot. Emersyn may be too forward, then, to call another round for the two of them. Where the money comes from is no issue but it doesn't go unnoticed by the eyes and ears in the tavern. She will keep the well flowing for as long as it takes her to convince a woman from Solterra, to have a dance with her on the backs of these men.
"How many pig heads do you think we will have to kick in to leave this bar, together?"
Someone in the corner thinks he knows Bexley. He has his opinions about her too while the comrade across from him at the table just laughs and laughs. Discussions over 'who does she think she is' bubble like overflowing streams in a dry brook. About the stranger. About the Solterran. Someone else just thinks it's unfair that two pretty young ladies can deny the world their beauty while they sit and talk together.
And then there is always the one who decides he just doesn't like outsiders, the isolationist.
Some how having a conversation at the tavern doesn't seem possible, and Emersyn would rather heat her coal with kerosene and matches than use kindling. The soldier takes her shot quickly, plumes of silver and black curl around her dramatic neck like a lion's mane. The bourbon warms her, it soothes her, it brazens the pathway. In mere seconds, she is as courageous as a lion.
The room swelters with scandal, distrusting patrons are already talking. Emersyn is already rising to her full height, hair swooshing past shoulder as she finally looks away from Bexley for the first time since .. she lost track of when she saw her .. and black fills her eyes when she gazes into the dark room. Until now, the unwashed and surly crowd has been behind her and therefore no challenge, but now she faces them, and their clamoring is unacceptable to her.
"I'm Emersyn, I'm from out of town." To Bexley, she says.
A shotglass flies across the room and the tall woman ducks her head in time for it to shatter behind her. Pieces of cheap crystal spray like sea mist behind the bar. A table overturns in the far left, a fight opens up between the two men over a discovery of one cheating at cards. What misery, what luck. She watches the targets, paces them with tactfulness, shuts down the first fool by simply shoving the drunkard over at the right moment. When he stays down, she tosses the sway of silver back out of her eyes and continues.
"I'm out of commission now, apparently Delumine doesn't have much need for a soldier. So I thought I'd travel a bit. How about you?"
@
RE: Destinations - Bexley - 09-12-2019
BEXLEY BRIAR
but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
We might have some trouble here, the woman says, and of course she’s right. Perfectly obvious is the way the crowd’s eyes turn to follow them, and the sound of their murmuring gossip swells louder and louder with each passing second, with every inch closed between them. Now they are hardly separate, laid apart by less than a foot, and the way the stranger’s breath coasts over Bexley’s neck sends a shiver down her spine.
Her lashes lower, demure in a way that suggests any innocence is merely an act, and those bone-white lips curl into a slow smirk.
Bexley’s ears flicker. She leaves the second shot untouched. This is adrenaline enough for her already, and every passing moment makes her more certain that if they have a chance of getting out of here without trouble, she should keep herself sharp. Nothing personal. “More than I have patience for,” she answers coolly, and her gaze slants toward the men in the back whose voices are growing louder. Their eyes glow in the darkness like cat’s; their teeth shine bright as bones. She is not afraid. Not now, not ever.
She watches with calm, dark eyes as Emersyn rises, but does not move herself. They’re well-matched—in height, build, the ice-blue eyes. Silver to gold and dark to light. She shifts, opening her mouth to speak, but—
The sound of glass shattering rings overhead as her head flies down, and shards fall like icy rain against the bar, and then there is the sound of bodies colliding and hooves scraping against the floor and by the time Bexley thinks she should get involved, it’s already over. One lays stunned on the ground; the others watch with wide, wide eyes. For a moment, Bexley, too, watches with surprise. Her brows raise and her lips part—her head tilts slightly back, dumbly, dutifully impressed.
“Well.” She huffs just a little, and smiles a shallow smile, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “No, I can’t imagine the flute-players would have too much use for an army. I’m taking an… extended vacation.” And if there’s something like sarcasm in her voice, she’s nearly sure Emersyn won’t latch onto it. There are far more important things to discuss.
What drinks to order, which men to dispose of, whose house they’re going home to. Bexley stretches lazily and shakes her head, pouring ringlets of white hair from shoulder to shoulder like the foam of a waterfall.
RE: Destinations - Emersyn - 10-08-2019
The Solterran Girl
“I hear there is a great hotspring in Arma mountains, is that true?” The horse on the floor groans when Emersyn puts her hoof on his shoulder and shoves him back down.
The gunmetal girl glances down to admire her work, but she gets a good look at her lovely lady’s legs. She can see how peachy and creamy Bexley’s flesh is, and distracts herself wondering if Bexley tastes as dangerous as she looks - oh, and the asshole that tried to confront them is still down there too, swearing and slobbering-drunk.
Red. Brown. Spot. Stripe. Nevermind the White, the target has been dealt with. Emersyn has quickly organized each member of the room and assigned them a taste, color, or texture to remember them by. She’ll forget them all soon after the moment has passed, but for now they are remembered in the order in which they will fall - if they insist with the pursuit of conflict.
Several shady grays hang out in the backdrop of the room, they appear to take no interest in the fight, thank Calligo. Emersyn returns her eyes to Bexley and smirks at her, both playful and daring, she came to find peace but finds herself in another turbulent evening - at least this time, the company is worth it. Even still, Emersyn cannot get out of this hole fast enough. Her blood feels like quicksilver in her veins, cooling, calming .. intoxicating. There is an unreasonable anger lurking beneath all that calm, and she'd rather not bathe to get the blood out of her hair tonight.
"Delumine is too quiet .. even with all the flute players."
More provocations happen; cat calls thread their way in and out of the buzz, big talk boasting bravado, jealousy flare-ups paint themselves in black-eyed stares. Emersyn doesn’t let a sound move past her ears but neither does she absorb their burning gazes. Her attention towards Bexley is held above them all, and their own conversation is a vibrant, sparkling chaos compared to the dull crowd that aggravates because of them.
Bexley’s words motivate Emersyn with her words, the power that resonates between them is compatible at best - iron and fire. Emersyn feels inspired to delight Bexley however she can, even in her own awkward and somewhat barbaric ways. “Then we better make sure this feels like a vacation for you,” Emersyn’s expression does not lift or sway or change in the context of her words, nothing seems to bother the soldier about the moment they are having together. In fact, being pressed against Bexley like this is preferable, even for such an aggravating situation. Emersyn thinks that she feels like silk and liquid sunlight.
Bexley lets her curls down and it is nearly a spell, and Emersyn narrowly misses the first movement against them. She has to duck to miss the teeth and gets shoved back by the Red - so predictable. Someone else gets kicked, hard, and runs howling. Emersyn has no time to apologize to Bexley for getting shoved into her by avoiding altercation, and doesn’t think she needs to - the girl stacks herself like she knows the taste of violence.
If only Emersyn knew.
“That said, there are other things I’d rather be doing right now .. ” Emersyn’s eyes burn in the dimming firelight, with you, they seem to say on their own.
Two more flank the intrepid pair from behind. Back to back, Bexley and Emersyn are a double threat, a machine made for something these men cannot even begin to imagine. A sword in the flames.
"I'm ready to get out of here. You ready?"
The gunmetal girl glances down to admire her work, but she gets a good look at her lovely lady’s legs. She can see how peachy and creamy Bexley’s flesh is, and distracts herself wondering if Bexley tastes as dangerous as she looks - oh, and the asshole that tried to confront them is still down there too, swearing and slobbering-drunk.
Red. Brown. Spot. Stripe. Nevermind the White, the target has been dealt with. Emersyn has quickly organized each member of the room and assigned them a taste, color, or texture to remember them by. She’ll forget them all soon after the moment has passed, but for now they are remembered in the order in which they will fall - if they insist with the pursuit of conflict.
Several shady grays hang out in the backdrop of the room, they appear to take no interest in the fight, thank Calligo. Emersyn returns her eyes to Bexley and smirks at her, both playful and daring, she came to find peace but finds herself in another turbulent evening - at least this time, the company is worth it. Even still, Emersyn cannot get out of this hole fast enough. Her blood feels like quicksilver in her veins, cooling, calming .. intoxicating. There is an unreasonable anger lurking beneath all that calm, and she'd rather not bathe to get the blood out of her hair tonight.
"Delumine is too quiet .. even with all the flute players."
More provocations happen; cat calls thread their way in and out of the buzz, big talk boasting bravado, jealousy flare-ups paint themselves in black-eyed stares. Emersyn doesn’t let a sound move past her ears but neither does she absorb their burning gazes. Her attention towards Bexley is held above them all, and their own conversation is a vibrant, sparkling chaos compared to the dull crowd that aggravates because of them.
Bexley’s words motivate Emersyn with her words, the power that resonates between them is compatible at best - iron and fire. Emersyn feels inspired to delight Bexley however she can, even in her own awkward and somewhat barbaric ways. “Then we better make sure this feels like a vacation for you,” Emersyn’s expression does not lift or sway or change in the context of her words, nothing seems to bother the soldier about the moment they are having together. In fact, being pressed against Bexley like this is preferable, even for such an aggravating situation. Emersyn thinks that she feels like silk and liquid sunlight.
Bexley lets her curls down and it is nearly a spell, and Emersyn narrowly misses the first movement against them. She has to duck to miss the teeth and gets shoved back by the Red - so predictable. Someone else gets kicked, hard, and runs howling. Emersyn has no time to apologize to Bexley for getting shoved into her by avoiding altercation, and doesn’t think she needs to - the girl stacks herself like she knows the taste of violence.
If only Emersyn knew.
“That said, there are other things I’d rather be doing right now .. ” Emersyn’s eyes burn in the dimming firelight, with you, they seem to say on their own.
Two more flank the intrepid pair from behind. Back to back, Bexley and Emersyn are a double threat, a machine made for something these men cannot even begin to imagine. A sword in the flames.
"I'm ready to get out of here. You ready?"
RE: Destinations - Bexley - 12-13-2019
BEXLEY BRIAR
but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
Bexley does not know the springs that Emersyn speaks of, though she would like to: for a moment she is surprised, or a little disappointed in herself, that for all her treks to and from Denocte she has never been told, or even noticed, this place which sounds close to Heaven. Secluded, alone, surrounded in steam—oh, it sounds infinitely better than this dark, crowded bar filled with the smell of sweaty drunks.
The air is hot, hot, hot, steeped in heat that makes her skin crawl and something in her stomach buzz. Someone goes tumbling over the floor in front of her, another one is pinned beneath a lashing hoof—somewhere between startled and disgruntled, she steps sharply back to avoid the body that comes to a stop just in front of her and feels her flank bump Emersyn’s. A shiver! A thrill.
Something in her feels young again. The breezy touch of electricity which rides up through her hip, the low growling sound of men and their catcalls, or bodies hitting the floor, the pouring of drinks—it sounds like her past rerealized, something that was, for years, buried.
At Emersyn’s quip, the sound of her voice purring we better make this a vacation, Bexley grins. A sharp, white, feline thing, a corner of her lip curling up and up and up; her heart pounds in her chest, quick and insistent, as she swishes her white tail against her legs and narrows her eyes at the scene around them. It is chaos, in the way she has always liked best—a way that is loud and carefree and does not bother lingering on things like death, or despair, or anything less than ecstasy.
Someone surges up for a fight, only to be kicked back down; when a muscled gray with a short dark mane comes up to her with a look like a sneer, his lip curled, his eyes glittering with something like malice, or an interest so intent it has turned evil, Bexley dismisses him with an eager, bone-cracking headbutt and tosses the blood out of her eyes with a shake of her white hair.
“Absolutely,” says Solterra’s golden girl, and with a smile like a scythe shoulders a path toward the door for Emersyn to follow.