Pretty Bexley was an interesting creature, indeed.
He watches her face just as she watches his, the two an image of shared curiosity and attempted superiority. Camdis was not of a competitive nature, and as he had yet to discover just what, exactly, they were competing for, the stallion had a distinct sense that he would either lose or be left with more questions than he had started with. Her grins are breathtaking, eyes sparkling and wide; innocent and guileless, but the way she uses her words, the quickness and tact with which she wields that deadly beauty of hers, Camdis knows that it is not a dove beside him, but a raptor - wings tucked, talons out, razored beak agape and poised for the kill.
She has done this before, and she is damn good at it.
The stallion cannot help the tiny smirk that curls at his lips as his initial distaste wavers and vanishes, and he hopes that she believes that it is a smirk of arrogance, not of amusement. But Camdis had never been a very good liar, even when his lies had nothing to do with words.
She stepped closer, so close, in fact, that he can feel the heat rolling off of her golden skin and distantly, he wonders how many times she has pulled that exact same move and how many stallions and mares alike had bowed to the allure she brandished so expertly. Before he could comment, though, her flowery, girlish voice floated between them once more, her lovely face now wearing a mask of chagrin - as if he hadn't nearly hit the nail on the head, as if she were just a sweet girl talking to a tall, dark, brooding stranger just to lighten his day.
Camdis' grin grew slightly, though he carefully kept the grim delight from reaching his eyes.
Pretty Bexley, Serpent Bexley, A Knife In Your Back With A Smile On Her Face Bexley.
He wouldn't admit for all the world that he was beginning to like her.
I'm an angel. I wouldn't call it bothering. I get off on making things, mmm... Interesting. That deadly grin again, those burning blue eyes once more - If Camdis Lohir had been a lesser stallion, one with less "baggage" - he scoffed at his own poor terminology, though he was sure Bexley may think it in response to her words - he would have crumpled at her hooves right there. The wonderful wretch, the breathtaking gorgon, the delectable, vile, horrendously smart little witch.
He might just admit that he was beginning to adore her.
"I would have to agree, you do make things rather interesting," he murmured, eyes lighting up and wondering if he, too, could play at her little game, "Tell me," his voice lowered, taking on an intimate, husky note as he leaned closer, lips aiming to brush against her cheek, the velvet of her nose, her chin, "How stupid do you think I am to not see that you are a stunning viper? What turned you into a siren, Pretty Bexley, and how many souls have you stolen so far?"
He watches her face just as she watches his, the two an image of shared curiosity and attempted superiority. Camdis was not of a competitive nature, and as he had yet to discover just what, exactly, they were competing for, the stallion had a distinct sense that he would either lose or be left with more questions than he had started with. Her grins are breathtaking, eyes sparkling and wide; innocent and guileless, but the way she uses her words, the quickness and tact with which she wields that deadly beauty of hers, Camdis knows that it is not a dove beside him, but a raptor - wings tucked, talons out, razored beak agape and poised for the kill.
She has done this before, and she is damn good at it.
The stallion cannot help the tiny smirk that curls at his lips as his initial distaste wavers and vanishes, and he hopes that she believes that it is a smirk of arrogance, not of amusement. But Camdis had never been a very good liar, even when his lies had nothing to do with words.
She stepped closer, so close, in fact, that he can feel the heat rolling off of her golden skin and distantly, he wonders how many times she has pulled that exact same move and how many stallions and mares alike had bowed to the allure she brandished so expertly. Before he could comment, though, her flowery, girlish voice floated between them once more, her lovely face now wearing a mask of chagrin - as if he hadn't nearly hit the nail on the head, as if she were just a sweet girl talking to a tall, dark, brooding stranger just to lighten his day.
Camdis' grin grew slightly, though he carefully kept the grim delight from reaching his eyes.
Pretty Bexley, Serpent Bexley, A Knife In Your Back With A Smile On Her Face Bexley.
He wouldn't admit for all the world that he was beginning to like her.
I'm an angel. I wouldn't call it bothering. I get off on making things, mmm... Interesting. That deadly grin again, those burning blue eyes once more - If Camdis Lohir had been a lesser stallion, one with less "baggage" - he scoffed at his own poor terminology, though he was sure Bexley may think it in response to her words - he would have crumpled at her hooves right there. The wonderful wretch, the breathtaking gorgon, the delectable, vile, horrendously smart little witch.
He might just admit that he was beginning to adore her.
"I would have to agree, you do make things rather interesting," he murmured, eyes lighting up and wondering if he, too, could play at her little game, "Tell me," his voice lowered, taking on an intimate, husky note as he leaned closer, lips aiming to brush against her cheek, the velvet of her nose, her chin, "How stupid do you think I am to not see that you are a stunning viper? What turned you into a siren, Pretty Bexley, and how many souls have you stolen so far?"
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