Almost immediately Bex senses a shift in the atmosphere. Every part of Moira’s face falls; her wing drops; even her hair seems to flatten as her hair drops and she chokes on air, so obviously flustered and caught off-guard that the Solterran feels guilty for asking, something she hasn’t felt in a long while. But underneath that guilt curiosity still roils, and she can’t help looking at Moira with a careful pin-prick gaze, unnaturally sharp and watchful.
I’ve never used them, the Denoctian admits, and Bexley is not even a little bit surprised. In that moment she wonders why but stifles her nosiness at least enough not to ask out loud; she wonders why, if she were blessed with the option of flight, the idea of a soaring freedom, she wouldn’t use it. Perhaps the grass is always greener on the other side and Bexley is simply glamorizing a life she’ll never be privileged enough to know. But there’s no way to find out, is there? Especially when Moira’s already changed the subject, a subtle tactician angling away from the source of her anxieties.
Good for her.
Oh, they’re the same, really. A salacious, wicked smile crosses Bexley’s face as she explains it away matter-of-factly, eyes drifting upward to the white spattering of stars and dim clouds overhead. Parties and brawls. All about practice, you know - being charming or being smart, or both. She levels a warm gaze at Moira, as if to say it’s something the girl should know already. For Bex it is simply an end product of experience, a philosophy she’s known since childhood, thanks to her family, her homeland, her ingrown desire for luxury, champagne, friends and lovers -
For a moment her blue eyes lose focus, swallowed up by the starlight. But she returns to her body in half a moment and tilts her head at Moira in subtle teasing, brow raised with an expression of muted curiosity.
@Moira <3
I’ve never used them, the Denoctian admits, and Bexley is not even a little bit surprised. In that moment she wonders why but stifles her nosiness at least enough not to ask out loud; she wonders why, if she were blessed with the option of flight, the idea of a soaring freedom, she wouldn’t use it. Perhaps the grass is always greener on the other side and Bexley is simply glamorizing a life she’ll never be privileged enough to know. But there’s no way to find out, is there? Especially when Moira’s already changed the subject, a subtle tactician angling away from the source of her anxieties.
Good for her.
Oh, they’re the same, really. A salacious, wicked smile crosses Bexley’s face as she explains it away matter-of-factly, eyes drifting upward to the white spattering of stars and dim clouds overhead. Parties and brawls. All about practice, you know - being charming or being smart, or both. She levels a warm gaze at Moira, as if to say it’s something the girl should know already. For Bex it is simply an end product of experience, a philosophy she’s known since childhood, thanks to her family, her homeland, her ingrown desire for luxury, champagne, friends and lovers -
For a moment her blue eyes lose focus, swallowed up by the starlight. But she returns to her body in half a moment and tilts her head at Moira in subtle teasing, brow raised with an expression of muted curiosity.
@
Bexley
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
