[P] Destinations

[Emersyn]

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.


@Bexley  barfight? 
~~~