( at the best of times, gwenaëlle can be prickly; even when she retracts her claws, it can be difficult to completely walk back from the ledge she used to live for throwing herself over, clutching knives to plunge into someone else's soft parts, the best defense a good offense—
and it doesn't help that there's something about a particular kind of softness that sets her teeth on edge. a half-feral thing at heart, even after all this time and all of the hands reached out to her, it remains second nature to regard such overtures with suspicion, worn now as measured dispassion. so it's to abella's benefit that the little box in her hands sparks, despite gwenaëlle's best efforts, instant curiosity. a moment ago she had resolved to be crushingly gracious in dismissal,
a thing she can sometimes manage, when her ire has cooled enough,
but her head tilts and she straightens to accept the box, turning it in her hands. despite her closeness to many rifters over the years, she's not exactly known for her interest in the places that they come from or the things that they have there; it's not not a little annoying to her to find herself sort of taken by the package. )
Pipes are common, ( she says, after a moment, opening the packet and tapping the bottom of it to study one of the tailor-mades within, ) or a rolled cigarette, but they don't look like this.
(hand rolled, you see, but there's no necessity to differentiate when it's not as if there's an alternative to that—
her mouth presses to one corner, and she regards abella thoughtfully. finally, she taps a second out, tipping her hip in such a way as to reveal the chatelaine in the folds of her skirt where a small pouch attached contains the riftwatch-issued pocket rune to light them. )
You put your foot in your mouth, ( she says, ) and the world hasn't ended. Don't feel you have to keep apologising.
( she sets both cigarettes in the corner of her mouth, lights them with the rune, and offers the second to abella. )
no subject
and it doesn't help that there's something about a particular kind of softness that sets her teeth on edge. a half-feral thing at heart, even after all this time and all of the hands reached out to her, it remains second nature to regard such overtures with suspicion, worn now as measured dispassion. so it's to abella's benefit that the little box in her hands sparks, despite gwenaëlle's best efforts, instant curiosity. a moment ago she had resolved to be crushingly gracious in dismissal,
a thing she can sometimes manage, when her ire has cooled enough,
but her head tilts and she straightens to accept the box, turning it in her hands. despite her closeness to many rifters over the years, she's not exactly known for her interest in the places that they come from or the things that they have there; it's not not a little annoying to her to find herself sort of taken by the package. )
Pipes are common, ( she says, after a moment, opening the packet and tapping the bottom of it to study one of the tailor-mades within, ) or a rolled cigarette, but they don't look like this.
( hand rolled, you see, but there's no necessity to differentiate when it's not as if there's an alternative to that—
her mouth presses to one corner, and she regards abella thoughtfully. finally, she taps a second out, tipping her hip in such a way as to reveal the chatelaine in the folds of her skirt where a small pouch attached contains the riftwatch-issued pocket rune to light them. )
You put your foot in your mouth, ( she says, ) and the world hasn't ended. Don't feel you have to keep apologising.
( she sets both cigarettes in the corner of her mouth, lights them with the rune, and offers the second to abella. )