A S K A R E E
BABY, DROP THEM BONES
SELL THAT SOUL
An impish, cheshire grin pulls at the otherwise stern planes of her features; whether she pilfers amusement from his discomfort, his surprise, his query, or a hellish amalgamation of them all cannot truly be discerned. Perhaps she is most tickled by the possibility that he wasn't simply taking the piss in some fantastically lame attempt to flirt with her by faning knowledge of the literal cornucopia of supernaturals running amuck in Sacrosanct. Could it be that he was wholly and completely unaware of them? Was she really that fucking lucky? The notion that she might be the one to pop the proverbial cherry of his disillusionment only served to broaden the smile upon her face.
"That's fair," she quips before allowing her teeth to press lasciviously into the velvety pillow of her bottom lip, a single finger trailing a smooth arc towards the room at large. "And neither is he, or her, or them," she offers without allowing the intensity of her gaze to wander from the newfound innocence of his undeniably handsome face. Of the considerable patronage currently clustered within the pub, only a small handful were human- their lineage betrayed by the purity of the aroma that wafted from each of them in turn. Fresh. "But you already knew that, didn't you? Even though you don't know what we are- you know that we're... unusual. You know that we make your skin crawl." As if to drive home the assertion she was intent upon making, she moves to cover one of his hands with her own, the suppleness of her fingers a stark contrast to the calloused, grease-darkened flesh of his knuckles. The most minute touch of her affinity draws the tiny follicles at the nape of his neck to attention, coaxing a phantom shiver to rattle down the curve of his spine.
"Come on, Gears, give me your best guess. What kind of beastie do you think I am? If you're close I'll buy you a round."