you could rattle the stars.
you could do anything,
if only you dared

It wasn't often that Vhalla found someone matched in her sarcasm, the witch having earned quite a talented streak of sass. Most of the time it ended in a brawl, the woman hardly having any sense of filter and, if she were honest with herself, she simply enjoyed picking fights. It was real and if she stumbled home bruised and battered, well as least she was feeling something for a change. Most of the time, sarcasm that wasn't coming from her did not tend to bode well for the assassin, the woman the epitome of not being able to take what she dished out. Sometimes she could, sometimes she rather enjoyed the verbal sparring, but lately she didn't particularly care for it - the woman on a drunken binge for god knows how long.

When was the last time she was sober?

She couldn't remember, nor did she care. As she attempts to sign with her hands, her drunken stupor ignoring the fact that she was being... far more rude than she normally would be, Vhal barely catches the anger that pulses through the woman. Of course, the witch had no idea why the stranger was so angry, a perhaps, dense moment on Vhal's part. Pausing several feet away from the woman, a hand on her hip, the white-haired assassin pushes her loose hair back from her face as the stranger signs at her again and mouths the words this time. It makes her see red. Why? She hardly knew, the witch as flammable as gasoline, it never took much to set her off. Icy blue eyes throw daggers at the deaf woman, her own jaw grinding together in rage.

The witch manages to calm herself, barely, as she continues to insult the woman, telling her how much of an idiot she was for being out at night. According the Vhalla, 4 in the afternoon was night to her - she had been drunk all day, the woman assuming it was already woman. It was true, the assassin had fallen to a new low, not being able to tell time, day drinking, the list goes on and on. Before she can prattle on, she can feel her stomach churning, her sentence cut off mid-word as she turns and vomits into the sand, falling to her knees to loose the rest of her stomach contents. Grimacing, she rubs at the back of her mouth as the water washes away the vomit. Vhal is too caught up in herself to notice the way the woman backs away a few steps in disgust, honestly, she couldn't blame her but the snap doesn't leave her tones.

The cool breeze feels good on her redden face, her mind a touch more clear than it was a moment ago. A voice sounds in her head a moment later, her whole body stiffening as she snaps her head around looking. Dragging herself to her feet, water drips from her clothes as she whirls around, scanning the beach only to realize a moment later the feminine voice was coming from this... Russian woman. Blue eyes meet similar eyes, god, they even had the same hair color, they could almost pass off as each other, at least from behind. Her next string of words have her narrowing her eyes, her arms folding over her chest, the leather hardening against her skin making it itch, "I was not mocking you," she snaps though she doesn't enlighten the woman either. "Of course, I'm something. We're all something," her words drip with sarcasm though there is a bit of wariness hanging onto her words, "I'm pretty amazing though," she sniffs and turns her head away momentarily.

Vhalla did not care for someone in her mind, she wasn't sure if this woman could see into her mind or if it was a mental connection - not the most strange thing she had ever seen in the city. However, she didn't want someone digging around in her head to pull out some memories that no one should ever see. Releasing a breath through her nose, she unfolds her arms to run her fingers through, her now, tangled mess of hair. "Look, not my best night... er day I guess," she blinks up at the cloudy sky, the fog in her brain lifting slightly as she looks around at the rest of the abandoned beach. It was perhaps, the best apology this stranger was going to get, the assassin having apologized less than the number of fingers she had. Noticeably scarred fingers reach up to rub at her face, as if that could rub away the alcohol, before she sighs again, some of the anger beginning to dissipate. "How are you doing that if you're deaf?" She asks suddenly, talking about the mental connection.

Vhalla Solarn

To the stars who listen- and the dreams that are answered