[Edwin Morr] ((Not it!))
[Rory] (not it!)
[Lila] ooc: aw. i was gonna offer to start, but lessa, my age old who’s-gonna-start-antagonist, makes me wanna go 123 not it!
[Lila] ooc: THAT’S WHAT I GET FOR BEING WORDY (grin)
[Rory] (SMUG)
[Edwin Morr] ((Yup. Besides… They’re just gonna sneak up on her anyway. Makes more sense for you to put Lila in first. :) ))
[Lila] ooc: s’why I was gonna offer to start. (LOL) (wriggles fingers, gits to typin’)
[Lila] Lila is: in a very, very red jacket with a very, very red hood; wearing a very, very layered skirt that was probably once multiple skirts and sports a plethora of copper zippers; has very, very warm socks and fingerless gloves. The hood is up, but a wave of (very, very blonde) gold hair is visible — a stark curve against a [winter-] rosy cheek. If she’s aware of her surroundings, it’s news to her surroundings — she seems to expect mailboxes, cars, traffick, etc. to just move out of her way. Daydreaming, or nightdreaming, a bag carelessly dangling from one wrist. Not her purse: that’s over another shoulder. The bag is food, probably, or a couple of boxes of — something. Tampons? Tea? Something you can get at a corner mart. She’s humming under her breath, but erratically, and glancing up once twice three times, no pattern. La la la.
[Edwin Morr] ((blur of the milky eye))
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 8)
[Edwin Morr] ((Sneaking))
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6) Re-rolls: 3
[Edwin Morr] ((That’s 8 successes at difficulty 10 to see Edwin ahead of time))
[Rory] (sneaky redhead? dex+stealth)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Lila] (( Er. Two rolls, then, I suppose! For Edwin: C’mon, magick specialty re-rolls. Give me 8 straight dice o’ 10s! (grin) ))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 7, 7, 8 (Failure at target 10)
[Lila] (( For Rory: ))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Rory] .
to Rory
[Edwin Morr] Lila walks; a malevolent force lopes behind her easily. Its form was the stuff of shadows, the stuff of darkness… The very shadows themselves seem to grab or cling to the figure of their own accord, like a jealous and passionate lover might at the withdrawal of the object of their affection. His face was sharp featured but forgettable, and his movements were like watching magic…
One moment he was there. The next moment, he was somewhere else. Seeing the passage between the two was nigh impossible. His clothes were equally untelling; blue jeans and a brown denim work coat, worn hiking boots and a navy baseball cap worn low upon his brow… Casting his face in shadow even when the rest of him was caught in the light. Which wasn’t often…
Still, there was something about the walking shadow… Something about the figure… It screamed the stuff of legend… It screamed of secrets and darkness made flesh… It screamed Shadow Lord.
[Rory] She can’t keep up with him – mainly, because he’s very well practiced at this, and practically invisible. So she does the best she can, clinging to the feeling of pack, to the bond that holds them together, and doing her best to follow in his footsteps…
Bloodred curls under a knit cap, tattered clothing, and a backpack that she does her best not to jostle so that it not clank and clatter. Well-worn shoes, and carefully placed steps, and she does her best to sneak… sneak… sneak around in his wake…
He is the stuff of darkness.
She is one who catches the light – though tries for all the world to blend into the shadows…
[Lila] The wind is invisible, but at least it is felt. Maybe you can’t see it: you can still know it’s there. Edwin? surpasses the wind; he surpasses the shadows. Shadows, at least, snag the attention sometimes — did that one move? What was that? Rory, alack. Rory, for all her care, for all her quiet, is not yet quite so passageless, and it dawns on Lila, at some point — what point? Say this point:
The point is this: on the corner of blahdeeblah and blah, just beside a van that probably gets called ‘molestor van’ and is splashed with a beateous painting of a buxom naked lady riding a wicked cool boa constrictor/white tiger hybrid mix. That point: that’s when she notices that a redhaired Fianna is following her, and, still looking almost impossibly daydreamy, she slows, slows, slows to a stop.
Kicks the tire of the molestor/porn-fantasy-mural van, reaches up to tug her hood further down, glancing sidelong (wistful), to see what that Fianna’s going to do: realize she’s been spotted, pretend she hasn’t; keep on going; circle around. Hell: could be a tainted Fianna, in this city, for all Lila knows.
And the redhead? Totally alone. Yep.
[Delmar Meister] [BotME]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 7, 9, 9 (Failure at target 8)
[Delmar Meister] [Sneaks Anyway!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Delmar Meister] [I can do this, I swear!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[Lila] [Annnnnnd for Delmar: Hmm? What? There might be something else lurking?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Rory] She’s been spotted. Now, Rory, she’s no raggie, she’s no natural born sneak, and she also? Has a baaaad habit when she’s been caught, born of who she is, where she comes from. It’s simple, really.
She gets caught, and she blushes, brightly, and ducks her head. Makes it impossible to pretend she hadn’t been sneaking, but it does draw attention from the others that are much better at it than she is.
Her breeding bleeds true, wasted though it may be. There’s no doubt of what she is – not to Lila. But Rory stops in her tracks, and lets the little Coggie make the next move.
[Delmar Meister] There are three winds blowing that night. Three invisible, imperceptible breezes. Three shadows that converge on a single red head. They could bullshit the whole thing. They could pretend that this was all part of their plan. That the towering red head was actually their spokesperson, and that the other dozen members of their pack were close by and watching.
But one slip of a misplaced consonant from the ahroun would ruin that illusion. Delmar doesn’t offer the idea. He doesn’t even think it loud enough for it to be shared over their link. There’s only a perfectly visible, but hardly noticeable young man somewhere along with them, draped in simple, meaningless dark clothes. He was a part of the background. Nothing to do with what was going on with those people over there. But, over their shared link he did let them each know.
I’m here.
[Edwin Morr] First, the totem phone rings…
~Good. Jes’ hang tight fer uh spell.~
Then, a quiet voice is heard, coming from the other side of Lila… A sly grin riding on forgettable features.
“Well, if’n ’tain’t Li’l Red Ridin’ Hood. Le’s jes’ skip th’middle part ‘n’ ya tell me whut sharp teeth I has?”
She hears the words clearly… And but for the hood pulled up on her head, would feel the heat and moisture from the breath of the creature standing scant inches behind her. Well, well within arm’s reach.
[Lila] [Lalaa… I don’t jump outta my skin THAT much wp roll!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 4, 6, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Lila] Rory stops. Lila continues to eye her, sidelong and unblinking. For a second. For two. Unbenownst to her: Edwin’s coming on up behind. Delmar: he’s around, too; perhaps not as quintessentially forgettable, but off her radar. Lila exhales, half-turns toward the ahroun. “Pardon me. Miss? You appear to be following along in my wake,” she says. “Wh — ”
Jesus fucking christ. The poet’s moon is in the sky; maybe they can’t see it for all the clouds, but they can feel it, can’t they? How it swells? There’s a quick surge [stab] of adrenaline [sting] that simmers up her spine, boils through her bones — coupled with: heart sk-skip-ps a b-beat (stammers, ineloquent) and she flushes. Rory can see it pretty well, way Lila turned toward her just before, way she gathers herself all up, and then —
“You!” A sharp-turn, toward Edwin, and … step away from the van. She covers her face with both hands. Mumbles: “Are on the list, sir.”
[Rory] She doesn’t answer – she’s saved by Edwin sneaking up and breathing on Lila, and Rory’s grin widens knowingly, as she wrinkles her nose and closes the distance between her and Lila and murmurs with a knowing chuckle.
“Sorry.”
She’s not, really. “Practicing.”
[Edwin Morr] “Well… Reckon dat’s uh list uh distinction den.”
He grins all the wider for her recrimination of his deeds, unmoving since her turn and step. Then, he winks.
“‘Sides… You called me, ‘mem’er? ‘Bout sum’in’ I’d wanna look’t. Seein’s how yer not kin, I gotta reckon nekkid photos ain’t e’sactly whutcha had in mind…”
[Lila] Now. Lila is no ostrich-werewolf hybrid. Gaia would likely never approve such a creation! So she was peeking through her fingers while her colour calmed, while her heartbeat stilled, while Rory closed the distance between and Edwin grinned all fox-sly. Now, she exhales (there; no more tension: drained away; she is essentially unwary) and pushes her hood back, drawing her fingers through blonde hair that could use a wash. Gold, yes, but different hues right now: wet, wire, elf-lock tangled mess.
“Oh!” she says, first to Rory. “Well. I will put you on my list, too. And whenever you practice around me, you’ll know I really wondering what’s lurking, so maybe it will be more difficult. Who are you?”
You called me, ‘mem’er. Lila claps her hands together, twining fingers [prayer] and nods once. Decisively: “Yes!” She even bounces in place once, twice. Too much energy, singing through her bones all’a a sudden — too much energy, too much song, wants to shape her into a sharp poem. “It’s like this.” She flicks her eyebrows upward, expressive. “Do you know Heckles the Wyrm? Or Going Down?”
[Rory] She blushes brightly as she’s told she’s on the list too, ducking her head to hide behind that curtain of blood-red curls as she does so. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and answers softly. “Rory.”
And then Lila is talking to Edwin, and Rory simply listens.
[Edwin Morr] Edwin shakes his head.
“Nope. Mighta met ’em at th’moot, but I ain’t met ’em beyond dat.”
[Lila] Lila can be concise — conversational. The gibbous moon doesn’t call all galliards to long stories, to poetry in the day-to-day; sometimes, maybe. Not now. The fostern’s gaze goes (misleadingly) distant. “Heckles the Wyrm: Bone Gnawer. Galliard. Going Down: Bone Gnawer. Ahroun. And good people. They survived what Curata and Gossamer Wing did not. Going Down — Indira — she told me the tale; took me to the place it happened to cleanse away the taint. Noone standing who could do so, right after.
“Apparently these Spirals,” and understand, she’s speaking quietly — she stepped on closer to Edwin, reached out to gather Rory in, if that was necessary. This is a consultation. “They were beating on some kin when our people came across their dirty deeds? And I’d like to know where the fuck they came from! If they knew that they were beating on kin, specifically, and if so? Just how did they know? Where did they come from?”
“I looked around a little — but I couldn’t get a feel for the place. I was hoping that you might be able to see what I missed. To track them back to wherever it is they came from. We know where they died. Maybe there’s nothing left. No signs to follow, but I just don’t know.” A beat. “I’ll tell you the address, if you’re…?”
Lila? looks so hopeful — it would be cruel to say no.
[Rory] She doesn’t know Mickey as Heckle’s the Wyrm. She knows him as Mickey, the one who is Garou, who told her everyone should fuck Metis until there are showers of semen because it doesn’t matter, they’re sterile see, and would you ever mind giving ole’ mickey a blowie… and then she had to ask what that was, and Gina was nice and told her so that she no longer was ignorant of such a thing.
Though she was very very embarrassed, and very confused.
Now, when Mickey tells her things, she will ask Edwin if it really is so. Just in case.
For now, however, she’s listening, close enough but not too close, gathered in and brought into the Child’s confidence.
[Edwin Morr] Edwin grins and shrugs…
“Shore, we can give us uh looksee. No prom’ses… But I ain’t opposed ta lookin’.”
Edwin considers a few moments, and then nods.
“Call dat num’er I gave ya an’ leave th’address stuff. I’ll fig’re thangs out from dere. I’m late… Had uh Call uh Duty date I’m missin’…
Be nice ta Rory, Lila… She’s m’li’l sister.
Y’all have uh nice night.”
Edwin grins more widely, before turning and starting into the darkness… Soon, he’s disappeared as utterly as he arrived. One with the darkness so fitting his nature.
((Fade Edwin here please; thanks for the scene :) ))
[Lila] Edwin disappears. Before he did: well! Lila smiled at him — smiled big, like she was cupping moonlight in her hands; like it was making her incandescent. There is a vibrance there. Happy. Even if they’re discussing grim doings. Even if it isn’t very likely that there will still be some trail to follow all the way back to a sign (where did they come from). Still: someone should check. Two Fosterns are dead. Where’s the story in and then life went on? Lila waits a beat. Two beats. Three beats. Looks at Rory, wide-eyed and quiet. Another beat. Five beats. And then, just as Rory might be thinking: this galliard’s tongue got stolen! She says: “I like him. Why don’t you tell me the rest of your name?”
[Rory] She grins shyly as she looks where Edwin (hecalledmehislilsister!) disappeared, and it’s a look of almost adoration – certainly respect and definitely fondness. She would follow him anywhere, that’s what the look says, even if she couldn’t see him.
Lila is happy, and then says she likes Edwin, and Rory nods, curls bouncing. “Te Moo.” Odd, that – it’s almost a different language completely, until one realizes what’s happening. Sadly, Rory will never realize what’s happening – or at least when. She hears nothing out of the ordinary.
“Rory O’Bryne, Tongue Twister, Cliath Fianna Mull Foon.”
…there it is again.
[Lila] “I’m Waking Dream, Breaking Heart. Fostern Galliard. Child of Gaia.” That last is obvious: it’s faint, but she’s got lineage; she’s got a connection that stretches on back. It isn’t a smell, and it isn’t a taste, and it isn’t even a physical trait; it is carriage, it is a combination of all these things. Oh, faint. Whisper. Not near as obvious as Rory’s. “Would you walk me home? I probably shouldn’t tempt the streets this time of month, anyway,” and she is reaching up, pulling her hood on up again. “I get a little temperamental.” Now, Lila? Does not seem as if she’d become temperamental easily — there’s a [tranquility (control)] measured sort’ve air to whatever passion thrums under her skin. See? “And I’m kinda pretty.” She is! “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rory, even if your big bro there scared the fuck out of me!”
[Rory] Walking Dream, Breaking Heart. It’s quite possibly the prettiest deed name Rory has ever heard. And she’s Fostern. And Rory was sneaking up on her. Cue that blush again, as she nods to the request to walk her home.
“He thoes dat.” scares people. “He’s teaching me. I’m not go sood at it yet.” Clearly.
And, achingly shy. “Your need dame, is pretty too. How’d you get it?” Asked as if she’s certain she won’t be told, but desperately wanting the Galliard to tell her a story…
[Lila] “Aw! You said too!” Lila says, dimpling [still a touch of mischief]. The golden-haired galliard reaches out with one arm to sling it ’round Rory’s shoulders and hug her close for a second. They’re walking, now. They’re walking. And Rory asked a question — that question. “If you’d really like to know,” Lila says, looking sidelong at Rory, “I’ll tell you. But back at my place. You can come in for a nightcap! I have kitchen privileges.” The Brotherhood is not where Lila stays, see.
[Rory] That makes her blush again, and she flinches as that arm comes up to wrap around her shoulders, but when it’s just a quick hug – she tries to relax again. It’s unusual for anyone to touch her, ever, and she trembles just a little, for a little while after.
She’s invited in for a story and a nightcap – though the latter see’s her furrowing her brow, slightly. “Whats a cight nap?”
[Lila] “A kite nap? I suppose that’s when your kite first crashes to the earth after freeing itself from the wind, when the string is still too tangled to un-do,” Lila says, with a frown. But: Lila is perceptive. Everyone eventually figures out about Rory, or Rory tells them, to forestall the figuring out. Also: Lila is perceptive. Rory’s trembling, like she’s never been [rarely been] hugged before, and oh, Lila notices.
[Rory] She blinks. Kite nap? “Ok… whut bat’s a night cap?”
Genuinely confused, and then comprehension dawns and she blushes, brightly. “Sorry. I don’t talk go sood.” She doesn’t hunch her shoulders, doesn’t try to fade away as she admits her shortcoming, though a big part of her wants too, so badly.
[Lila] “Tongue Twister, huh?” Lila gives Rory a look that — well, there’s a touch of sympathy. Just a smidge. Not pity, heaven’s no. Just sympathy. Because she’s beginning to figure: maybe Rory’s deedname comes from this habit she has of twisting her words. Maybe there’s more to it, too. She’ll certainly ask. What she says now, though, is this: “A nightcap is the top of your night; something to drink, to see you off into dreamland sweet-like.”
[Rory] She nods, slightly, and in part that’s exactly where her deed name comes from. The rest is a story in and of itself, though not easily told, until one is used to translating her words into what they should be, and what she hears them as, herself.
She tips her head, accepting this explanation. Se’s a sponge, Rory, and absorbs information from those willing to explain. There’s so much she doesn’t know… so very much. “Oh.” A pause, then… “tike lea?”
[Lila] “It can be tea. Chamomile, something milky, something Lotus-eater good. But it usually involves alcohol. Or very sleazy 70s music,” she adds, with a grin (laughter, gathering up in her eyes, not spilled). “And gentlemen named Bruce. Not that I’d like to prejudice you! I’m sure there are some very nice Bruces out there who like 70s music. I just have yet to meet them.”
[Rory] She tips her head, slightly, absorbing this as if it makes perfect sense, and making note which things she’ll ask Edwin about later. “I hever nad alcohol.” a beat. “Or knew anyone bamed Nruce.”
And of course… 70s music… “…is that… Jichael Mackson? Keith said something about him. And Jazz.” And Rory, is still confused about all of it.
[Lila] “Oh, no. Look! I have my ipod. I think I have my ipod? I do have my ipod.” This is said with a note of triumph, and the look she gives Rory, sidelong (ardent) is pleased. “As we walk, I shall give you a lesson on music. If you need it. Drat, the battery is almost dead.” From pleased, to mournful. Lila, wide-eyed, unblinking Lila, stares down at her ipod. It gives her some difficulty. It always does. “Never had alcohol?” She doesn’t say and you, a Fianna. Doesn’t even seem to imply it. Just takes it in: puts pieces together. A shake of her head, some internal dialogue answered. “It can be fun. It can be boring. It lowers your inhibitions if you drink enough of it though — if you drink a lot of it, it’s like drinking poison. For them, anyway. Not everybody likes it.”
[Rory] The list of things Rory hasn’t had, hasn’t done, is very long indeed – but most often, it’s her breeding and lack of alcohol that gets the most reaction. She lifts a hand and rubs at her nose absently, and offers a shy smile as Lila offers her a lesson on music. “Ok.”
Single words are easier, for reasons that have already become painfully obvious. One at a time, and they don’t get mixed up. The reprieve is short-lived. “Edwin jays Sazz is noise.”
She listens about alcohol, and then nods. And then, in a rare show of self awareness and even humor, offers shyly. “Might be a bad idea. Slur wy mords…”
[Rory] .
to Rory
[Lila] “Jazz has its place,” Lila says, smiling. That dimple: it appears, briefly, carved out. She cants her head, just a little, and then! Oh then.
Cue, montage.
Lila has ecclectic tastes in music. Her ipod is crammed with all sorts of jazz, no pun intended, because most of it isn’t jazz. Purposeless, wandering noise — it isn’t her favourite. But she likes the energy, sometimes, the madcap riot of it; so there’s jazz. There’s jazz around the corner, jazz by the fire hydrant. Then there’s something medieval, Hildegaard von Bingam, celestial chorus, human faith, and there is explaining that this is from years and years and years ago. There’s hymns and medieval and renaissance music for about half-a-block, and then there’s a sliver of a ballad, something jaunty, a taste of some Beethovan, stately, some violin — sounds like moonlight in winter woods.
By a gas station, closed for the night, full of suspicious figures, there’s some hard rock (back in black, bitch). Some country, sappy as hell. Some Johnny Cash, because there has to be some Johnny Cash, and some Bebop, because this is Lila’s ipod, and she’s got a ton of upbeat rhythmic stuff (you’re sweet like a honeybee like a honeybee stings). Folk, of course! And metal, too. Scandinavian metal. French love songs. Musicals.
They’re walking down the street. They’ve actually quite a ways to go. (Why that corner store, Lila? Why?) They’re not leaving Bronzeville, though. They’re going to a neighborhood that’s a little less project — not quite middleclass, but nearly. There’s a house, and the house has a guesthouse, and they have a yard and a gate, a dog that barks like a mad thing, two Rage-filled creatures coming so close.
How does she share all this musical glory? Ipod: one bud for Rory, one bud for herself. She watches Rory, measuring enjoyment, switching from song to song with an ease that’s nearly practiced.
[Rory] Rory is a sponge. Not only that, but in essence, she’s an innocent mind, unsullied by many experiences that train the childish mind, though scarred horribly by others that no one should ever suffer. But, perhaps especially for one of her birth, she absorbs new experiences with a child-like wonder that is endearing, and perhaps a little frightening too. It brings to mind the horrifying question – just what did those who raised her actually do to the young metis?
They share the earbuds, after Rory watches Lila to make sure she uses it correct, and then Rory’s musical horizons are opened at an astonishing rate. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open on occasion, as all of the sounds clash suddenly in her hearing. There are horns and drums and piano, and electronics, and ballads and that one makes her suddenly sad, as if she’s lived a ballad and understands it on some level she can’t quite understand – there’s violins and rhythmic sthings, Folk and metal, and French love songs that make her eyes widen, and Musicals that leave her with a silly little grin.
She forgets where she is, what she’s doing, her curls bent toward Lila, her face an ever changing flicker of wonderment and even things that she’s not sure she’s liked has her in a state of awe…
She’s speechless, really.
(It’s probably a good thing.)
[Rory] (and understands it on some level she can’t quite understand? ahem. that she “can’t quite pinpoint…” or something. )
[Lila]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 6, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Lila]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7)
[Lila] Lila pulls the ipod from Rory’s ear (pop) once they’re at the house. Unlocks it, quiet. Quiet Lila. Don’t want to wake up the [civilians (humans)] people who own the house and guesthouse. Then she veers toward the kitchen — doesn’t turn on the lights; glances over her shoulder, to mark Rory still with her, not disappeared, as is Edwin’s wont. “Are you hungry?” she asks, in a quiet voice — pitched near as quite as her voice had been when she was asking Edwin to look into those Black Spirals, see if he could find a way toward corruption’s heart. She busies herself in the cabinet — no clinking! None! Some glasses, a couple of bottles (you’ll try this, at least), and maybe some food, if Rory is hungry. Girl’s night! Check it out.
[Rory] Rory is well used to keeping to the shadows, to not attracting notice, though she still somehow tends to stand out – be it her blood, be it her coloring and complexion, be it the rage that boils just under the surface under the growing moon. All that, to suggest she is just as quiet as Lila as they go into the house, and into the kitchen. No clinking, some glasses, bottles, and food.
Because Rory is painfully thin, and always hungry, and when it is offered, she nods, hesitantly. Should Lila suddenly say ‘tough, you get nothing’ there is a definite sense that Rory wouldn’t blink an eye, would simply accept that it is so.
Gina has ‘girls night’ sometimes too, and is always feeding Rory, and she accepts it with a shy grace, and gratitude – always gratitude. The little kindnesses often mean so much more than sweeping gestures.
[Lila] Well then. Rory is going to get some hippy food — rice cakes and hummous — and some hardcore vegetarian nachos! and Lila microwaves them, with a glance [fox-poised, sneaky, sneaky] down the hall, eyebrows raised. Rory is also going to get some cold pizza: sundried tomatoes, goat-cheese, gorganzola, pear. Lila has Rory carry some of the loot, puts a finger to her lips, winks — and it’s a very, very different wink than Edwin’s. Down the hall, not much time to look around the house, and out the backdoor, which wants to creak but don’t let it.
Then on across the yard, and it’s unlock that door, and go inside. The lights go on, and voila! Lila sets what she’s carrying down on a little desk which is by a little fireplace and collapses on a not-so-little bed with a gigantic whoooooooof. She pats the mattress next to her, rolling her head to the side to [spear] look at Rory — and she’s such a clear-eyed creature. Enjoys the feel of lying down [sensualist, ardor], just enjoys, and smiles that enjoyment at Rory.
“Dig in, Miss Tongue Twist.”
[Rory] She helps carry willingly, a little shocked at the amount of food and how quietly they sneak it all out. She doesn’t let the back door creak, and takes a moment to look around the the little guest house as Lila flips the lights on.
She sets down her part of the loot, and after a cautious glance at the pat of the mattress, settles to sit. She slips from the straps of her backpack, and sets it down on the floor, close, always close and within reach. It clanks and clatters, and there’s no telling what kind of stuff she carries around in there. Then, with a shy smile, she reaches for one of the plates, and does exactly as bidden.
Pausing only to murmur a soft “thanks.”