[ She doesn't like him, almost immediately. He makes something burn in the back of her mind and she knows entirely too well what that sensation is. The dissonance between reality and between Insight. The smell of beast makes her mind race, and she drinks to try to quiet it. It's pointless though, this piss flavored mead is worthless compared to the intoxicating qualities of the blood.
All the mead does is make her feel slightly more reckless than she already did, and that's all. It doesn't calm. It doesn't quiet. She takes it out on the onlookers first, walking over to their table with a swagger she learned from the men she once hunted with. It's all performance, as it ever was, but she also has the bite to back up her aggressive stance, if pressed. ]
Everyone can hear your muttering, crows. [ She plants her hands loudly on their table and leans in, her tangled hair tumbling forward over her shoulders making a terrible curtain of intimacy for herself and those she intimidates. ] Go whisper somewhere else.
[ She can almost envision the last time they were all together in a tavern, being whispered at it's all their fault. She bares her teeth at the citizens, while inside there's nothing but a deep well of sorrow. No one knows that. What they see is the mangled leather coat that someone she loved burned to death wearing. They make a hasty retreat. She kicks their chairs in for them as they go and returns to her stool, where she stares at Bigby down the bar, hands folded contemplatively in front of her with little interest in the drink.
It's not subtle. She makes no attempt to pretend she isn't doing it. Her eyes are dark and round in a pale face, her gaze bottomless. ]
no subject
All the mead does is make her feel slightly more reckless than she already did, and that's all. It doesn't calm. It doesn't quiet. She takes it out on the onlookers first, walking over to their table with a swagger she learned from the men she once hunted with. It's all performance, as it ever was, but she also has the bite to back up her aggressive stance, if pressed. ]
Everyone can hear your muttering, crows. [ She plants her hands loudly on their table and leans in, her tangled hair tumbling forward over her shoulders making a terrible curtain of intimacy for herself and those she intimidates. ] Go whisper somewhere else.
[ She can almost envision the last time they were all together in a tavern, being whispered at it's all their fault. She bares her teeth at the citizens, while inside there's nothing but a deep well of sorrow. No one knows that. What they see is the mangled leather coat that someone she loved burned to death wearing. They make a hasty retreat. She kicks their chairs in for them as they go and returns to her stool, where she stares at Bigby down the bar, hands folded contemplatively in front of her with little interest in the drink.
It's not subtle. She makes no attempt to pretend she isn't doing it. Her eyes are dark and round in a pale face, her gaze bottomless. ]