Prompt 3: Zibeline
Zibeline (n.): a thick, soft fabric made of wool and other animal hair.
"It's been a long time, Eve."
If she weren't already stone cold, she would have shivered then. Instead, she saved face by curling her lip. Though the look had changed in the last hundred years or so, she couldn't mistake the mess of russet brown hair and the distinctive scar that graced his chin. The faint smell of tobacco wafting from his zibeline coat brought back memories like a sepia montage, stalling her reply for just a moment.
"Not long enough, Marcus."
"You were always confrontational. I guess things really never do change."
"There was never anything to change."
"There might have been, once."
"I don't have time to talk in circles with you, Marcus. As far as I'm concerned, there's a midnight snack I need to take care of." She rushed past him, utilizing what little extra energy she had from the video-obsessed pervert last week. She'd left him enough juice to survive, or at least do so anemically.
It was a worthless gesture when the slightly taller figure halted her with an iron grip to the wrist. Was that still a weak point of his, or did he really intend to challenge her?
"Is it you?" Even in the dark, she could discern that sparkle in his eyes that never died, not even after he did.
"What? I said stop talking in riddles."
The pressure on her wrist was relieved. "You mean you can't tell?"
And then all of a sudden, the titian-haired ingenue was chasing one of her bedfellows down the street, screaming and lunging at the surrounding spectators.
"No. No, it's not," she answered his first question. A pause, and then:
"You know who it is, don't you?" His hand dropped from hers completely as she gave him that same stare she had so long ago. As if in rejection of his reverie, she turned to look back at the rapidly ensuing carnage.
"Who else would it be?"
"It's been a long time, Eve."
If she weren't already stone cold, she would have shivered then. Instead, she saved face by curling her lip. Though the look had changed in the last hundred years or so, she couldn't mistake the mess of russet brown hair and the distinctive scar that graced his chin. The faint smell of tobacco wafting from his zibeline coat brought back memories like a sepia montage, stalling her reply for just a moment.
"Not long enough, Marcus."
"You were always confrontational. I guess things really never do change."
"There was never anything to change."
"There might have been, once."
"I don't have time to talk in circles with you, Marcus. As far as I'm concerned, there's a midnight snack I need to take care of." She rushed past him, utilizing what little extra energy she had from the video-obsessed pervert last week. She'd left him enough juice to survive, or at least do so anemically.
It was a worthless gesture when the slightly taller figure halted her with an iron grip to the wrist. Was that still a weak point of his, or did he really intend to challenge her?
"Is it you?" Even in the dark, she could discern that sparkle in his eyes that never died, not even after he did.
"What? I said stop talking in riddles."
The pressure on her wrist was relieved. "You mean you can't tell?"
And then all of a sudden, the titian-haired ingenue was chasing one of her bedfellows down the street, screaming and lunging at the surrounding spectators.
"No. No, it's not," she answered his first question. A pause, and then:
"You know who it is, don't you?" His hand dropped from hers completely as she gave him that same stare she had so long ago. As if in rejection of his reverie, she turned to look back at the rapidly ensuing carnage.
"Who else would it be?"