Tactile and curious, he runs a fingertip over the table's surface. It's wooden -- the tabletop, not his hand, never once has he been accused of that -- and a stick of tightly-rolled tobacco nearby burns unattended. Even while she's seated he can see that this woman would tower over him.
That is something he's used to. Elves are not the tallest race, only the loudest, most innovative, most graceful, and most persistent. In short (no pun intended), the best. They are also no strangers to taverns and inns, and he has traveled throughout his country, but never has he seen such a variety of dress nor heard such a variety of sounds. When he pauses it's only to rest the toe of one finely-crafted Antivan leather boot -- inscribed and decorated -- onto the edge of a nearby chair
( ... )
Grace reaches for the cigarette without looking away from the datapad, pinching it between her fingers expertly and then picking up her glass with the same hand. She's noticed the person hovering by her table. It would be kind of hard to miss him. But, she remains by all appearances unbothered by his presence.
This isn't entirely true, of course. There are few things in life that give Grace pleasure outside of her work, and one of those things happens to be getting slightly shitfaced while mocking your old classmates and their sub par careers.
In your face, Montgomery Warren.
She sets her glass back down and takes a slow puff off her cigarette.
"Can I help you?"
And no, she hasn't looked away from the article yet.
"That remains to be seen, my friend. I have yet to ask for anything."
Yet being the key word here.
"You are reading. What are you reading? How are you reading on a piece of glass?" Casual and unperturbed despite the strangeness of the situation, he rests a hand on his knee as if he lives at this place always, thank you, and flicks away a speck of dried blood from some battle or other.
Not all of us are blessed with being the Man of Steel. Or the Boy of Steel. Or being in possession of one or both of the aforementioned. Luckily, despite her aging mortal flesh, Pandora's unique atmosphere keeps her lungs and other vital organs in well-functioning order.
A terrible state of affairs when trying to get someone as stubborn as Grace Augustine to give up a bad habit.
She indulges in a long pull from her scotch, and taps out a few commands on the datapad. The display flashes a bit, color lighting her face.
Sameth notices the datapad, he's always fascinated by the modern devices and when she speaks says, "Are you not on Earth?"
He sounds rather hopeful, so few people aren't from Earth, he's working on some parchment and finalizing a number of designs. Today his linen shirt is fairly clean since he hasn't been to the forge yet.
Comments 61
That is something he's used to. Elves are not the tallest race, only the loudest, most innovative, most graceful, and most persistent. In short (no pun intended), the best. They are also no strangers to taverns and inns, and he has traveled throughout his country, but never has he seen such a variety of dress nor heard such a variety of sounds. When he pauses it's only to rest the toe of one finely-crafted Antivan leather boot -- inscribed and decorated -- onto the edge of a nearby chair ( ... )
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This isn't entirely true, of course. There are few things in life that give Grace pleasure outside of her work, and one of those things happens to be getting slightly shitfaced while mocking your old classmates and their sub par careers.
In your face, Montgomery Warren.
She sets her glass back down and takes a slow puff off her cigarette.
"Can I help you?"
And no, she hasn't looked away from the article yet.
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"That remains to be seen, my friend. I have yet to ask for anything."
Yet being the key word here.
"You are reading. What are you reading? How are you reading on a piece of glass?" Casual and unperturbed despite the strangeness of the situation, he rests a hand on his knee as if he lives at this place always, thank you, and flicks away a speck of dried blood from some battle or other.
There is always something.
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Grace slowly turns her head in his direction.
This is not her pleased face.
"Do you have any concept of personal space and privacy?"
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He points to the cigarette. Firmly: "That's bad for you."
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Grace waits until she comes to the end of the paragraph before looking at the... shorter than she expected. Definitely a kid.
"Didn't your parents warn you about axe murdering kidnappers?"
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"What?"
HAVE FUN, GRACE.
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What is he, special?
"How do you know I'm not an axe-murdering kidnapper?"
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A terrible state of affairs when trying to get someone as stubborn as Grace Augustine to give up a bad habit.
She indulges in a long pull from her scotch, and taps out a few commands on the datapad. The display flashes a bit, color lighting her face.
Reply
He sounds rather hopeful, so few people aren't from Earth, he's working on some parchment and finalizing a number of designs. Today his linen shirt is fairly clean since he hasn't been to the forge yet.
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But don't you dare use that to date her; if asked, she'll claim not a day over 39.
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That came out a lot more awkward than he meant, but her glare reminds him of Ellie in a bad mood.
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"I'm stationed on Pandora, now. It's a moon off of Polyphemus, orbiting Alpha Centauri A."
She picks up her cigarette for a drag.
"If that means anything to you."
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"May I ask what is so amusing?"
He has made a continual study of humor, after all.
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Grace's sense of humor can be obscure, at best.
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"You find that humorous?" he asks, finally.
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He's gold. Okay. She spends most of her days with ten-foot-tall blue people, so gold? Piece of cake.
"Yeah. It tickles me when the only person in college with a higher GPA than I had earns the derision of the entire scientific community."
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