Katya has not been allowed to go shopping, properly, in a long time. Sure she can get what she needs from Bar, but... shopping. It is different. So, in consequence, she hasn't been able to change her look in a while
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Because she is exactly a fish out of water. Katya would need to be a much less powerful Other to not know what the not-girl is.
Katya is studiously ignoring the creature. She isn't allowed to enforce the Treaty here - if she was, she'd be happily gearing up for a fight. This girl has been poaching without a license.
It fades back to its usual blonde the second she stops thinking about it - she's kept it that color so long it's become a bit of a default. Katya should be given points for not simply snarling a rather rude reply at this point. She's never been much of a diplomat. But she has had to deal with Treaty-abiding Dark Others before, and pretends as hard as she can that the mutated fish might be one of them.
It's not overly successful, but at least there's no snarling.
"Da, but it would be terribly dramatic." With a twist of her fingers she darkens her eyes and brows, and lightens her complexion, becoming every goth-girl's envy.
"But then I should have to become serious, and like dreary poetry."
Thalia had been reading a telling of Marya Morevna. She refuses to call it The Death of Koschei the Deathless, though that does have a nice ring to it, but Marya is just too cool to not be in the title. Ivan on the other hand...anyway, she had been reading the story and loving it but then she saw all the shifts of hair color and couldn't focus.
She'd be damned if she wasn't jealous. Playing with hair had always been tempting but there had always seemed to be something else to think of...like survival or where she was going to sleep for the night. Of course trapped here she could have explored this...damn.
She's found a red color she almost likes, but as she told Skellig in another time, it always looked like the effect was gained from henna, instead of being natural.
So she shifts through a dozen or so variations on the theme, looking for that natural red. So far, no love.
"So, what do you think - back to black, or perhaps something more exotic?" She suits color to question, shifting from a raven-dark ebony to a bright grass-green shine.
Katya's attention is immediately hooked - she learned, a long time ago, how to tell human from non. She learned what the different variations of Other are when she was still young enough to consider hot cocoa with a bit of peppermint a very grown-up drink.
This? She doesn't recognize.
"Why hello." She is also, obviously, very eloquent. >.>
He smiles. "I know others who are adept at changing their appearance, but not as effortlessly."
His voice is warm, rich and pleasant. There are small, silver stars braided in his hair, and his boots are well kept but spattered with mud. From home.
Katya is perhaps taking fashion tips. Anything with more bling is a-okay in her book - Bear and Seymon have taken pains to make sure she never finds out about bedazzlers. They're afraid what would happen to their uniforms if she did.
"It's just practice." Again, it is weird to not be recognized, even after a year here - in Moscow, only the very newest Others don't know who she is, and what her capabilities are. "It is like anything, da?"
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Wearing no jewellery or accessories at all, not even shoes.
She is quite lovely, and a bit eerie. Something about her suggests that she's a bit fish out of water.
Perhaps because she actually is?
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Katya is studiously ignoring the creature. She isn't allowed to enforce the Treaty here - if she was, she'd be happily gearing up for a fight. This girl has been poaching without a license.
Black, brown, purple?
Not purple. Ew.
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It's not overly successful, but at least there's no snarling.
"Whatever I like."
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Now there is a bird-man.
Skellig is watching the ever-changing hair colors with some interest.
"I like red," he comments idly.
(His feet are bare, but he is wearing his coat.)
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Without invitation, he moves closer -- and while he really wants to perch on the arm of the couch, he settles for straddling a backwards-facing chair.
(It is her couch. So she gets to sit on it.)
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"But then I should have to become serious, and like dreary poetry."
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She'd be damned if she wasn't jealous. Playing with hair had always been tempting but there had always seemed to be something else to think of...like survival or where she was going to sleep for the night. Of course trapped here she could have explored this...damn.
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So she shifts through a dozen or so variations on the theme, looking for that natural red. So far, no love.
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"Da, thank you - it is only a small thing."
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Why yes, she noticed an audience.
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The speaker has stopped, passing by her with a mug in one hand.
Tall, bright eyed. Smelling faintly of woodsmoke, ancient forests, and clear, cold air.
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This? She doesn't recognize.
"Why hello." She is also, obviously, very eloquent. >.>
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His voice is warm, rich and pleasant. There are small, silver stars braided in his hair, and his boots are well kept but spattered with mud. From home.
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"It's just practice." Again, it is weird to not be recognized, even after a year here - in Moscow, only the very newest Others don't know who she is, and what her capabilities are. "It is like anything, da?"
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