Russell's attention catches on Tiwa almost immediately after she notices him, and he doesn't bother trying to make the fact that he's interested subtle. She's not a were-anything, or a shifter. Not of his world, at least, and that alone is enough to gain at least a little of his notice. The fact that she's skittish is, to be honest, the icing on the cake when it comes to his gaining something of an upper hand.
Charming is all fine and good, but sometimes something a little less so can do the trick.
(He's reminded vaguely of the sun by her mannerisms, and if a thrill shoots him at that, he can't help it. Born and raised a sun worshiper, it's one of the things that he most misses as a vampire. 3,000-odd years is a long time never seeing the light of day.)
"It's synthetic," he says, so as to ease a few of her fears. "As for flavors, there are a few."
Zombie killing, Kite is learning, is not nearly as amusing as Hollywood has led her to believe.
Mostly, it's monotonous and wearying and she's decided that ear protectors are definitely in order for her next excursion. (The moaning is quite a bit louder than she anticipated.)
In the meantime, a drink is her first priority.
(Her boots are clean now--black leather with a steel toe, coming to just below her knee. There is a stake in one and a knife in the other. A silver cross on a chain hangs from her neck.)
She drops onto a bar stool with a sigh. "Tequila, sweetheart, and keep 'em coming."
The cross hanging around her neck is the first thing that catches his eye.
(The first time he came across silver -- silver that burned --, he was still very young. The effect of it is the same, but after a while, the pain begins to dull.)
The stake is the second.
(Well then. He hasn't yet had the pleasure of being acquainted with the pointy end of a stake, and it isn't something he ever intends on doing. Not, at least, unless it's on his own terms.)
She's outfitted to kill.
This has never really been a deterrence, not for (at least) the last millennium.
She's American, brunette, and has very little filter between her brain and her mouth. That's all anyone can say about her with a certainty.
She has money, but no one is sure where it comes from. Running high end call girls--specifically for those with a masochistic streak--is the latest rumor. (She has neither confirmed nor denied it. It is, after all, a rumor she started.)
She is as social a creature as ever; the circles she runs in are just a little darker now.
"Harry!" She draws up short outside his booth, grinning sharply. "What have you done to your shirt?"
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She is just reminding herself that she's safe here and deconstructing an order of fish and chips.
His TruBlood keeps catching her eye and she keeps looking over with quick glances that have a definite bird movement to them.
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Russell's attention catches on Tiwa almost immediately after she notices him, and he doesn't bother trying to make the fact that he's interested subtle. She's not a were-anything, or a shifter. Not of his world, at least, and that alone is enough to gain at least a little of his notice. The fact that she's skittish is, to be honest, the icing on the cake when it comes to his gaining something of an upper hand.
Charming is all fine and good, but sometimes something a little less so can do the trick.
"Want a sip, pumpkin?"
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"No, never knew it came in bottles. Lots of flavors?"
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"It's synthetic," he says, so as to ease a few of her fears. "As for flavors, there are a few."
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Mostly, it's monotonous and wearying and she's decided that ear protectors are definitely in order for her next excursion. (The moaning is quite a bit louder than she anticipated.)
In the meantime, a drink is her first priority.
(Her boots are clean now--black leather with a steel toe, coming to just below her knee. There is a stake in one and a knife in the other. A silver cross on a chain hangs from her neck.)
She drops onto a bar stool with a sigh. "Tequila, sweetheart, and keep 'em coming."
Reply
(The first time he came across silver -- silver that burned --, he was still very young. The effect of it is the same, but after a while, the pain begins to dull.)
The stake is the second.
(Well then. He hasn't yet had the pleasure of being acquainted with the pointy end of a stake, and it isn't something he ever intends on doing. Not, at least, unless it's on his own terms.)
She's outfitted to kill.
This has never really been a deterrence, not for (at least) the last millennium.
"Long day, sweetheart?"
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"Excruciatingly so."
She turns to look at him with a smile; the bottle at his elbow gets a glance.
"Huh. The things they'll call a drink these days."
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She has money, but no one is sure where it comes from. Running high end call girls--specifically for those with a masochistic streak--is the latest rumor. (She has neither confirmed nor denied it. It is, after all, a rumor she started.)
She is as social a creature as ever; the circles she runs in are just a little darker now.
"Harry!" She draws up short outside his booth, grinning sharply. "What have you done to your shirt?"
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"Got a bit dirty cleaning out the gutter, love."
He sighs out a curl of smoke before grinning at her again.
"Fancy a seat? scotch i'n't gonna drink itself."
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She slides into the opposite side of the booth.
"Don't mind if I do."
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Reaching out for the bottle of scotch with one hand, he loosens his collar with the other.
"You look considerably cleaner."
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