Dance with the waves, move with the sea,
The admission makes her eyes narrow playfully, half-tempted to stick her tongue out or give him a vulgar gesture, but she settles for a disbelieving shake of her head, releasing her hand from her hair to let the waves fall. Her smile is beginning to loosen with the alcohol, her clear mind only slightly fuzzy at the edges, pushing pride and inhibition aside for humor. It would take another glass or two to get her drunk, not that she cares much at this point.
She listens to Asta's accent rolling through the R's in a way that has her turning to fully face him, unconsciously leaning forward to mirror his pose. The curling of the consonant is like music to her ears, entrancing her to watch the movement of his lips and tongue. If he chooses to keep talking like this all night, she will be content to listen, drinking it in like this Halovian whiskey. The bite of her lip against her smile says as much, but she adds, "You sthould talk like that more often." His obvious frustration reminds her of her own (although she can't agree with his), laughter bubbling from her chest. She leans back to raise her glass to him as her soft laughter transitions to a sing-song hum, like a siren call to match her fanged grin. "Mine thoundth juvenile, but yourth jutht thoundth hot." Because who isn't a sucker for a good accent? In fact, as intended, the display alleviates her hesitations to continue.
Thal accepts the top off, rotating the glass languidly between her two fingers as she assesses the proposed words. Her tongue slides over her fangs, getting a lay of the land before she attempts them, "Clasth. Dresth. Sthleeplesth." She's surprised to hear how the last word comes out; although still slurred, it's more pronounced than before. Maybe she'd been too quick to dismiss practice as a means for improvement.
Glancing proudly at Asta, she takes another well-deserved sip of the whiskey before asking, "What elthe you got for me?"
She listens to Asta's accent rolling through the R's in a way that has her turning to fully face him, unconsciously leaning forward to mirror his pose. The curling of the consonant is like music to her ears, entrancing her to watch the movement of his lips and tongue. If he chooses to keep talking like this all night, she will be content to listen, drinking it in like this Halovian whiskey. The bite of her lip against her smile says as much, but she adds, "You sthould talk like that more often." His obvious frustration reminds her of her own (although she can't agree with his), laughter bubbling from her chest. She leans back to raise her glass to him as her soft laughter transitions to a sing-song hum, like a siren call to match her fanged grin. "Mine thoundth juvenile, but yourth jutht thoundth hot." Because who isn't a sucker for a good accent? In fact, as intended, the display alleviates her hesitations to continue.
Thal accepts the top off, rotating the glass languidly between her two fingers as she assesses the proposed words. Her tongue slides over her fangs, getting a lay of the land before she attempts them, "Clasth. Dresth. Sthleeplesth." She's surprised to hear how the last word comes out; although still slurred, it's more pronounced than before. Maybe she'd been too quick to dismiss practice as a means for improvement.
Glancing proudly at Asta, she takes another well-deserved sip of the whiskey before asking, "What elthe you got for me?"
Thalassa
let the rhythm of the water set your soul free.
