Thalassa
The problem
with wearing a dress
with wearing a dress
Thal would like it to be known that she's not pouting or sulking or any other downtrodden verb. Sure, she's a little hurt, and maybe a little annoyed, and very much tempted to leave, but she's trying to pretend like she's not. It just might be harder to convince others of that when her icy gaze looks more like the stormy sky of a lightning storm rather than a glittering starlit night.
Slipping like a vengeful ghost through the crowd, she secures a table with the intent of gathering what little motivation she has to socialize after her last failed attempt - only for her peace to be interrupted by a distracted blonde who immediately gets on her nerves. She could not care less if this woman wanted to stay at the table the entire night, but she'd rather do anything than make small talk with a stranger, and her eyes set to narrowing, an annoyed flick to her tail.
It only gets worse when the woman is bringing up her mood, Thal's fangs peeking from behind her lips when she snaps back, "And you look like you've lost your puppy." Her tone is colder than the breeze rustling the trees, all hints of the humor she'd attempted earlier gone.
And if that 'welcoming' response doesn't work, she's already dismissing the offered hand with a moderate degree of disgust. "I've got one." She clinks her ringed finger on the glass where her hand dangles - 'one' being an entire bottle of spiced bourbon she'd snagged from behind the bar. Mixed drinks aren't really her thing and she's going to need a lot of alcohol if she's going to make it through this night.
Slipping like a vengeful ghost through the crowd, she secures a table with the intent of gathering what little motivation she has to socialize after her last failed attempt - only for her peace to be interrupted by a distracted blonde who immediately gets on her nerves. She could not care less if this woman wanted to stay at the table the entire night, but she'd rather do anything than make small talk with a stranger, and her eyes set to narrowing, an annoyed flick to her tail.
It only gets worse when the woman is bringing up her mood, Thal's fangs peeking from behind her lips when she snaps back, "And you look like you've lost your puppy." Her tone is colder than the breeze rustling the trees, all hints of the humor she'd attempted earlier gone.
And if that 'welcoming' response doesn't work, she's already dismissing the offered hand with a moderate degree of disgust. "I've got one." She clinks her ringed finger on the glass where her hand dangles - 'one' being an entire bottle of spiced bourbon she'd snagged from behind the bar. Mixed drinks aren't really her thing and she's going to need a lot of alcohol if she's going to make it through this night.
is that it clashes
with a sword.
with a sword.
