Kaisel
Haters on my back like a backpack
"Oh," he says with the sort of quiet understanding of someone who still barely understands anything at all. "A chaos and entropy priestess," he muses, looking her up and down in full again, like he's fitting the pieces together slowly but surely. He knew about Dygra and the ancients, just didn't realize their form of prayer looked so similar to the type being made in the House of Midnight every evening. Then again there are a lot of oh, gods! echoing through these halls, so it seems to be marginally holy. "Sounds like the best kind," and perhaps to that they could both agree, because all the other much more covered up priestesses he'd known had also been as stuffy as their outfits.
If he had a nickel for every fun-sized blonde who's nipple he'd end up seeing, he'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. Her standing on ground level really punctuates her size, and he has to incline his head to continue to talk with her as they walk. He happily follows her lead, but at the curl of her hand about his waist, he politely grabs for her hand and attempts to peel her back, like wax on those fancy cheeses. "Happy to lend you an arm if you need support," he reassures, just in case her grip had anything to do with impressive heel length, although he's nearly certain it hadn't. This would be just the sight for Caly to walk in on, he's sure.
The room is, both what he would expect from her, and entirely too much. Kaisel might not be an actual artist, but anyone can be a critic, and this is screaming about lack of contrast. "Let me guess, red is your favorite color?" Her drip had been enough, but he's at risk of losing her to camouflage in this room. He glances up at the mirrors overhead as he steps inside, and while she perches at this new bar, he settles for the wall opposite the bed. "Nah, I'm good," he reassures her with a glance up while he rummages through his pack for the pen and paper he'd last used with Everest. "Can't have sloppy lines," he explains, blaming the art instead of whatever other sloppy things the alcohol could inspire. He grins a bit at the conversation as he flips it back, finding a clean page to work on. Pen's a bit more permanent than he'd like, but it's all he got, and well Frey never said it had to be a work of art. The point is the doing, the trying, so here he is.
"Ready whenever you are, muse," he smiles faintly, motioning at the bed, as if it's ever been anything other than stage for her.
If he had a nickel for every fun-sized blonde who's nipple he'd end up seeing, he'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. Her standing on ground level really punctuates her size, and he has to incline his head to continue to talk with her as they walk. He happily follows her lead, but at the curl of her hand about his waist, he politely grabs for her hand and attempts to peel her back, like wax on those fancy cheeses. "Happy to lend you an arm if you need support," he reassures, just in case her grip had anything to do with impressive heel length, although he's nearly certain it hadn't. This would be just the sight for Caly to walk in on, he's sure.
The room is, both what he would expect from her, and entirely too much. Kaisel might not be an actual artist, but anyone can be a critic, and this is screaming about lack of contrast. "Let me guess, red is your favorite color?" Her drip had been enough, but he's at risk of losing her to camouflage in this room. He glances up at the mirrors overhead as he steps inside, and while she perches at this new bar, he settles for the wall opposite the bed. "Nah, I'm good," he reassures her with a glance up while he rummages through his pack for the pen and paper he'd last used with Everest. "Can't have sloppy lines," he explains, blaming the art instead of whatever other sloppy things the alcohol could inspire. He grins a bit at the conversation as he flips it back, finding a clean page to work on. Pen's a bit more permanent than he'd like, but it's all he got, and well Frey never said it had to be a work of art. The point is the doing, the trying, so here he is.
"Ready whenever you are, muse," he smiles faintly, motioning at the bed, as if it's ever been anything other than stage for her.
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
