C A L L A
Nova's eye contact is a lot, and Calla finds herself forced to glance away, heat rising back on her neck despite the aura of frost. The fae girl seems to lack any sort of self-consciousness, which is just as well because Calla has more than enough to spare. "I, um, I look after the Barrows. Make sure the graves are clean, the offerings are done correctly, the Daemon aren't hunting- that sort of thing." She says this with a hint of pride, a smile curling, unbidden, against her coral lips. It's never occurred to her that people might find acting as a caretaker to the dead anything but noble, and Calla is the Caretaker.
It's gotta be worth at least as many Cool Points as the ability to make girlypop snow.
Her gaze catches on the hem of Nova's dress as she twirls unabashedly, a tableaux of colorful, behatted spiders dancing merrily around her knees. Her nose wrinkles as a trail of snow kisses gently against it, looking around in no little wonder as flakes settle into her dark hair. Distracted by it, she's turned away when Nova asks her question, responding at first with "Hmm? Oh, uh. Yeah."
She tucks a stray lock behind her ear before looking up again, her chocolate eyes widely earnest as she says four words 90% of millennials have quoted at least once in their life: "I see dead people."
