I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
"Judgin' your every fuckin' step? Fuck off - I got better things to do with my time," Jack quipped back, fighting the urge to roll his eyes because... well, it hurt. "Maybe if you didn't swan around like you were still a fuckin' duchess, people'd warm to you a bit more." He raised his eyebrows, the stiletto in his hand disappearing back to gods knew where. As she swiped at her face (and bloodied it, good job), he gave the lengths of the pathway a good, long look, making sure that no one was approaching.
By the time he gazed back at Eloise, she was holding a chunk of useless looking rock up at him, and it didn't take too much of an appraising eye to see it for what it was. "Smoky glass. Drop it - it'll shatter," he said simply. "I hope what you traded was worth it. And next time," he snapped, staring at her hard, like he could see the bruises under her illusion, "don't come to a shady as fuck place like this alone, makin' deals with people you know nothin' about." It was clumsily and angrily said, but the meaning was clear: ask for fucking help.
By the time he gazed back at Eloise, she was holding a chunk of useless looking rock up at him, and it didn't take too much of an appraising eye to see it for what it was. "Smoky glass. Drop it - it'll shatter," he said simply. "I hope what you traded was worth it. And next time," he snapped, staring at her hard, like he could see the bruises under her illusion, "don't come to a shady as fuck place like this alone, makin' deals with people you know nothin' about." It was clumsily and angrily said, but the meaning was clear: ask for fucking help.
