She was decidedly not a common bar wench, though she would be offended at being considered rigid. Weaver wasn’t quite as frozen as the homeland she came from, but she was certainly the type of girl you earned, though you didn’t earn her with presents or pretty words. No, you earned her by being fun, by being reckless and wild and offering something she wanted. Often that was a pretty face, or booze, but still, the way to her was not to assume you would get anything at all. It was the safest approach to a girl covered in quite a number of blades.
He comes closer, eventually holding out the bottle of rum in answer to her request. It smells strong, far stronger than anything they had in Halo, though it doesn’t stop her. Weaver takes a swig, fire burning down her throat, though she doesn’t mind. Instead she grins, handing the bottle back to him, feeling as warm on the inside for a moment as her skin felt beneath the sun. “I’ve never really been a wine girl anyway, though I appreciate the compliment. These lips like liquor though, what can I say?” Not that she wouldn’t drink wine, but it was not her choice if given one.
“Do you make it yourself?” she asks, eyebrow raised slightly as she takes in the man. He’s tall but not overly so, his skin is tan, his hair messy and tousled, and his outfit suggests a story-book pirate. She supposes they must be real, though the concept of an ocean to her is so shocking she cannot yet imagine actually sailing on it. Regardless of occupation, he is attractive, and it does not go unnoticed. “I’m Weaver, by the way” she offers.
He comes closer, eventually holding out the bottle of rum in answer to her request. It smells strong, far stronger than anything they had in Halo, though it doesn’t stop her. Weaver takes a swig, fire burning down her throat, though she doesn’t mind. Instead she grins, handing the bottle back to him, feeling as warm on the inside for a moment as her skin felt beneath the sun. “I’ve never really been a wine girl anyway, though I appreciate the compliment. These lips like liquor though, what can I say?” Not that she wouldn’t drink wine, but it was not her choice if given one.
“Do you make it yourself?” she asks, eyebrow raised slightly as she takes in the man. He’s tall but not overly so, his skin is tan, his hair messy and tousled, and his outfit suggests a story-book pirate. She supposes they must be real, though the concept of an ocean to her is so shocking she cannot yet imagine actually sailing on it. Regardless of occupation, he is attractive, and it does not go unnoticed. “I’m Weaver, by the way” she offers.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
