She laughs at his comment. ”Most don’t, in Halo. Takes a certain kind of crazy to do well there,” she raises a brow, realizing she has yes, just called herself a certain kind of crazy. It is true though. Halo is not for the faint of heart, and it is certainly not for those who enjoy lazing on the beach beneath the sun. You do not laze in the snow of Halo. Hell, you don’t even make snow angels because it’s too damn cold to risk getting snow inside your clothes for something as frivolous as snow angels (except of course, as children, her and her siblings made them anyway).
He takes her invitation to drink, and she gives the bottle back over, enjoying the warmth from the rum that courses through her now. It matches the warmth of the sun slowly scalding her skin, and she knows she’ll probably need to find some shade soon. ”I don’t know. That depends on if you are good at being a pirate or bad at it. Do you have wonderful, shiny things?” She is not fishing for anything, not really, unless he wants to impart a knife or two her way because she never can have enough of the things. She’s just curious, wondering if it’s true or if he’s just playing along.
He holds the bottle back her way and she takes enough swig. Enough of the stuff, and she’ll forget that the sun is the enemy of her skin and let it fry her. She hands the bottle back again, laughing as he calls her a snowflake. ”Oh dear no. You see, snowflakes are gentle, soft things. I am far more the large icicle waiting to fall on your head.” Which was only partly true, because she cared and had her own version of kindness, but she definitely was not a snowflake.
He takes her invitation to drink, and she gives the bottle back over, enjoying the warmth from the rum that courses through her now. It matches the warmth of the sun slowly scalding her skin, and she knows she’ll probably need to find some shade soon. ”I don’t know. That depends on if you are good at being a pirate or bad at it. Do you have wonderful, shiny things?” She is not fishing for anything, not really, unless he wants to impart a knife or two her way because she never can have enough of the things. She’s just curious, wondering if it’s true or if he’s just playing along.
He holds the bottle back her way and she takes enough swig. Enough of the stuff, and she’ll forget that the sun is the enemy of her skin and let it fry her. She hands the bottle back again, laughing as he calls her a snowflake. ”Oh dear no. You see, snowflakes are gentle, soft things. I am far more the large icicle waiting to fall on your head.” Which was only partly true, because she cared and had her own version of kindness, but she definitely was not a snowflake.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
