An inconspicuous stool, in a well-lit corner.
One does not notice the girl who looks like she belongs; like part of the crowd... like just another patron.
In a way, she was. Though she did not drink, nor eat, but sat, and stared. A purple tail swished behind her as she watched the male Miqo'te with her mismatched eyes; one purple, like her hair, the other blue like the highlights woven throughout her do'.
As the male Miqo'te carved his statuette, a small smile touched her lips, and she closed her eyes. There was a band playing; a low tune, but it was not them her ears twitched towards.
Scrape. the sound of blade against wood, and the soft kiss of the shavings as they caressed the table.
The steadfast hum, escaping his lips, working in rhythm with his hands. She found her fingers tapping in beat along with him, as a whispering hum of her own played in her head. When she found the right note, the right beat, she synced it with his, and found harmony.
Abruptly, the perfect moment of unity was cut short, as the Miqo'te ordered something from a barmaid. The finished statuette was placed on the table, and the man regarded it.
Now, she bound from her stool. Her stride was lively, -but measured. Confident, yet reserved; as though giving a mere glimpse of the boundless energy that lay beneath. She sat at his table with a plop, and then softly blew the shavings with a steady stream of wind from her lips, watching as they ran like wild things towards the dangerous precipice of the table's edge. She closed her eyes again, and tilted her head to try and catch their final resting place, on the floor of the Drowning Wench.
She could not.
"Hmph," she said, and put her hands on the table.
One does not notice the girl who looks like she belongs; like part of the crowd... like just another patron.
In a way, she was. Though she did not drink, nor eat, but sat, and stared. A purple tail swished behind her as she watched the male Miqo'te with her mismatched eyes; one purple, like her hair, the other blue like the highlights woven throughout her do'.
As the male Miqo'te carved his statuette, a small smile touched her lips, and she closed her eyes. There was a band playing; a low tune, but it was not them her ears twitched towards.
Scrape. the sound of blade against wood, and the soft kiss of the shavings as they caressed the table.
The steadfast hum, escaping his lips, working in rhythm with his hands. She found her fingers tapping in beat along with him, as a whispering hum of her own played in her head. When she found the right note, the right beat, she synced it with his, and found harmony.
Abruptly, the perfect moment of unity was cut short, as the Miqo'te ordered something from a barmaid. The finished statuette was placed on the table, and the man regarded it.
Now, she bound from her stool. Her stride was lively, -but measured. Confident, yet reserved; as though giving a mere glimpse of the boundless energy that lay beneath. She sat at his table with a plop, and then softly blew the shavings with a steady stream of wind from her lips, watching as they ran like wild things towards the dangerous precipice of the table's edge. She closed her eyes again, and tilted her head to try and catch their final resting place, on the floor of the Drowning Wench.
She could not.
"Hmph," she said, and put her hands on the table.
