Post by Tennessee Whiskey on Aug 28, 2015 13:15:20 GMT -8
The woman is a safe presence. There's a long list of things Whiskey doesn't know and can't do, and a short list of people she'll admit it to, but how else are you supposed to learn anything? And if you can't admit your shortcomings to the most fragile creature in a nest of wolves and vipers, who can you admit them to?
It's been so long (as she sees it) since she's spent any time at all in the company of humans that she keeps getting distracted by the little things: How often Miss Redfern blinks. The air currents around her face as she breathes. It makes it hard to focus on the glowing square, though the human's movements are, to Whiskey, slow and telegraphed readily.
"Are you listening?" Whiskey grins, a little too broad and flat, a little too autonomic.
"Sorry. Old mind wandering." In this house, where the average age is pulled up sharply by a sole inhabitant, it's a joke. They're nearly all the same age. In the eyes of the Court, at any rate. "What's that?" One of the only familiar icons: The outline of a handset, with a number in a red circle.
"You have a voicemail." More slow, careful swipes, and Whiskey presses the glass to her ear. What's left of the smile eases itself out of her eyes as she listens, nodding slowly at a presence she only feels can see her. Miss Redfern shows her how to play it over again, just so she can be sure, but anything else would be kidding herself and wasting everybody's time. Whiskey stands and pulls her vest straight.
"It's the home office. Tell the boss I've got to go. Duty calls." It couldn't have been forever, this exile to the ends of the earth, but she thought it'd be a little longer. Tzimisce elders and hunter kiddos aside, it's almost been peaceful. Who knows, though. Maybe she'll make it back from this one. Maybe she'll even make it in one piece.
It's been so long (as she sees it) since she's spent any time at all in the company of humans that she keeps getting distracted by the little things: How often Miss Redfern blinks. The air currents around her face as she breathes. It makes it hard to focus on the glowing square, though the human's movements are, to Whiskey, slow and telegraphed readily.
"Are you listening?" Whiskey grins, a little too broad and flat, a little too autonomic.
"Sorry. Old mind wandering." In this house, where the average age is pulled up sharply by a sole inhabitant, it's a joke. They're nearly all the same age. In the eyes of the Court, at any rate. "What's that?" One of the only familiar icons: The outline of a handset, with a number in a red circle.
"You have a voicemail." More slow, careful swipes, and Whiskey presses the glass to her ear. What's left of the smile eases itself out of her eyes as she listens, nodding slowly at a presence she only feels can see her. Miss Redfern shows her how to play it over again, just so she can be sure, but anything else would be kidding herself and wasting everybody's time. Whiskey stands and pulls her vest straight.
"It's the home office. Tell the boss I've got to go. Duty calls." It couldn't have been forever, this exile to the ends of the earth, but she thought it'd be a little longer. Tzimisce elders and hunter kiddos aside, it's almost been peaceful. Who knows, though. Maybe she'll make it back from this one. Maybe she'll even make it in one piece.