10-28-2009, 01:17 AM
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Though it was most certainly Kaena before him, something seemed remarkably out of the ordinary. Clearly nobody could match her scars or her perfume, but there was some subtle, out-of-reach difference about her he sensed but could not place. It were as though he were viewing her reflection in a mirror and he couldn't quite put it together--her usual fiery, just fuck it! attitude seemed to have wilted away in his absence. "Oh, fine, here's your bottle back!" the man tried, shoving it back toward her in mock disappointment. Her half-hearted, forced smiles only seemed to confirm that this was not her original cause for distress, and now his eyes widened and he glanced at her, horrified. "Shit!" he exclaimed, removing any doubt that he'd forgotten to factor such a thing into the equation. He hadn't gotten that far yet and he'd forgotten to grab something as he left. One black-tipped ear fell back and he stared thoughtfully off to the right, before his tail whipped behind him and his gaze snapped back to her face. "Oh! There's some shit in the Mansion, actually. I found some crazy smoking contraption there once, atop a table that had a lot of mirrors and razor blades in the drawer," he reflected, recalling the hookah at the centre of the drug den. Mr. D'Neville had his share of vices--though a hookah wasn't exactly an efficient means of smoking, Anselm wasn't concerned about efficiency. "Shall we? You seem like you could use it... somethin' up?"He hadn't noticed the trails of any intruders and he truly couldn't imagine what would bring the bold woman down. She was always so stable and confident in all of their interactions--always passionate, always focused. Although everyone had their bad days, he couldn't help but be somewhat concerned. As she'd extended an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on (figuratively, at least) to him in the past, it seemed only natural that he offer the same in return--though by the heavy stench of liquor on her breath, he wasn't about to pressure her if she didn't want to talk about whatever it was. He'd drowned his sorrows in a bottle before and he knew when it got that bad, sometimes "talking about it" just served as the dirty fingernail picking at the scab, preventing it from healing properly. http://i950.photobucket.com/albums/ad34 ... bottom.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-top:140px; background-position:top center; line-height:12px; "> poor kae. ;-; feel free to pp them going.. i thought an old mansion where fucked up things happened might be a good setting for this shindig! >
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