Baiting Sipara's like playing Catch the Faithless at Carnival: it's a game you were hatched to win, and it doesn't matter what line you put out, 'cause you're always gonna get results. You know every way to make your little nubby-horned sister flush with rage and flash fang, and these days, it doesn't take much more than dropping some raucous truths.
Except for now. Baby girl's not biting, and you don't. know. why.
You squint at the videofeed, but there's no teeth, no growl, nothing but a sullen frown and a flat shine to her ganderbulbs. Your girl ain't exactly the calmest motherfucker around: usually, even the mention of her moirail would get the two of you locking horns for awhile, but right now, she's acting like she just doesn't even give a shit.
It's irritating as fuck. Is she doing it on purpose?
You scowl at the camera, but you're not about to jump for her attention. She's bottom of the ladder, and you're damn near top: she should be gracious that you're even deigning to pay mind to a mirthless rustie like her, not playing these hoofbeast go-around games.
(You hate her so much.)
"Then I suggest you fucking calm him," you snap, dismissing her, and you turn away from the phone. "'cause right now, he's a flashing bullseye for every finface with an engine kink, and you're the one huffing honey if you think I'm gonna put up with that shit."
Pheres is scrubbing at his eyes for some fucking reason, and whatever, you do not even care. You've got bigger issues: namely, how the fuck you're going to haul him back hive. He's small enough he could just tuck under your cloak, and that'd been the original plan, but you're not about to get zapped to death. The sparks might not feel any worse than static, but fuck that noise, you ain't putting up with it.
Luckily, there's a hive right in front of you, filled with drunk-ass molds and their shitty-ass gear. You'll just snatch him a cloak from the nearest lust. He'll probably still get burned, but shit's still better than he could ever afford.
You start to step inside, but then the sound of motion behind you makes you look back. Pheres's moved his hands away from his face, and -- the white eyes, staring psionic bright from the dusky skin, make the hair rise at the back of your breathstem.
Boy looks like he's already up and died on you.
Fucking gross. Maybe you'll grab him some glasses, too.
no subject
Except for now. Baby girl's not biting, and you don't. know. why.
You squint at the videofeed, but there's no teeth, no growl, nothing but a sullen frown and a flat shine to her ganderbulbs. Your girl ain't exactly the calmest motherfucker around: usually, even the mention of her moirail would get the two of you locking horns for awhile, but right now, she's acting like she just doesn't even give a shit.
It's irritating as fuck. Is she doing it on purpose?
You scowl at the camera, but you're not about to jump for her attention. She's bottom of the ladder, and you're damn near top: she should be gracious that you're even deigning to pay mind to a mirthless rustie like her, not playing these hoofbeast go-around games.
(You hate her so much.)
"Then I suggest you fucking calm him," you snap, dismissing her, and you turn away from the phone. "'cause right now, he's a flashing bullseye for every finface with an engine kink, and you're the one huffing honey if you think I'm gonna put up with that shit."
Pheres is scrubbing at his eyes for some fucking reason, and whatever, you do not even care. You've got bigger issues: namely, how the fuck you're going to haul him back hive. He's small enough he could just tuck under your cloak, and that'd been the original plan, but you're not about to get zapped to death. The sparks might not feel any worse than static, but fuck that noise, you ain't putting up with it.
Luckily, there's a hive right in front of you, filled with drunk-ass molds and their shitty-ass gear. You'll just snatch him a cloak from the nearest lust. He'll probably still get burned, but shit's still better than he could ever afford.
You start to step inside, but then the sound of motion behind you makes you look back. Pheres's moved his hands away from his face, and -- the white eyes, staring psionic bright from the dusky skin, make the hair rise at the back of your breathstem.
Boy looks like he's already up and died on you.
Fucking gross. Maybe you'll grab him some glasses, too.