[/img]"http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f206/Blade_Redwind/Alonimi/Trinity-1-1.png" style="avatar" style="max-width:25%;float:left;margin:0 18px;]Trinity inhaled deeply for a moment as she took in the piss poor excuse for watering hole. Nostrils flared at the mixture of dilapidation of spirit and comfortable gluttony—not that she could actually scent such things. More that, two lifetimes of experience made one associate smells with memories—memories of many places all the same in scent and appearance.
She didn’t linger in joints like this anymore—visited, but rarely lingered.
Careful rust-red hues shifted as she turned her body further towards the bar itself, clothes shifted and tugged, but the subtle sounds that fabric made were muted—lacking noise. Even the chime of her spurs was silenced all at once as she touched her gaze on the tattooed mess of muscle not far to her left. She then watched at the tender poured his shot, deciding to wait until she was done before bothering the lady.
Unable to quell the combustion of nerves, those not visible in the least, she reached into her duster and pulled out a dented and worn tin. From its confines she drew forth a cigarette without a filter. The thin white stick that was rolled with the utmost precision—probably that very morning in her own hand—was stuck betwixt her lips. A match, also drawn from the casing, was nicked along the bar, alighting immediately as the beast of a man with what she would call a piercing honey gaze, spoke to her.
She didn’t reply right away, looking at him over the brilliance of light casting a glow on her face—shadows. Inhaling made it that much brighter. And then she exhaled and removed it from her mouth, smoke half expelling from her nose and half from the small space between her lips. Even as she looked at him, speaking—briefly breaking his gaze to look at the woman behind the bar—drifting wisps of white continued to tumble forth. “Bourbon.” At the same time, she dropped the case on the sad bar counter with a chink and the match into a lone ashtray that was just as sad as the rest of dive—dented and bent.
Short strands of black grazed along her neck, dropping just short of her shoulders by a few inches. The abyssal threads were not straight, nor were they curled. Rather, they were more layered bits reminiscent of a woman who didn’t care quite as much for hair as she did her clothes. It wasn’t dirty or messy… just… there. The same could be said of her face in its entirety. She simply let it be, not bothering to pluck thickly-shaped brows that—in someone’s opinion—didn’t really need it anyway.
She was smirking lightly at his quip, if it could be called that. As her drink was set down, half slid to her, she took it in her hand and rubbed a single thumb over the glass. “Went to a bar once that had a bull riding—live bulls too,” she commented offhandedly, rolling with his remark. “I was more interested in the drinks though, truth be told.” The series of words that left her were not entirely without accent, hinting that at one point in her life she’d been out west or lived a long period in Texas. But, it was so subtle that same drawl also indicated that she’d been too far removed from it for it to matter anymore.
“Lost? Maybe.” She took a seat then in the stool next to him, legs spread and leveraged on the step built into the bar’s front for just that purpose. She wasn’t close enough to brush her elbow to his, but close enough for him to scent a mixture of blood, rain, and sandalwood. In the midst there might be a hint of horse musk, but it would be faint at best.
“But, I’m told lost isn’t and entirely unfavorable state of being.” With that, she took a long swallow off her glass and a hit off her smoke, ashing idly. “You?”
She didn’t linger in joints like this anymore—visited, but rarely lingered.
Careful rust-red hues shifted as she turned her body further towards the bar itself, clothes shifted and tugged, but the subtle sounds that fabric made were muted—lacking noise. Even the chime of her spurs was silenced all at once as she touched her gaze on the tattooed mess of muscle not far to her left. She then watched at the tender poured his shot, deciding to wait until she was done before bothering the lady.
Unable to quell the combustion of nerves, those not visible in the least, she reached into her duster and pulled out a dented and worn tin. From its confines she drew forth a cigarette without a filter. The thin white stick that was rolled with the utmost precision—probably that very morning in her own hand—was stuck betwixt her lips. A match, also drawn from the casing, was nicked along the bar, alighting immediately as the beast of a man with what she would call a piercing honey gaze, spoke to her.
She didn’t reply right away, looking at him over the brilliance of light casting a glow on her face—shadows. Inhaling made it that much brighter. And then she exhaled and removed it from her mouth, smoke half expelling from her nose and half from the small space between her lips. Even as she looked at him, speaking—briefly breaking his gaze to look at the woman behind the bar—drifting wisps of white continued to tumble forth. “Bourbon.” At the same time, she dropped the case on the sad bar counter with a chink and the match into a lone ashtray that was just as sad as the rest of dive—dented and bent.
Short strands of black grazed along her neck, dropping just short of her shoulders by a few inches. The abyssal threads were not straight, nor were they curled. Rather, they were more layered bits reminiscent of a woman who didn’t care quite as much for hair as she did her clothes. It wasn’t dirty or messy… just… there. The same could be said of her face in its entirety. She simply let it be, not bothering to pluck thickly-shaped brows that—in someone’s opinion—didn’t really need it anyway.
She was smirking lightly at his quip, if it could be called that. As her drink was set down, half slid to her, she took it in her hand and rubbed a single thumb over the glass. “Went to a bar once that had a bull riding—live bulls too,” she commented offhandedly, rolling with his remark. “I was more interested in the drinks though, truth be told.” The series of words that left her were not entirely without accent, hinting that at one point in her life she’d been out west or lived a long period in Texas. But, it was so subtle that same drawl also indicated that she’d been too far removed from it for it to matter anymore.
“Lost? Maybe.” She took a seat then in the stool next to him, legs spread and leveraged on the step built into the bar’s front for just that purpose. She wasn’t close enough to brush her elbow to his, but close enough for him to scent a mixture of blood, rain, and sandalwood. In the midst there might be a hint of horse musk, but it would be faint at best.
“But, I’m told lost isn’t and entirely unfavorable state of being.” With that, she took a long swallow off her glass and a hit off her smoke, ashing idly. “You?”
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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