(being on the same floor was useful, or that's what texas thinks briefly to herself. there's a few things that can be done about it. it also makes things easier in the event either side needed a favor. from the long discussion they had about responsibility placed upon the shoulders of the young, about her own that is, she could tell they aren't so different. the only difference is that texas knows her mannerisms leave much to be desired. she fits in anywhere without trying, wouldn't stick out much despite those wolfish features, either.
once she knocks and is let in, she notes it didn't seem all that different to what would have been her own place in siracusa. in columbia. as an heiress, she was expected to have the best, the finer things. once an heiress, anyway. that life never would have killed her had been her revelation as time went on. regardless, she finds herself looking around briefly. a sort of nostalgia for older designs like this, reminders of her grandfather's own office. conversations that long since were forgotten as he spoke fondly about the motherland.
it still stings, but that's something best left for another time and place, knowing her own reluctance for vulnerability. what she gets in the kitchen is a slight surprise. drawing blood? it reminds her of warfarin. how that sarkaz would draw blood, take it as a measure for herself and collect it. like a vampire's own personal effects from a desire to study. she arrived this time in a light sweater and jeans. her arm didn't need to be covered any longer, but the cold was still annoying.)
Is this what you meant by nightly ritual?
(how she can be unfazed by it is a mystery, the only answer to that is the life she came from meant she's seen plenty. none of it good, and some things worse than other parts of it.)
no subject
once she knocks and is let in, she notes it didn't seem all that different to what would have been her own place in siracusa. in columbia. as an heiress, she was expected to have the best, the finer things. once an heiress, anyway. that life never would have killed her had been her revelation as time went on. regardless, she finds herself looking around briefly. a sort of nostalgia for older designs like this, reminders of her grandfather's own office. conversations that long since were forgotten as he spoke fondly about the motherland.
it still stings, but that's something best left for another time and place, knowing her own reluctance for vulnerability. what she gets in the kitchen is a slight surprise. drawing blood? it reminds her of warfarin. how that sarkaz would draw blood, take it as a measure for herself and collect it. like a vampire's own personal effects from a desire to study. she arrived this time in a light sweater and jeans. her arm didn't need to be covered any longer, but the cold was still annoying.)
Is this what you meant by nightly ritual?
(how she can be unfazed by it is a mystery, the only answer to that is the life she came from meant she's seen plenty. none of it good, and some things worse than other parts of it.)