Twisted Slough my life is a play, is a play

 and soon she is not alone, though as the male's form materializes, she feels it's a curled finger on a monkey's paw, unable to quite suppress the chill that runs through her lithe form barely-perceptibly. "oh," the girl repeats, a mimicry of his mimicry, gaze alert but - drawn in, as well, for the man matches his scenery so well and witchbaby is nothing if not a fan of aesthetic. in a different time she would lean in; now she is lonesome and thinking of her lost love. 

the slight coy remains rooted, still half-curled around her tree, though her muscles tense in case flight is required. he does not seem a threat yet but there is something in the air that makes her guarded, thinking baby oh what have you gotten in to. "strange place t'find yourself," the girl says, concealing her anxiety at being maybe-lost in vague small talk - somehow she doesn't want to give him anything to grab on to - but shifts slightly forward, curiosity threatening to win out over good sense.