Wheeling Gull Isle molotov cocktails on me like accessories

self-satisfaction curves the smile on her mouth as he begins to flounder, even as fury still reigns over her seaglass green eyes, narrowed to knife-sharp points. she listens to his excuses with her head held high, passing judgement on his lowbrow beggary -- a little fumbled, but acceptable as he supplicants himself to her (righteous!) fury.

reed clears her throat, sniffing haughtily. "this den was my mother's," she deigns to explain, the fur slowly laying flat once again along her spine. "i am... adapting it to my purposes, as it's location is convenient to me." taking pity on him, she adds, "for heaven's sake, man, quit groveling, you look absurd. what's your name?"