Firefly Glen The Masquerade

The simple movement seems to satisfy his need for acknowledgement, and she finds herself fascinated with this detail she hadn't known. Words, she knows, but this trade — this exchange of gestures (words, she knows, if she were to participate) — this is new to her. Where she was raised, silence reigned, and statements were thrown as passing blows; or else it was the senseless nattering of the others, mirrored phrases of judgment and devotion without regard to the target. This is different.
In an instant she finds herself effortlessly enamored with the steady sound of his voice, the words he chooses, his gestures. The phantom soaks in the information given, offering another of those precious nods when his tone turns questioning again. Skills, yes; it's almost laughable to think one might show up to bargain with nothing to offer aside a basic proficiency in feeding oneself. A bold move in her homeland, risking death for certain rejection — yet here it seems to cross the mind with no anger toward the thought. She watches him carefully, waiting to see where he takes his questioning, wondering if he has realized none of his words will be returned. His name comes back to her, then; he'd said it in the beginning, before she'd remembered that those noises mean something. Bronco.