Hideaway Strath Bloodsucker

Envy did not know the second tongue she spoke with, and seemed to be disgruntled at that fact, a mixture of expressions clouding her face. If the other wore a veil, Envy took on a spotlight, no hiding the thoughts that scurried through her mind.

The stranger talked all fancy-like, a smooth, museful cadence to each word as they met with crisp winter air. She was right, pretty things could indeed be so terribly deadly, a potent poison swimming through each vein beneath the vibrant indigo of the petals; unseen and yet undoubtedly there. Envy admired the defense the little flowers took on, one that was so merciless and pure. And yet! There was good that could come from it too, for those who knew how to toe the line, and Envy was a born tightrope-walker.

Some however, were made purely for the invocation of pain, and death; slow and convulsing, the sort that burned the organs within and let its victims speak only through a mouthful of foam. What terrible perversion afflicted her that this thought stirred excitement within?

She hadn't lingered on the thought too long, as a question she understood was hurled her way. I am. N' I like ta' think I'm pretty good at it, too. She leered inwards, matching that same taunting amuse, before rising to light feet and trotting closer, closing the gap between them without caution; instead the waif boasted a confidence unfitting of her stature. Unsettling. Why'd'ya wanna know? You need somethin' fixed? She asked, enthusiasm unstifled; big red eyes practically begged for invitation, as did the slow sway of her tail. She used the closeness to invasively sniff at the other's coat, trying to gleam what she could from the physical, the tangible. She understood little from tone and expression alone, especially when intent was walled off behind them both.