Avery was used to people being bristled by her personality. She was also used to those who took a more cavalier approach; this man — one Mr. Trystan Selwyn — clearly fell into the second category. And yet she still felt a bristling at his at-ease demeanor (though that could just have been the residual cold that she was feeling). Still, there was something of a challenge to his introduction, and Avery’s mood soured even more. “Alright, alright, you didn’t need to go n’ give me your entire life story,” she muttered, making sure she had a good grip on her kit before eyeing his outstretched hand.
She had half a mind to not give him her name, or perhaps give him a fake one; not the first time she’d given someone here one of her false aliases. But there was something humorous he found about this situation, she felt, and she was half-worried if she gave him a false alias, he would needle her until she gave in and told him her real name. “Avery Davenport.” She offered reluctantly; gruffly, and she reached out to grasp his hand. His palm was warm, which only made her grip his hand harder. She wanted to be in front of a fire now.
She had half a mind to not give him her name, or perhaps give him a fake one; not the first time she’d given someone here one of her false aliases. But there was something humorous he found about this situation, she felt, and she was half-worried if she gave him a false alias, he would needle her until she gave in and told him her real name. “Avery Davenport.” She offered reluctantly; gruffly, and she reached out to grasp his hand. His palm was warm, which only made her grip his hand harder. She wanted to be in front of a fire now.
