How very her, dancing back and forth over the line between being gleeful and offended at him to an almost manic tempo. She seemed to be settling down, unfolding herself into a state of relaxation, but even that was sent skittering here and there by a skip and a hop, a kiss or a sting of sharpness. Silly ol' her, she said, like she couldn't be clever when she wanted - had clearly been clever enough to track him down, after all this time.
Presumably she wanted something from him. This felt like the only conceivable reason she might have put enough effort into coming here - the alternative: that she was only lonely, had actually missed him, sounded preposterous. And mildly frightening. He also didn't like the way she said starved. Only for company, maybe, but he knew what she was like. He wouldn't say he was better, exactly, on a moral level (and nor, indeed, did he care to be) - but on a practical one, his feeding style had always been at least more discreet.
"Well, how was I to know you were waiting for me," Ishmael chastised, stalking after her over to the fire, "and not off sunning yourself in Spain?" (Sunning, ha. He had no idea what had become of her in the years past, but if he was sure of one thing, it was that she'd seen no more sun than him.) Her skin lacked the warm Iberian shade it had once used to - and indeed the warmth of human skin, no matter how well she held herself at the fireside - but he eyed her in the flickering light of it, judging the colour she did have. If he had to make a wager, he could not be quite certain she was as starved (of blood, anyway) as she had suggested. Ishmael could have produced a snack for her, a bloodbag from his store here at the caverns, if she had been hungry enough... But hopefully she hadn't left a trail of bodies in her wake on her way here.
"I had some business down in town," Ishmael explained, with a brief quirk of his eyebrows and gesture of a thumb over his shoulder, back down towards Hogsmeade village. Business, he said: he liked the word. Liked having something to do with himself, something to boast about. He wasn't one of these creatures who moped about with their own kind, exiled and maligned, no; he went where he liked and did what he wanted, as long as it didn't draw undue attention.
Azazel had always liked attention. Even thrashing about in the water in the middle of the night, she had liked attention.
"You've come at an interesting time," he added, wondering if she had noticed just how far the fog was stretching, across the forest, from Irvingly to Hogsmeade, and how unnatural it was. (He'd only be half-surprised, really, if she had had something to do with it. Another horsewoman of the apocalypse come to wreak havoc.)
Presumably she wanted something from him. This felt like the only conceivable reason she might have put enough effort into coming here - the alternative: that she was only lonely, had actually missed him, sounded preposterous. And mildly frightening. He also didn't like the way she said starved. Only for company, maybe, but he knew what she was like. He wouldn't say he was better, exactly, on a moral level (and nor, indeed, did he care to be) - but on a practical one, his feeding style had always been at least more discreet.
"Well, how was I to know you were waiting for me," Ishmael chastised, stalking after her over to the fire, "and not off sunning yourself in Spain?" (Sunning, ha. He had no idea what had become of her in the years past, but if he was sure of one thing, it was that she'd seen no more sun than him.) Her skin lacked the warm Iberian shade it had once used to - and indeed the warmth of human skin, no matter how well she held herself at the fireside - but he eyed her in the flickering light of it, judging the colour she did have. If he had to make a wager, he could not be quite certain she was as starved (of blood, anyway) as she had suggested. Ishmael could have produced a snack for her, a bloodbag from his store here at the caverns, if she had been hungry enough... But hopefully she hadn't left a trail of bodies in her wake on her way here.
"I had some business down in town," Ishmael explained, with a brief quirk of his eyebrows and gesture of a thumb over his shoulder, back down towards Hogsmeade village. Business, he said: he liked the word. Liked having something to do with himself, something to boast about. He wasn't one of these creatures who moped about with their own kind, exiled and maligned, no; he went where he liked and did what he wanted, as long as it didn't draw undue attention.
Azazel had always liked attention. Even thrashing about in the water in the middle of the night, she had liked attention.
"You've come at an interesting time," he added, wondering if she had noticed just how far the fog was stretching, across the forest, from Irvingly to Hogsmeade, and how unnatural it was. (He'd only be half-surprised, really, if she had had something to do with it. Another horsewoman of the apocalypse come to wreak havoc.)
