The pet name - really, a pet name - didn't much make up for Monty's pure impassiveness at seeing him again, and Ishmael offered a roll of his eyes to Monty, and an overexaggerated pout to the ceiling the moment he'd looked away.
Nonetheless, his eyes followed him as the jewellery started appearing out of his pockets and bag, amused but unsurprised. That was his style, after all, swanning around well-to-do houses and dressed up crowds. Ishmael thought the part he most enjoyed was probably the getting all dressed up.
(Ishmael had done that a time or two over the years, himself. However, you did it enough - stole enough - and wealth, the banknotes and coin and all the glittering gems became much less valuable. Too easy to get; easy to spend. Worthless, in the end. 'Course, riches had never been Ishmael's real aim, not in all the black market dealing he did now, whether it was the glamorous or grubby kind... In the end, the only useful thing was blood.)
Ishmael especially didn't care for the rings and jewellery now, because they had Monty's attention and he did not. Growing tired of his pretence of apathy - far too soon, he knew - he pulled himself up and padded over noiselessly, coming to a halt at the other man's shoulder.
"Ever the magpie, aren't you?" he offered, with a snort. That or a peacock, Ishmael considered fondly. He tilted his head at the pale reflective glow of the ring - everything was brighter than he remembered as a human, all that time ago; perhaps because his eyesight had improved, or he so rarely saw the full force of the sunlight as he'd used to - but didn't move to touch it or any of the rest (he was always rather wary of silver). Still, he added, mostly to be annoying: "Anything for me?"
Nonetheless, his eyes followed him as the jewellery started appearing out of his pockets and bag, amused but unsurprised. That was his style, after all, swanning around well-to-do houses and dressed up crowds. Ishmael thought the part he most enjoyed was probably the getting all dressed up.
(Ishmael had done that a time or two over the years, himself. However, you did it enough - stole enough - and wealth, the banknotes and coin and all the glittering gems became much less valuable. Too easy to get; easy to spend. Worthless, in the end. 'Course, riches had never been Ishmael's real aim, not in all the black market dealing he did now, whether it was the glamorous or grubby kind... In the end, the only useful thing was blood.)
Ishmael especially didn't care for the rings and jewellery now, because they had Monty's attention and he did not. Growing tired of his pretence of apathy - far too soon, he knew - he pulled himself up and padded over noiselessly, coming to a halt at the other man's shoulder.
"Ever the magpie, aren't you?" he offered, with a snort. That or a peacock, Ishmael considered fondly. He tilted his head at the pale reflective glow of the ring - everything was brighter than he remembered as a human, all that time ago; perhaps because his eyesight had improved, or he so rarely saw the full force of the sunlight as he'd used to - but didn't move to touch it or any of the rest (he was always rather wary of silver). Still, he added, mostly to be annoying: "Anything for me?"
