[attr="class","margot"]

[attr="class","margot b"]

[attr="class","margot i"]she shrugs the concept right off odd, bony shoulders.

"so?"

whatever point this endeavor has, she cares little for. it's insignificant, as if nothing more than another paragraph in the book and all that poetic shit. gag.

sharpened teeth shine a little whiter at the concept he presents. temperance? desire?

"bite me."

and she leaves the topic to die beneath a sharp tongue, then.

well... she wanted to.

"manners?" the fuck? is silent.

he doesn't move. instead, he merely gets a little more comfortable before examining his cuticles. it's annoying in a way she can only describe as blatant loathing.

"their rest."

spirits are, perhaps, worse to piss off than the living. at least you could kill the living but the dead? there's nothing to stop when they come for you.

"now move."

vincenzo de luca
pearls before swine.

[attr="class","margot"]

[attr="class","margot b"]

[attr="class","margot i"]truthfully, she's only here to make whatever's causing noise shut the fuck up so she can sleep. it's not out of any good in her body (she has none) nor any consideration for her submarine dwellers (none of that either). it's simply... restless spirits are annoyingly loud when they want to be and it's always at the crack of dawn when she hasn't slept in days.

pricks.

she cares little for disrespect, disregard, or any other dis he could provide. sharp teeth flash regardless and a hollow sort of grin (or is it a grimace) rises.

"margot."

she carries on without missing a beat.

"your time being makes no difference to me."

and really, it doesn't. she doesn't even care about hers in an odd sort of way. dark circles beneath eerie light blue provide more context than words can. and somehow, the one beneath her scarred eye almost makes the jagged edges dance in an odd, disjointed sort of way.

"find the source yet?" so she can go to bed...

Levy Alinsky
ghost in the machine.

[attr="class","margot"]

[attr="class","margot b"]

[attr="class","margot i"]"don't know, don't care."

pearls are pearls as pigs are pigs. they're all the same, what's it matter?

her eyes are haunting when they turn to him, a pale blue with an odd sort of way about them. they exist in pieces, as if one is present and the other is looking beyond. one could say the same of her in some regard, half here and halfway to insanity.

"squealing like one might be better," she bares teeth quickly, without hesitation. "wanna test it?"

fog curls at their heels, lapping like hungry dogs. she pays it no mind. it's insignificant, of little interest. impatience leads to her tapping fingers against a sheathed blade, nails harsh and hollow against steel.

where are all the pigs?

she does, however, stare at enzo when he perches himself. somehow, there's a sense of disapproval in his flippant disregard for the dead. she voices as much a moment later, tone biting against the eerie silence.

"off."

her tyranitar huffs beside her but otherwise stays quiet, alert, observant.

"have some respect for the dead."

she says nothing further and turns away, attention already sweeping back toward what lies beyond the fog.

vincenzo de luca
pearls before swine.