Lady's mouth twitches up into a grin. Interesting, sort of. It isn't unusual for people to react physically when surprised but it's the way he stiffens rather than turns to look for the source that's interesting. And she's gotten pretty good at reading body language since ninety percent of Vergil's interaction is non-verbal anyway and it comes in handy when hustling at the Nest. She doesn't like what it says about his opinion of himself that he doesn't look. Doesn't have the time to care about who it might be, they aren't important, and that bugs her since most newbies tend to be a little concerned with not getting eaten by those who have been there longer.
Her grin falling spectacularly with his reaction. He might not recoil but there are many ways of showing horror at what's before you and she's offended. Lady's hands finding her hips as her thin tail sways so the moonlight plays over the sharp spikes on the end one after another shining a brilliant bone white with each annoyed swish. Dark horns rising from her forehead and sweeping back over the top of her head and then down to curve along the back of her head and ending in sharp points near her chin. Her clothes standard 40s or 50s fashion with a knee-length skirt and some sort of top with a wide open back accommodate her wings. And everywhere her the fabric ends pearl-like scales are scattered over her skin shimmering red or blue just along the edges of her silhouette as the light hits her, like iridescent freckles. They're heavier in places around the deadly spikes jutting from her elbows, the insides of her wrists, back of her hands. But the most substantial covering is hidden away by her clothes.
"Obviously. Take a picture it'll last you longer." Though in a months time all he'll really need is a mirror, not that she'll say as much just yet. She'll save that particular tidbit for another moment when he might need that little pin prick of reality all the more.
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Her grin falling spectacularly with his reaction. He might not recoil but there are many ways of showing horror at what's before you and she's offended. Lady's hands finding her hips as her thin tail sways so the moonlight plays over the sharp spikes on the end one after another shining a brilliant bone white with each annoyed swish. Dark horns rising from her forehead and sweeping back over the top of her head and then down to curve along the back of her head and ending in sharp points near her chin. Her clothes standard 40s or 50s fashion with a knee-length skirt and some sort of top with a wide open back accommodate her wings. And everywhere her the fabric ends pearl-like scales are scattered over her skin shimmering red or blue just along the edges of her silhouette as the light hits her, like iridescent freckles. They're heavier in places around the deadly spikes jutting from her elbows, the insides of her wrists, back of her hands. But the most substantial covering is hidden away by her clothes.
"Obviously. Take a picture it'll last you longer." Though in a months time all he'll really need is a mirror, not that she'll say as much just yet. She'll save that particular tidbit for another moment when he might need that little pin prick of reality all the more.