Post by Skittle on Jun 7, 2006 16:06:55 GMT -5
Oo; This is a new introduction of mine. I'm not sure I like it, but nevermind. Whoever joined the roleplay would have to grab her attention. Or, indeed, someone could join as the man opposite her. Or something. Iono. :3
Ic;
She did not believe in luck, fate, destiny or wishes. She believed in the age-old adage of the business person; that one must make one's own luck. And, by Hell, was she good at that.
Thick, wedged sandals found a rhythm in the concrete, tap-tap-tapping along the narrow walkway. Tonight, for once, not the beat of the troublemaker. Tonight, our heroin (without the 'e' makes for an addictive personality) was simply out to engage in the evening's own beautiful music. It simultaneously made her excited and bored; nothing was going on, but the light-polluted sky and lack of stars made her smile. Her favourite species was so, so destructive. Not that she was a different species; no, she was definitely human. But perhaps there was something within her that set her apart - perhaps the lipstick smile was less secretive and more indulgent.
The night air was refreshing, despite the various fumes that proclaimed somewhere in the dark a fire licked a building. She inhaled, idly flicking her hair from her large eyes, withdrawing a compact from somewhere upon her person and vainly checking her appearance. Her perfect, Egyptian-esque eyeliner reflect on the surface of the tiny looking-glass, a flawless tanned foundation and full, crimson lips visible. She studied every aspect of her perfectly fake face, ruffling her red-and-black layered hair a little in places where it wasn't to her liking. Perhaps, in shallow looks, she was the perfect woman... Then again, everyone has different perceptions of 'perfect', and therefore nothing is such. This maiden, however, tried her hardest to please all-round; and it really wasn't that difficult for her.
Tugging at low-rise, eversoslightly flared jeans, she continued on, smiling at anyone that happened to pass her, while really not caring whether they dropped dead in front of her. The gentality of 'human nature' had never particularly appealed to her, and so she chose to ignore it. Let society have it's vain taboos and quaint moral values. She had her own agenda, and she'd be damned if she would follow anyone elses.
She was proud of the shirt she had chosen to wear, even if it was considered to be a tad 'slutworthy'. Like she cared, anyway. The cloth top drew up to the base of her ribs, exposing a far amount of bellyflesh to the world. Not really an issue if you have a flat stomach. And for this impossibly perfect young woman, fat was definitely not an issue. A v-neck delved a little further than is decent down her front, thin vest-esque straps holding the hankerchief of cloth to her body.
Almost in spite of her clothes and looks, the woman had little to no desire to "pull", having little to no interest in the human race as a whole. She did not just play hard to get; she was impossible to get. And, again, despite her looks, she rarely got any attention. Perhaps she just exuded that aura of "I'm out of your league".
One must think that our heroin has a secret to make herself so perfect; and, indeed, like every other creature capable of rational thought, she has her fair share of secrets. For example, one would not think to look at her that the perfection was inaccurate, neither would one think that she had an excessive amount of imperfections. Nor would they think that she was in any way sociopathic or neurotic. And yet, the shapeshifting, genetic mutation of an excuse for a human was just those things. Confusing, no?
But anyway, on with the show. Her own personal rhythm was leading her swiftly past all the beckoning nightclubs and bars and, to her own surprise, to an all-night cafe. A brow raised, but she followed her feet nonetheless, pushing open the greasy, swing door with an air of distaste. Her brown-bordering-on-red eyes cased the joint, and she was rather dismayed to see no empty tables; indeed, there was only one seat left in the entire cafe, and that was next to some hybrid of age and youth. With a mental sigh, she took herself to the table, flashing a quick smile at the man.
"Permit me to seat myself at your table, sir?"
Well, one couldn't say that perfection had no manners.
Ic;
She did not believe in luck, fate, destiny or wishes. She believed in the age-old adage of the business person; that one must make one's own luck. And, by Hell, was she good at that.
Thick, wedged sandals found a rhythm in the concrete, tap-tap-tapping along the narrow walkway. Tonight, for once, not the beat of the troublemaker. Tonight, our heroin (without the 'e' makes for an addictive personality) was simply out to engage in the evening's own beautiful music. It simultaneously made her excited and bored; nothing was going on, but the light-polluted sky and lack of stars made her smile. Her favourite species was so, so destructive. Not that she was a different species; no, she was definitely human. But perhaps there was something within her that set her apart - perhaps the lipstick smile was less secretive and more indulgent.
The night air was refreshing, despite the various fumes that proclaimed somewhere in the dark a fire licked a building. She inhaled, idly flicking her hair from her large eyes, withdrawing a compact from somewhere upon her person and vainly checking her appearance. Her perfect, Egyptian-esque eyeliner reflect on the surface of the tiny looking-glass, a flawless tanned foundation and full, crimson lips visible. She studied every aspect of her perfectly fake face, ruffling her red-and-black layered hair a little in places where it wasn't to her liking. Perhaps, in shallow looks, she was the perfect woman... Then again, everyone has different perceptions of 'perfect', and therefore nothing is such. This maiden, however, tried her hardest to please all-round; and it really wasn't that difficult for her.
Tugging at low-rise, eversoslightly flared jeans, she continued on, smiling at anyone that happened to pass her, while really not caring whether they dropped dead in front of her. The gentality of 'human nature' had never particularly appealed to her, and so she chose to ignore it. Let society have it's vain taboos and quaint moral values. She had her own agenda, and she'd be damned if she would follow anyone elses.
She was proud of the shirt she had chosen to wear, even if it was considered to be a tad 'slutworthy'. Like she cared, anyway. The cloth top drew up to the base of her ribs, exposing a far amount of bellyflesh to the world. Not really an issue if you have a flat stomach. And for this impossibly perfect young woman, fat was definitely not an issue. A v-neck delved a little further than is decent down her front, thin vest-esque straps holding the hankerchief of cloth to her body.
Almost in spite of her clothes and looks, the woman had little to no desire to "pull", having little to no interest in the human race as a whole. She did not just play hard to get; she was impossible to get. And, again, despite her looks, she rarely got any attention. Perhaps she just exuded that aura of "I'm out of your league".
One must think that our heroin has a secret to make herself so perfect; and, indeed, like every other creature capable of rational thought, she has her fair share of secrets. For example, one would not think to look at her that the perfection was inaccurate, neither would one think that she had an excessive amount of imperfections. Nor would they think that she was in any way sociopathic or neurotic. And yet, the shapeshifting, genetic mutation of an excuse for a human was just those things. Confusing, no?
But anyway, on with the show. Her own personal rhythm was leading her swiftly past all the beckoning nightclubs and bars and, to her own surprise, to an all-night cafe. A brow raised, but she followed her feet nonetheless, pushing open the greasy, swing door with an air of distaste. Her brown-bordering-on-red eyes cased the joint, and she was rather dismayed to see no empty tables; indeed, there was only one seat left in the entire cafe, and that was next to some hybrid of age and youth. With a mental sigh, she took herself to the table, flashing a quick smile at the man.
"Permit me to seat myself at your table, sir?"
Well, one couldn't say that perfection had no manners.
