Originally Posted by Underwood
“I don’t bite, either. But I sure hope you swing.”
Cinder laughed, and she took Underwood's hand as he led her out on the grass. She was taller than him by a little bit, which always made dancing odd, and she had absolutely no
idea what the swing was. It was a bit before her time.
But she could move. She let Underwood lead, keeping time easily and matching her body to his. There is a certain feral grace that is hard to define and impossible to fake, but Cinder had it. She moved more like a wolf, nostrils flared, ever-aware of what was around her. And if she had slightly sharp teeth, and if her body ran hotter than a human's, who was Underwood the typewriter man to make something of it?
Originally Posted by Erin
<You've been holding out on me,>Erin murmured to Sergei, smiling. It faded, though, as they danced through the clearing, and she laid her head on his chest. <I knew something would ruin it, in the end. People like us just can't have weddings. I'd just hoped...>
"<Sssh... it's not over yet.>
" Sergei said, leaning in to kiss Erin between her feathery antennae. His nose tickled afterwards, and he had pixie dust over him, but Sergei had long since resigned himself to glittering. "<Othello is a clever cat. He'll be fine.>
Originally Posted by Daphne
It definitely needed a cat-like fey-man inside of it, with some candlelight. "Hmph," she intoned, and crossed her arms to lean on them at the door.
"You won't find much there." Mack's voice came from near Daphne. The young/not-young vampire had left the dancing behind. It hurt too much. Instead, she leaned against the side of the wagon, hands stuffed in her pockets. "He doesn't keep many things."
This wasn't entirely true. Othello’s wagon was a small, cozy thing, with every possible surface covered with knick-knacks, minor tokens, a few books, and god-knows what else. There was clothing in a half-open dresser, there was a sink, a pot-bellied kitchen stove, plentiful food. There was even a catnip mouse hanging from the ceiling.
But there was nothing that Daphne could point to that was unmistakeably Othello
. The place was full of trophies and toys, minor amusements, but nothing that looked to have been of personal value.
"He lives in other people, mostly." Mary Mack observed.