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[img]http://sherrygideons.com/wp-content/themes/flexsqueeze150/images/dividers/square-dotted-grunge.png[/img][/center][indent][color=gray]Barefeet through snow recalled something of a ballerina’s attempt at allégro, a skipping light frolic that had the demented pixie placing her footfalls in the trace of stiletto as they moved towards the tent. She had become aware that the woman she followed carried a certain “ferocity” in display, but this was not a judgment from Amentia or one crawling through her reality from Xcavairn. Not at all, and she now found herself puzzled as to why the other’s thoughts bled a deep crimson towards the woman, a tone of warning, a shade of blood freshly spilled-- something sinister. Were they not all a little sinister? Avatars of corrupted divinity walking among men, yet trapped in fleshy shells that barely hid the multitudes of their deceptions. It was likely that her peers subconsciously buried themselves in their own architecturally nuanced pyramids of deceit so that they were blinded to their truth. Shame really.

When it came to the one she followed she was transfixed by a tone other than red, one that did little to persuade her path to one of caution, but rather ached for her to draw closer. A mental flick from within came in time to dissuade her from reaching those phantasm like digits out to touch the tempting fragility of hues that assuredly had spawned in a fairy-tale with the purity of untouched snow. She mused to herself instead on whether the huntress would be warm or chill and if the sensation would be compelling enough for her to feel or perhaps like a wraith; her touch would pass through and leave an ache resting there instead. As they entered the tent she was sure to pause and let the distance yawn between them, ever worried about impressions and social niceties. There would be time to tempt fate and pet the arctic hued lioness, but the conspicuous notion of hunger involved assured her the present was not it.

And it was with that thought that she slipped ever so awkwardly into the chair on the other side of the well groomed commander from Sammael. One foot slid beneath her and the other dangled idly, tickling across the floor as it ticked back and forth with the beat of a pendulum. Her back arched and both elbows rested themselves on the table so that she cradled her cheeks in her palms as she glanced about at the occupants. The pleasure that curled on those soft petal lips was genuine.

What fun this was going to be.

The Commander beside her began introductions and she tilted her head to take in the well maintained and polished man. Even his facial hair seemed expertly trimmed. Corbyn. They would be friends she decided, maybe then he would tell her why his mind lingered somewhere else. And then it was the puker's turn. Pale eyes drifted towards him and her head pivoted in kind as he made his introduction. Nervous little thing, wasn’t he? His pyramid would definitely come crashing down. She hadn’t finished the thought when a piece of it fractured-- right there at dinner!-- and his powers expelled themselves into the table causing it to bloom about her resting elbows. And he hadn't even done it on purpose. Her reaction was immediate as a childlike giggle slipped melodiously from her beaming lips and her petite hands gave a short round of clapping displaying fully her pleasure over the brief purge of his welling gifts. She was quick to reign in this little outburst before the frosty predator began to speak. Carmen. She’d been hoping on something more exotic, but she supposed Carmen would do. In another life she could be a politician, but this life seemed to favor her.

She barely listened to the rest of what Carmen said, more enthralled with the giving of names, so when London spoke she offered the girl a nod, already acquainted, though briefly, and then raised a brow in anticipation for the next. Maybe someone’s power would be to put a plate of food in front of them. Wouldn’t that be convenient? No such luck though, food remained illusory and the next to speak was another of the Commanders. Eldric, no, he said he preferred Nic. She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly at this one though her facial expression didn’t betray any lack of the previous joy. Some were just harder to place than others. There was something that pecked at her consciousness, something she should know. When he stood her reverie snapped and she looked at Samm who was introducing himself to Corbyn. The coffee had done him wonders in swaying favor his direction, and if he kept it up he’d likely be the most popular SOLDIER in camp.

Well, would have been the most popular if Corr had not stepped in with food. I guess someone's ability was to bring food. The feeling in the room had recently swayed towards an agitated apprehension for reasons Amentia had yet to pinpoint, or simply ignored, and then he was placing the food down and the mood seemed a little less stressed. His introduction was simple, blunt. Oh, but it was the most complicated who usually spoke the most plainly. Amentia’s already crooked grin beamed towards the giant and offered a subtle nod of thanks towards the food, one of which he likely missed as his eyes closed.  

When there seemed to be a lull due to the arrival of food the little perched fairy of old, demented and coy, deigned it appropriate to fill the void. Her palms dropped to lay flat upon the table, which seemed to effect some stabilization upon her fluttering edges as the shadows muted and coalesced, wisps pooling about between her separated fingers. When she spoke there was a sincerity present that she was starting find would be a rarity amongst this group. [color=white]“It’s a pleasure to be around such [i]interesting[/i] individuals.”[/color] The curling shadows toyed about her fingertips in minute flickering spasms, as she turned to look towards Corbyn and down that side of the table, [color=white]“I’m pleased we’re all on the same team.”[/color] Specter glances now caressed across the others, focusing and not focusing, a juxtaposition of observance and contemplation. Still the pools between her fingers danced, tiny little amusements of void and decay caressing across the newly birthed sections of table and gnawing at them in such minor atrophy that it was doubtful noticed.

[color=white]“My name is Amentia, and as skillsets go, I’m good with people.”[/color] She seemed complete in her introduction and her foggy gaze fell to her fingertips. Her head canted to the side and that seemingly perpetual simper was replaced by something more Machiavellian-- something sardonic flickering there as the collection of swarmed light manipulations fractured noiselessly and capered outward in the form of negligible little spiders. Funny how the creeping arachnids portrayed such a common fear. So small, so insignificant, but there was something about the way they could inch themselves into orifices that made people feel unprotected like little else could. She liked arachnids. In a wink’s time the meager shared hallucination had dissipated and her pleased smirk had returned as if nothing had come to pass. She pulled two of the bo-shuriken from their cradle around her thigh and stabbed a piece of venison. She dangled the piece from the deadly chopstick, taking a bite and chewing at it as her elbows came to rest once again on the table. The brief exorcism of the illumination devouring halo began to fade as the twitching nuance returned while she awaited the next introduction.
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