[center][color=7ea7d8][b][h1][i][b]S[/b] o l i a[/i][/h1][/b][/color][/center]
[right][hr][color=gray][b]Windward Island[/b]
Port Harbor, The Sunken Shephard
[@SunsetWanderer][/color][hr][/right]
Father had a word for this—for when things went wrong. He’d muttered it in the workshop, almost every day, he’d whispered it in indignation when he’d chiseled an unintended flaw into his creations. He’d shouted it once, to her knowledge, when he stubbed his toe. 

[i]Damn.[/i]

Solia heavily considered doing nothing. Then she considered smiling again, and hoping that would suffice, but even she knew such an odd gesture would only facilitate further intrigue. In a game of social constructs, she was woefully outmatched, and intended or not, Evander had cornered her with a masterstroke. 

She nodded, and shook his hand gently. [color=7ea7d8]“Partner.”[/color]

Throughout their conversation she hadn’t considered that it might have been construed as rude for her to have kept her head bowed away from him. It didn’t matter now, though, because as soon as their hands met she raised it. 

Evander had hard eyes. Fantasy of the north had led her to expect blue, or white, or some thin color that could pierce the look of another. Instead they were earthen, and no less for it. Rather than pierce, they might have just as easily crushed, and buried. Solia felt for an instant like she was looking into the eyes of an enemy, that their battle could be won right here, right now, in a clash of gazes. Quickly, she realized better than that, but once again that nervous, inner shudder rocked through her. 

She didn't know what he might learn from this contact. Simpler men had assumed her grip clammy and cold and dismissed it there, but those with keener senses knew flesh when they felt it, and when they didn't. It seemed a fair bet Evander would fall into the latter category.

She tried to plead with her eyes what she couldn’t speak aloud.