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[indent][indent][indent][color=gray][sub][right][color=8D3A05][b]Location:[/b][/color] Hall, Fortuna [color=8D3A05][b]|[/b][/color] In Transit[/right][/sub][/color]
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[color=FF7CB6]“Mmpf!”[/color]

Marlowe barely had time for his mind to register the small frame that slammed into him, only to fall backward onto her derriere. He looked down and suddenly his face grew pale: [i]oh shit.[/i] On the ground, scowling like a rabid animal, was one Maeve Puckett. The reason why he’d avoided the armory. 

He was [i]fucked.[/i] 

Marlowe quickly knelt down and offered his hand, which he should have known better to. She was just as likely to swat it away or just gnaw on it until he bled. Well, maybe. It wasn’t as if he’d spent time getting to know the angry gremlin of a woman. He’d stayed out of her way and tried to keep in his own lane. It was what he did best: fitting into the background and not knocking women with severe anger issues onto the ground! 

At least, until today. 

[color=8D3A05]“You alright there?”[/color] He offered to her in as kind a voice as he could get out, hiding the tinges of fear with an air of false compassion and worry. The only compassion and worry he held was towards himself and his ability to continue to breathe, eat and shit (in roughly that order). 

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