"Well then we are just both full o’ surprises, ain’t we child?" She notices the nervousness, and frankly, she’s worried that she might have frightened the girl too much with her mere existence. “Do ya not wanna see me..?”
A moments worth of hesitance, a silence from the humanized gun that spoke volumes and nigh felt a centuries worth of t i m e pass as if Geryon were here and teasing. Cogged heart pounds, thunderous like the very tenacious lightning she was crafted to capture and instill in golden bullets. Her might. Her worth. Her very b e i n g. Molded and shaped by this woman’s expertise hands.
❝ N-No! Do not go! P-Please! ❞ Steps are taken forward, pallid hands reaching out for the blonde femme who’s familiarity was like h o m e. Hot mist gathers like a veil over pristine verdants as the anthopomorphic gun attempted to embrace her.
❝ Do not go, do not go…Mother.❞
I like the relationship between your character and ______ because _______.
"—…You were not, Mister Trent." Her eyes are as steady as the aim of her barrel, true and keen. A pallid hand goes to cover her engravings as if suddenly self-conscious of them, "W-Why were you looking at them? Do want engravings as well?"
Way to go, Mister Obvious. He shrugs, unable to come up with any other excuse for his actions. Eyes diverted, the ceiling light becoming his focal point of interest. “Engravings?” Sure, he’ll pretend it was where he had been looking; an easy way out. Treading fingers upon the stubble on his jawline, blue eyes turn back to her greens. “I’d prefer tattoos.” Don’t engrave anything on his body. “They look nice on you. Who did them?”
Hand raises so that digits may grace her scalp, golden tresses lifting slightly as she does as such. W-Why was he looking at the ceiling so suddenly? Ahm. Still, golden brows raise in nigh surprise that he would believe her (and yet not w h a t she truly is), ❝ Mostly everyone that I have met call them that word. Not for what they are. ❞ There is a subtle pause, his query taking a toll on her much more than she anticipated. W-Why….?
❝ The one who crafted my sister and I, my mother…Nell Goldstein. ❞
”…Demon— I do not have the slightest idea as to what you could be talking about, menina.”
❝ M-My name is Ivory, n-not ‘marinara’!
And do you truly not know what a demon is? ❞
”…Hm. Strange—it’s been awfully quiet. I bet someone died.”
❝ —…W-Was it the demon I killed? ❞