Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-26959117-20160101222647/@comment-25954732-20160117051817

Maisey wilted slightly, withdrawing her hand. "Alright, if you say so." Already, she didn't have a favorable impression of this girl, but perhaps she was judging her too quickly?

Noticing the girl scribbling away in her notebook, Maisey had to swallow the urge to make a snide comment about how Laine would be more comfortable dating her journal. Not only was the statement uncharacteristically cruel, it wasn't something Maisey would be proud of saying. So, she kept mum, observing her.

Suddenly, Laine was asking her a question about genres, which was right up Maisey's alley. "Well, mostly, I'm a journalist and blogger, so I guess I stray towards nonfiction writing more often than not, but people say my mysteries and science fiction short stories are interesting." Maisey said this casually, longing for a reaction. She knew some snobs who found science fiction to be a pointless genre, since there was hardly any hints of fantasy in it.

And, mysteries? Forget it! People hardly ever took those seriously, so why was she hoping that Laine would take her seriously? This girl before her was a writer, born and bred. Maisey was meant to grow up and scream while running away from a spider. Even if her mom was the director of the espionage department of the UFK's government, it didn't mean that Maisey necessarily had a future. Blogging didn't pay the bills.

Her thought process was so skewed that she missed Belladonna, her makeshift barrette and unwelcome black widow 'pet' move from her trusty perch a few inches, red eyes locking in on Laine. If looks could kill, Laine would have died from that spider's gaze.

Suddenly snapping back to earth, Maisey hurried to ask her something in return: "Why are you always writing in that notebook of yours?" She didn't bother returning the same question to Laine, finding said question tedious.