Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25686329-20150411195454/@comment-25686329-20150424153341

((Read Pirouette's profile. Friggin' love how she puts on a brave/ happy face but is really mortified/ emotionally crippled by the way her tale ends. It's awesome.))

The Yankee was typically never appreciative of shy people, but he could sense this... 'aura' about her. It was like maybe she wasn't bashful so much as she was withdrawn, cerebral.

It was like...

Well, it was like the Yankee himself.

And then they locked eyes. The Yankee was no detective, no investigator, but he could see something in those eyes. Brown, darker than a moonless night, but they hinted something cold, biting... bitterness?

Wait, she said she was the daughter of the Paper Ballerina. Images instantly flashed to the Yankee's mind of the fiery and grisly end to the tale, and suddenly the peices fit.

That darker emotion was anticipation of... doom. Well, at least they had that in common.

The Yankee was still a little frosty, still hardened.

"The Yankee." he said, jaw clenching slightly. He didn't break I contact. "Son of Hank Morgan, the Yankee in King Arhur's Court. It's an obscure Mark Twain fairy tale that ends with me dying alone and embittered by the things that I've done."

Oh, how morbid. What a lovely way to begin a conversation, talking about inescapable demise. Then again, it was commonality.

"Then again, you're not much better off, are you?"

((I totally need them to become friends :D ))