08-27-2018, 11:20 PM
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Silent as always, Melantha approaches closely behind Esklav. Though black lips remain tightly pressed shit, piercing eyes the color of grecian olives shine as they sweep over the figures of the newcomers. Twins, eh? That is what the ratty, nasty smelling one--Jamison, is it?--claims. The female, Cherrywine, is far too gorgeous to be related to the male, but Melantha keeps these thoughts to herself. It is not her job to make comments. It is her job to watch, to observe, to absorb all the information she possibly can. Oh, and keep Esklav from dying. But at this point, she thinks the guy could use getting his ass whooped. Builds character, her dad would always say. Melantha cannot remember her father well, but she remembers that, for some reason.
Chiseled muscles ripple beneath a pelt of tawny gold as the huntress slows to a halt beside the warpriest. her expression is vacant, bland; though curiosity shines beneath the distant haze of those luminous green eyes. "I am Melantha," the strong arm says curtly, deciding that she can at least introduce herself even if she is not in the mood for chit chat. Granted, the female is never in the mood for chit chat.
Chiseled muscles ripple beneath a pelt of tawny gold as the huntress slows to a halt beside the warpriest. her expression is vacant, bland; though curiosity shines beneath the distant haze of those luminous green eyes. "I am Melantha," the strong arm says curtly, deciding that she can at least introduce herself even if she is not in the mood for chit chat. Granted, the female is never in the mood for chit chat.