#just..his scar...his mystery..howd he get it and who was he before all this

[recitedemise]

[ chest ] sender smooths a hand over receiver's chest (Hartley)

PROMPTS FOR TOUCH-STARVED MUSES: still accepting.

He imagines she's buzzed. Whether it be by the richness of her drink or his sumptuous company, however, Gale finds in the moment that he's slow to say. It's a languid evening, at any rate, the lights within his study struck alight and gold. The decanter's fast draining, his gums lined and slick with the taste of his scotch, and on his desk, his menagerie of books lay pried and open. It is, by all accounts, both business and more.

Good. She'd asked him some questions, several queries for the man and a dozen more toward their hunt. He'd answered what he could, rambling about werewolves and his scholarly loves. They're enlightening, he'd told her, or a tale of wicked caution if nothing else at all, expounding on those epics of a Grecian flavor through the woe, the torment of the famed Lycaon. Mysteries so entrap him. He dapples in Sappho. He likes his wines dry while reading by a fire, and with another sip or two of his twinkling beverage, she, atop his desk, had somehow moved.

Gale pauses, eyes tracking her like she's all a fox. Her hands spread about his chest, the hare-thing that's his heart tapping heavy at her palm, and the way his scar peers from beyond his collar? Well, wonder, he calculates, would compel her, too. "Ah. Much like my enigmatic company tonight," he tries for casual, "I'm afraid a man has ought to maintain some semblance of mystery himself. Otherwise, he may very well risk losing perhaps forever your interest, and believe me, the wellbeing of our city insists that he doesn't." A woman made a hunter. A hunter with her prey. The way that pretty scar carves rivers past his jawline... In the light, his brown eyes, earthy, winks in lavender. "If I'm a hunt, I like to believe I'm wise to your methods, Hartley. I intend wholeheartedly to be exceedingly difficult."