She hasn’t been there long when a man approaches. His eyes rake over her unashamed, and she returns the look. His chest is bare and tanned and muscled, his face handsome, and a cutlass is strapped to his waist. Clearly he carried only the essentials.
His smile is easy, and she stops, one hand holding the scythe near the blade with the butt of its staff resting on the ground beside her. She usually it to casually lean against, just slightly, and she turns to fully face him.
”It is not the only thing I can handle well,” she says, her tone light and joking rather than sultry and seductive. Though it is true. She nods toward his waist, which is on purpose, though she adds words to clarify. ”Is that a cutlass?” she asks, familiar with the weapon in concept from Erebor’s endless fascination with weapons, but having never actually seen one.
His smile is easy, and she stops, one hand holding the scythe near the blade with the butt of its staff resting on the ground beside her. She usually it to casually lean against, just slightly, and she turns to fully face him.
”It is not the only thing I can handle well,” she says, her tone light and joking rather than sultry and seductive. Though it is true. She nods toward his waist, which is on purpose, though she adds words to clarify. ”Is that a cutlass?” she asks, familiar with the weapon in concept from Erebor’s endless fascination with weapons, but having never actually seen one.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
