a parlor trick called survival.

                              his snort was edging on indignant , though noting the distinct wit that vetra usually brought along for the ride — he liked it better when she didn’t use it against him though . “ probably —— “ he toyed with the idea, turned it over in his head a bit . “ but it takes all the mystery out of killin’ doesn’t it ? what’s the fun in that ? ” drack said, low chuckle to follow . 

                                 now that he thought about it , REALLY thought about it , drack could see the set up perfectly on vetra . “ if you wanna add bones, you have to put them where every kett will see ‘em right before you kill ‘em . maybe we should get you a spine or two . kett will think twice before even looking in your direction . “ he said with absolute confidence — not that vetra didn’t already intimidate enough , but it would be a hell of a lot more fun to watch .

     ❛  Can’t bet against that logic.  ❜  There is a certain charm to be had for his brutish nature. On their side, it’s almost fun to watch--- like an action movie in real time, but the gore isn’t just cheap and computerized. ( She’d be lying if, at first, it didn’t make her feel sick to her stomach, though. )

          ❝  Nah,  ❞  he assures with the faintest touch of a whimsical smile crossing his features. Eyes stay pinned on her for another moment, as if he’d learn what to make of her flaring mandibles by looking just a little bit harder. A hopeless endeavour ( for now at least ) ––– unlike what the Initiative stands for, and it’s thanks to them in large part. He’s never been PROUDER to be part of something than he is now, and it’s all due to the hope he’s helped extend to their collective people.

              He turns to face the breadth of the horizon and a sigh of content pries itself free from his lungs. His face mirrors the relief it stems from.  ❝  But? You don’t miss it, or … ?  ❞

As much as they have their disagreements, it’s admittedly refreshing to talk to someone with a positive outlook on things--- even Ryder is not exactly subtle with his sardonic apathy. Then again, maybe he just doesn’t care to be.

Bold the ones that apply to your muse. REPOST don’t reblog

Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o'clock!    //   The morning house lay empty.  //   It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake.  //     It was raining outside.  //    “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today…”     //     At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone.   //     The house was clean.   //     The sun came out from behind the rain.   //    This was the one house left standing.    //     The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.    //    “Who goes there? What’s the password?”    //     drawn shades in an old maidenly preoccupation //    self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.     //     an altar with ten thousand attendants, //     the gods had gone away. //     the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.    //     angry at inconvenience.    //   only silence was here.   //  its eyes turned to fire. //   Delicately sensing decay    //   like great butterflies    //     yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers     //    The walls were glass.  // the walls lived.   //     the lazy bumble of a purring lion.    //     the murmur of a fresh jungle rain. //    smoking, waiting. // The house was silent.     //     There will come soft rains     //     swallows circling with their shimmering sound;   //     frogs in the pools singing at night,     //    wild plum trees in tremulous white;  //     not one will know of the war.   //     if mankind perished utterly;   //     Would scarcely know that we were gone.   // the house began to die.  //    The wind blew.    //   licking, eating,   //   “Fire, fire, fire!”  // tried to save itself. //     the windows were broken   // in ten billion angry sparks//     too late. //      as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake.    //     clear cold venom   //     An explosion!     //     bone on bone,    // torn the skin off //   Run, run! //     Help, help!   //     a tragic nursery rhyme, //     like children dying in a forest, //     alone, alone.   //    One, two, three, four, five voices died.     //      Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off.     //    maniac confusion, yet unity; //     singing, screaming, //     with sublime disregard   //    Smoke and silence. //   Among the ruins,

                SHE HAS PERKED UP AT THE SOUND OF STEPS.  Posture is bolt upright & molds into something more sharp & military.  Slowly, she turns on her heels in order to receive entering statuesque Vetra. The gaze she gives her is one that is dissecting, of pins & needles.  Siobhan is the quiet kind of OBSERVER ; she likes to watch people for muscle spasms, the way their veins cavort like electricity as the blood flow quickens or stills whenever palpable things are being said or done——the slightest & granular nuances that make people tick.  She’s a strange human. 

       ❝ Vetra.  I was just thinking about you, ❞ she regally dips her head just once, for emphasis.  Lets that all sink in, puts her under the microscope to see how she’d take it, before continuing.  

      ❝ I could use your talents for acquiring otherwise obscure goods. ❞

@poweredarmor  ❤’d  for  a  starter.

      Initially, she had come to question when the next drop to Aya would be, but just as her mandibles splay for her lips to part, they press shut again, quiet as Siob speaks. A brow plate rises in recognition, her oh? of acknowledgement expressed rather in expression than in voice.

“C’mon, Vetra, you were watching with wide eyes the whole time, I saw it. What’s not to love about family and murder?” Though he still wasn’t clear on just what a cannoli was. 

      ❛  I was not.  ❜ She’s not really sure why there’s protesting. Maybe she just feels like arguing?  ❛  ---Did you notice how crappy the translation was, though? Was it just me, or did a quarter of the words barely even go through? Must’a been a dearly loved copy. ‘Specially with the way Liam went on about it. Like the Spirits themselves came down from the stars and blessed the damn thing.  ❜

Being stuck in the Nomad for three hours will make anyone cranky. Especially a Vetra with a Peebee of whom maybe, possibly uses stories, jokes and the like as coping methods for what may or may not be Ryder’s bile-inducing driving. She had even counted the amount of times Peebee had opened her mouth five to ten seconds after a particularly steep drive, as if trying to ease what was the blatant car-sickness that crept up upon Vetra’s face.

It didn’t help. So maybe, maybe she’s a little sour even now. 

Peebee is calling her name, trying to get her attention, and she can practically feel herself bristle, a few seconds away from insisting for a moment to get her bearings, but it’s not even a moment before there’s a hand wrapped around hers, wrenching her into the snow —

❛  Shit!  ❜

— and sending a plume of white around the both of them. 

Just before the bristling can metamorphasize into anything more, the Asari is pointing a finger towards the horizon— more important, to the silhouette against the sun of a Kett toting a sniper rifle.

    ❛  Oh.  ❜

Well, that’s embarrassing.

      ❛  Um.  ❜

She glances down at their hands… More specfically, the iron grip hers has around Peebee’s. There’s a BANG in the distance from Ryder’s gun, the distant splatter of an exploding skull and the confirmation of a dead threat.

                 “You can let go now.”

      ❛  …Uh. Right. Sorry.  ❜

“Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, consider this justice a gift on my daughter’s wedding day.”