@aimlessarchery sent: The long, dark hair cascading down her back is a signal that this woman is familiar to Python, but it's the blade that rests at her waist that confirms it. "Hey, Ayra. Ready for anything, huh?" As he approaches, his gaze falls to the short sword at her hip as well. "Damn. Two anythings, even." "Heh, not that I blame you. I'm a fan of keeping a little something sharp tucked away in case of trouble myself. Though mine is usually a little easier to, well…tuck away." He taps an index finger against his thigh, right where a dagger would be strapped on another day. Today, it rests in a small scabbard clipped to the inside of his boot. "Don't those get in the way?"
Ayra turns at the sound of her name, called in such a nonchalant tone that she could hardly mistake that voice for another’s. She smiles, though any warmth in her expression is tempered by sharpness; the curve of her lips warm in the way that a newly-forged blade is warm.
“Python,” she greets him in return, briefly nodding. “It’s good to see you here. Although,” she continues in an undertone, “I cannot say the same of the Velthomers. Lord Sigurd is too good a man, I swear.”
In the next moment she sets the matter aside, ruby earrings glistening like drops of blood in the firelight as she draws away from him and straightens her back once more. Her gaze follows the direction of his own.
“I am always prepared,” she assures him. That is all she says, though the implication is likely clear to one who knows of her death and her losses: she let her guard down in the presence of Arvis Velthomer once, but she will not make that mistake again. She speaks no more of the man, though, unwilling to let his — and his wife’s — mere attendance ruin her evening. She grins. “For as many anythings as there may be, not just two.”
As Python goes on, she lets out a bark of laughter, more in disbelief than amusement. The notion of her blades getting in the way is absurd enough as to be humorous — though now that she thinks of it, formal wear might not be accompanied by a sword outside of Isaach, let alone a pair of them. A shame, that; she was careful in choosing the gown and jewelry, not to mention the intricate braids in her hair, only for the swords (the most ordinary part of her attire, jewelled hilts aside) to draw the most attention.
“They don’t get in the way any more than my limbs do,” she answers simply. “If anything, without them I would feel as though I’d come to this banquet naked. Besides,” she pauses to pick her wine glass up from a side table, “swords are as much a part of the Isaachian formal attire as my braids.”
