📜 ‘ "I hope I haven't overstepped." Larissa does not come near Ammonia. She stands back from the gift she's brought, and from the girl it's for, as though they're explosive; she has a sense of the warmth that Ammonia radiates--a different heat to an ordinary person--and prefers not to stand in it. Warmth, living warmth, has a way of overriding the senses. She smiles slightly, wearing the ordinary, pink-cheeked human face that she always wears to conduct her outside business. The box of paints she's brought is minute, just six pans of pigment inside, each a replica of a colour long since outlawed for its toxicity: London purple, Paris green, and so forth. "I would have brought you the originals, but I'm sure you prefer to work without a respirator. Unless I'm wrong?" ’ ~ ~ ~ { from @scyftan }
It takes a second for Ammonia to realize that the giggle she hears is coming from herself - and when she does, her tail sways with amusement, and she brings her hand to her own lips. “No, no, I - I just,” she knows that she’s blushing, because Larissa has brought her a gift - and why?
“I’ve just never seen a - a set like this.” The wooden case is older than she’s ever seen. She picks it up and lightly scratches at the pigmented pot with a single claw - some darker, mauve color - to take a gentle but thorough sniff. Seems like watercolor, with such a lovely scent of age. Very appropriate, considering Larissa’s… assumed status of living.
Larissa holds herself strangely, like she’s worried that Ammonia’s studio apartment may catch on fire very suddenly, but shows no expression of any such fear on her (very normal) face. Ammonia finds herself wishing to see her more natural, deathly skin tone. She wonders what Larissa’s fangs look like.
“What have I done to earn this?” She asks instead, hoping maybe that Larissa thinks of her own feline fangs just as often. And - she is genuinely curious. “Would you like me to paint something for you? You said you collect, right?”
