03-20-2014, 05:16 PM
His own hair was thin and wavy, although cut short as it was kept the style to a neat and well-tended grooming. Dane held grooming to a high regard in general. His nails were trim and short. His jaw smooth and moisturized. His neck was free of rogue hairs. Even his knuckles had the appearance of recent lotioning. The tips of black gloves stuck from his other pocket - lambskin by their hue. Yes, he took good care of his body. Even his smile was pearly white.
He smiled across at Jon. Imagery exploded in his mind, inspired by Jon's destination. An airport was a cliche mark for a demonstration of Dane's sort. They were host to the unimaginative and lazy marksmen. A train, however? The tunnels such as the one currently occupied were inescapable wormholes burrowed hundreds of meters below the surface. Death and carnage were well and good, but fear of the unknown, fear of whether or not you return from the black holes of the earth, that was terrifying.
"It has been cold,"
Dane replied, quite frankly. "Then again, it is winter. What else might we expect but cold?"
He largely spoke to himself, but he pulled the gloves from his pocket and slipped slender, musical fingers into each divine, black wrapping. They were untarnished thanks to a chemical anti-stain treatment modified for leather materials. It worked as perfectly as the salesman said it would.
He slipped them on and laced his fingers together so to push each glove until they fit snug as a second skin. Then he folded his hands on his waist and watched the girls, thinking about black hair falling across black gloves.
Or maybe tawny brown hair falling across black gloves.
He smiled across at Jon. Imagery exploded in his mind, inspired by Jon's destination. An airport was a cliche mark for a demonstration of Dane's sort. They were host to the unimaginative and lazy marksmen. A train, however? The tunnels such as the one currently occupied were inescapable wormholes burrowed hundreds of meters below the surface. Death and carnage were well and good, but fear of the unknown, fear of whether or not you return from the black holes of the earth, that was terrifying.
"It has been cold,"
Dane replied, quite frankly. "Then again, it is winter. What else might we expect but cold?"
He largely spoke to himself, but he pulled the gloves from his pocket and slipped slender, musical fingers into each divine, black wrapping. They were untarnished thanks to a chemical anti-stain treatment modified for leather materials. It worked as perfectly as the salesman said it would.
He slipped them on and laced his fingers together so to push each glove until they fit snug as a second skin. Then he folded his hands on his waist and watched the girls, thinking about black hair falling across black gloves.
Or maybe tawny brown hair falling across black gloves.