[She almost sees it there-- a twinge of something, the snapped-bowstring of some kind of tension, but discerning the subtle emotions of others isn't something she's had any particular practice with. Not unless one counts Harrow's black and mystic moods - of which she's something of an expert - but neither Harrow nor the other inhabitants of Drearburh are exactly your standard kind of people. So the moment - if it had been there at all - bleeds out into nothing, unremarked upon, and Gideon takes a swig of her own drink in kind. The glass is sweating in her palm, feels cool and somehow good, which only acts to heighten her diamond-focused interest as Ciri begins to talk about smashing her way through flesh and blood monsters, which is both kind of hot and crying out for innuendo. Innuendo that sits lewdly at the tip of her tongue--
--until Ciri mentions the beasts in the desert. Gideon sits up a little straighter in her rickety chair, and quite visibly, her eyes brighten.]
What sort of beasts?
[She says, as if she knows anything about any sort of beast at all that isn't made out of bones.]
no subject
--until Ciri mentions the beasts in the desert. Gideon sits up a little straighter in her rickety chair, and quite visibly, her eyes brighten.]
What sort of beasts?
[She says, as if she knows anything about any sort of beast at all that isn't made out of bones.]