So he used his head before he spoke. The woman nodded slightly, a tiny dip of her chin; she despised those ignorant enough to do otherwise. It was always the imbeciles, she found, that were quick to open their mouths and flap their tongues. Day in and day out, she'd have to bear the pain of merely hearing them speak, until the day she decided it would be no more. She was going to do the talking.
Leera listened to his explanation, about how his skin would blister in the day and how the night was his free pass to do whatever he pleased like hunting and exploring. She thought about this for a moment, watching him, her eyes following the jagged change of coloration that was present on his face. "A slave to the sun," she concluded about him, almost gently, as if she were uncovering some sort of hushed discovery.
What a shitty lifestyle... she thought, frowning a bit. To be bound to the ropes of darkness was a burden she couldn't imagine. Pity settled over the femme, but she remembered something she'd learned many seasons ago. "There are oils that may help you. Found in the crushed petals of lilacs -- I know because my brother used to get burns as well. We lived in the desert." Why was she telling him this? Perhaps if she helped him, he'd repay her with information. "All you would need to do is crush the flowers in your mouth and then smoothe the oils into your skin. It won't block the sun completely, but it'll give you back some of your daytime hours."
Leera is a mature character.
Force/violence is permitted within reason.
Plot with us here!
