* @cvpidswings / asked: }
here comes drunk ylva. "what's up buttercup?"
ㅤshadowheart palms the surface of a golden leatherbound book so old that when she flips it open, residual dust wafts up toward her face ﹠ the spine of the tome whispers an archaic, papery protest. she lurches away as choking to death on elder soot isn't her ideal means of an exit. she had seen ylva indulging in her very own supply of arabellan dry, ﹠ it would be a lie to say that she doesn't at least half-expect that she will be the lucky winner of her confused concentrations. so, when ylva approaches her, shadowheart is only moderately surprised—
ㅤnevertheless, she shuts the book fast, like it holds the mightiest of treasure ﹠ she wants it. it doesn't, though. writings of religious history, yes, but no troves.
ㅤthe term is lost to her. she makes an inscrutable face, ﹠ there is little she can do about answering with a scoff. ❝ what did you just say? ❞ she demands clarity but isn't going to hold her breath for it. none that will be coherent, anyway. what once was an offense, becomes a defense when her scowl molds into an amused smirk in the shadows. her shoulders bounce when she laughs, ﹠ it swings low in undertone. ❝ forgive me, i briefly thought you responsible for your actions. look at you. you're... ❞ there's no word for what shadowheart sees.
ㅤbut color her impressed, as ylva's usual tolerance for alcohol is radically high. she tucks the book under her arm, in the bend of her elbow ﹠ takes ylva's in the opposite hand.
ㅤ❝ come. sit. ❞