@steeledveins
Voices tumble together over the melody of a song she doesn’t recognize, as Eleanor navigates the clusters of people. Eyes follow her every, practiced, movement with something she’s come to recognize as curiosity, admiration. Some in passing glances, feigning a casual interest, others openly gawking at the girl born in a vat--- or so Nicolas tactlessly described her.
Led by a hand at the small of her back, she drifting attention is called to the face of an astonishingly tall man. Roman Godfrey. Richard, father or dad, in public, announces in measured joviality, exchanging introductions.
She knows the name. Dr. Pryce brought the young CEO up frequently in his discussions with Richard, with a smile for her, cautious warmth, to offer something familiar she could grasp. He was a young upir, still navigating the overwhelming world of new sensations and urges.
She’s still studying his face, his vibrant green eyes, when a lapse in voices and hard pinch at her side suggests that it’s her turn to speak. A lecture, predictably, broiling up in Father.
Pearly whites flash in a tempered smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Hello, Roman Godfrey.” He smells like Nico, but considerably more expensive. Laundry detergent and cologne, cigarettes and menthol--- mint, alcohol and something she can’t identify.
“You’re a very impressive person.”
