[Amelie shows up to the party, and almost immediately picks up one of the champagne flutes. She sticks out, but seems careless about the fact, like it's something that can't quite touch her as she winds her way through the people present. There'd been a dress she'd pulled out of the basket, the one she's found in the kitchen of a house that seemed to be hers. If nothing else, there seemed to be a lack of anyone to tell her otherwise.
She still doesn't quite trust this place, doesn't quite know how she got here, and that's a sensation she knows too well for it to be quite comfortable. It doesn't upset her; nothing does, but it's an itch on the chill of her blue skin. For those that are very, very sharp, they might notice that she clocks the exits, the best vantage points, the location across the street that would be the best place for a sniper.
But little of it shows in her demeanor, and she just sips at her glass, taking in the sights, the people, overhearing snippets of conversation here and there before she eventually slides up the the green-felt card tables in the back. She gets herself some chips and her smile is enigmatic as she takes her seat and the next hand starts, and she holds her cards in slender killer's hands. Her voice is cool, her intonation almost a little flat, but with an edge of a French accent.]
It's been a while since I've played.
and the clock strikes twelve
[Amelie watches the countdown along with everyone else. The glitter ball, the numbers called out as the digits flash, everyone crowded around, with glitter and expectant faces, like all of this means something. But she doesn't feel anything at all. Her heart is still and her mind is quiet and she sips at another glass of champagne.
She knows she's been to parties like this before, but can't quite place when the last time was. With Sombra and Gabriel, maybe? She remembers the Eiffel Tower, the glowing lights, but she isn't sure if it was a mission or not. The memory makes her feel something, and so she thinks it must have been. But as the seconds tick down, she finds herself strangely wanting to be close to someone, some sort of contact.
She has a knife in her hand; not because she intends to use it, but because she finds it interesting, and the violence on the air, the way that people go after each other, the screams-- that's something, almost feels like something. Almost. She eventually gives in, putting her free hand on the shoulder of someone's shoulder, whether it's familiarity or something else.]
Come here, chéri.
[If you're brave enough to not be discouraged by the knife she twirls in her fingers, you might find out if her lips are as cold as her hands.]
just a little chat
un: widowmaker
So, tell me- are the parties here always so charming?
wildcard
[Want something else? Give me whatever strikes your interest. Hit me up if you want to plot or anything like that.]
Windowmaker | Overwatch
[Amelie shows up to the party, and almost immediately picks up one of the champagne flutes. She sticks out, but seems careless about the fact, like it's something that can't quite touch her as she winds her way through the people present. There'd been a dress she'd pulled out of the basket, the one she's found in the kitchen of a house that seemed to be hers. If nothing else, there seemed to be a lack of anyone to tell her otherwise.
She still doesn't quite trust this place, doesn't quite know how she got here, and that's a sensation she knows too well for it to be quite comfortable. It doesn't upset her; nothing does, but it's an itch on the chill of her blue skin. For those that are very, very sharp, they might notice that she clocks the exits, the best vantage points, the location across the street that would be the best place for a sniper.
But little of it shows in her demeanor, and she just sips at her glass, taking in the sights, the people, overhearing snippets of conversation here and there before she eventually slides up the the green-felt card tables in the back. She gets herself some chips and her smile is enigmatic as she takes her seat and the next hand starts, and she holds her cards in slender
killer'shands. Her voice is cool, her intonation almost a little flat, but with an edge of a French accent.]It's been a while since I've played.
and the clock strikes twelve
[Amelie watches the countdown along with everyone else. The glitter ball, the numbers called out as the digits flash, everyone crowded around, with glitter and expectant faces, like all of this means something. But she doesn't feel anything at all. Her heart is still and her mind is quiet and she sips at another glass of champagne.
She knows she's been to parties like this before, but can't quite place when the last time was. With Sombra and Gabriel, maybe? She remembers the Eiffel Tower, the glowing lights, but she isn't sure if it was a mission or not. The memory makes her feel something, and so she thinks it must have been. But as the seconds tick down, she finds herself strangely wanting to be close to someone, some sort of contact.
She has a knife in her hand; not because she intends to use it, but because she finds it interesting, and the violence on the air, the way that people go after each other, the screams-- that's something, almost feels like something. Almost. She eventually gives in, putting her free hand on the shoulder of someone's shoulder, whether it's familiarity or something else.]
Come here, chéri.
[If you're brave enough to not be discouraged by the knife she twirls in her fingers, you might find out if her lips are as cold as her hands.]
just a little chat
un: widowmaker
So, tell me- are the parties here always so charming?
wildcard
[Want something else? Give me whatever strikes your interest. Hit me up if you want to plot or anything like that.]