Skirts and Subtlety

With a sideways glance, Illyria murmurs, "That's a nice shirt."

In the midst of perusing the directory with lips pursed with faint displeasure,
Aramaeus's rubious eyes flick aside to Illyria, a light of interest sparking to life within the rich
depths of his gaze. "Isn't it? You would not /believe/ how difficult it is to find a decent set of
trousers, though." Inspecting Illyria more intently, he sweeps a look up and down Illyria's attire,
nodding to himself. "Most striking."

With a hint of a smile, seen more in the slight brightening of eyes and easing of brows than any
sort of motion of her lips, Illyria comments softly, "I would believe it. You should try skirts
sometime, perhaps. Far better selection." Glancing back down at the directory herself, she makes a
tiny, thoughtful sound.

Lifting a gloved finger to his lips, Aramaeus cants his head aside in a posture of
consideration. "Hmm. I am ever so fussy with skirts. Difficult to find one that satisfies the desire
to flaunt my exquisitely shapely legs without painting me as a particularly winsome harlot." With a
brilliant flash of a smile, he continues, voice rich and inviting as darkest velvet, "But where are
my manners? I am Aramaeus Varens, and I must say, it is a pleasure to meet you - You are quite the
treat to the senses."

Illyria considers that for a long moment, her lips setting in a contemplative purse before offering
in a voice nearly lost in the sound of the passing woman, "A pencil skirt, perhaps." Only a tiny
sparkle of mirth betrays anything but the utmost seriousness as she adds, "I am Illyria. And
anything is a treat to the senses after the din of Tainted machinery all day and night, I'd
imagine." The smile finally breaks, a soft and fleeting thing, like a ray of sunshine through a
passing gap in an overcast sky.

Taking a small step forward and extending a hand politely, Proselyte Illyria, Listener of the Silent
Knell says, "Pleasant to meet you as well, Aramaeus."

Spreading his hands wide as he lifts his broad shoulders in a minute shrug,
Aramaeus breathes an exaggerated sigh of regret, stating, "Alas! I must retain maximum mobility, if
I am to twirl and skip about the ballroom floor. Terribly difficult to tango in a pencil skirt, you
know." Another quicksilver smile, the swift flash of white, sharp canines, and the man accepts the
proffered hand smoothly. With fluid elegant, he bows over Illyria's hand, clasped lightly within his
own, declaring, "Hardly anything, but I should think that there is little indeed in the world that
you would not be a treat in comparison to." Rising, he releases the hand and tucks his own together
at the small of his back, a smile lurking about the corners of his eyes. "Glomdoring, I take it?"

"What gave it away?" Illyria whispers, letting the compliments flow around her without touching, the
smile making another pass across her face before leaving it veiled once more. Tangling the fingers
of one hand into the thick shadows of her shroud and letting the other fall lightly over a thigh,
she tilts her head, the inlaid gold runes flashing in the unnaturally bright light of the
Aetherplex. "And as for the skirt, why, that depends on the material, doesn't it? Also, you could
add a slit." Her eyes go distant for a moment, as if picturing a sewing blueprint in her mind as the
challenge captures her. "I am certain we will meet on the battlefield someday, Aramaeus Varens. I
will endeavor to sew you a skirt to wear for it."

"Why, I imagine much the same that led you to believe I hail from Magnagora.
Certain subtle signs that the keenest of eyes might pick out, and so forth." Aramaeus replies
easily, eyes flicking to the flash of gold before returning to settle upon Illyria's own. "Rare is
the material than can keep up with the range and intensity of motion I am capable of employing, in
such a garment, but, again - The slit encourages the winsome harlot air that I am trying ever so
hard to avoid." A pause, and then, with a broad smile, "For this event, at least." The mention of
the battlefield wins a minute arch of an eyebrow, amusement glittering in his gaze. "Perhaps I am a
coward, or a pacifist. What then? Shall you sew me a skirt suited to lounging placidly on the
sidelines?"

Illyria lifts her chin up and to the side to study the ceiling, a motion that does nothing to hide
the subtle signs of growing amusement on her face. "Mm.. well, that would make my job all the
easier, then, as it would avoid the need for such considerations as armor and practicality." She
glances down again, drifting into motion as she begins to speculatively circle you, her feet seeming
to brush the ground as an afterthought only as her stormy wings roil. "Besides- there is something
to be said for letting your attire hide your legs, and letting your actions tease their shape and
capabilities. Many women manage this wonderfully," she murmurs, her whisper-soft voice carrying over
the cold floor with ease, borne on the chill breeze from her turbulent wings.

Rather than show even the barest hint of perturbation at being circled in such a
manner, Aramaeus brightens, a delighted gleam in the saturated magenta of his eyes as he adopts a
pose of effortless, graceful poise - A model held in languorous, sensuous repose, awaiting but the
eager hand of a skilled artist. "Well, yes. I /do/ wear trousers, you know. My legs are
tantalisingly hidden the majority of the time. Many men and other creatures of delightfully
indistinct gender can wield a skirt with such intriguing skill - Myself included." So saying, he
leans back lifting his right leg up and out in a slow, liquid arc, draping his wrist across his
brow. Holding the posture with evident ease, he continues in a perfectly conversational tone, "You
know, we have rather similar eyes. Perhaps we're related. Are you a long lost cousin?"

A hint of bemusement mingles with mirth as Illyria studies you, pausing in front of you after a
second full orbit. Her feet no longer maintain even a pretense of touching the ground, though she
does not bob or flutter. "I do not think so. I was born with blue eyes," she murmurs seriously.
"These are a gift of the Wyrd." Her head leans to one side to examine the unusual pose from another
angle, and she ventures softly in a quietly humorous voice, "I am uncertain what to make of you,
Aramaeus Varens, but you certainly have a flair for the dramatic."

Spinning gradually about, Aramaeus lowers his leg until the tips of his polished
shoes trace a hissing arc along the geode-ridden floor, until he comes to a stop, standing upright
once more. "Generous with eyes, is it?" The second remark elicits a lightning-quick grin, blinding
and swift. "You think so? How kind of you to notice! Do you think I could have a career upon the
stage?"

Illyria watches the graceful spin with little sign of the thoughts that lie behind her bright eyes,
though the smile elicits a faint one in return. "Ah... that would depend on the stage," she
whispers, a subtle but distinctly teasing note entering her voice. "Not mine, certainly. But those
lofty city dramas, why, absolutely."

Aramaeus's head cocks aside, a brow lifting in curiosity as he studies Illyria
intently. "Oh? Not yours, you say. Whyever not?" He pauses, and then places a gloved hand to his
chest suddenly, as if struck by a thought. "Of course! I am simply /too devastatingly handsome/. You
would never be able to enjoy the milquetoast offerings that come after me.

Illyria raises a brow, her lips turning up in one corner. "Mine offers more subtle and savage
things. Perhaps I will invite you, some day, to sample what it has to offer. As I am both curator
and artist of that particular set of offerings, though, I am admittedly biased in saying that they
are the farthest thing from... 'milquetoast'." The words are softly offered, quietly confident
without a hint of bravado.

You think to yourself: Black. Endless, absolute black - Dense and liquid, a composed, perfectly
still ocean of infinite expanse, crowned by a sky of total darkness. A brief, distant flicker of
something - A light? A spark of interest, perhaps? Gone too quick to be certain.

Uttering a dramatic sigh, the breath heavy with feigned disappointment. "Alas!"
Aramaeus cries, head tilting back to gaze sorrowfully at the ceiling. "If only I could grasp such
qualities as subtlety and savagery. A shame, then, that I am but a poor Magnagoran." Lowering his
hand to intertwine leather-clad fingers with one another, he offers Illyria a winning smile.
"Perhaps you might teach me, someday. I do so enjoy the arts, you know."

Illyria studies you, her expression veiled once more. In a polite, distant voice softened by an echo
of amusement, she states with certainty, "Something tells me that you could be the one giving
lessons. Good morn to you, Aramaeus, and good luck shopping. Pants are tricky things."

Laughter, low and rich, as Aramaeus lifts a hand to run black-clad fingers through
the atramentous locks of his lustrous hair, angling his jaw up and to one side. "I could be
convinced to teach you a thing or two, I suppose. Why, thank you ever so much - I am sure that I
shall need it." Lowering his hand to rest the edge of his palm against the fine jut of his
cheekbone, he wiggles his fingers slowly in farewell. "Pleasant meeting you, Illyria. Let's do this
again sometime - Somewhere less crowded, I think."

The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "I did not say it was I who needed the lessons. Be
well."

You tell Proselyte Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell, "And I did not say what the subject matter
would be - Do enjoy your day."

The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "." A distant whisper of laughter, an acknowledgement of
a point scored."