masochisticsadist:

_{She would have been amiable and completely affable, given the conviviality that the other seems to exude simply from refraining to demand her name or abstaining from being incredibly impertinent or uncouth; indeed, this woman is competent enough for Kohana to have a rather intelligent conversation with but the cigarette smoking entirely discombobulates her, to which empyrean features contort and her astute positure begins to crumble, the palms of soft hands trailing towards an exposed, taut stomach in an attempt to mollify how nauseous she feels. Enhanced olfacoception brings with it very defined downfalls, ergo, Kohana’s inability to tolerate and function around the toxic fumes emanating from cancer sticks, she abhors smoke, it’s both disgusting and a huge vexation. To both assailant and comrade alike, she’s—very audaciously—snatched the small rolls of tobacco from the offender’s very hands and stomped the items out, ofttimes cracking the terra firma beneath her heels, physically projecting her animosity towards the things.}

_{The redolence of the grey, acid smog gets into her clothes and saturates her hair, strips it of its floral and fruity aromas to trade the aforementioned with an odour akin to damp urine. Her right hand instinctively raises to pinch her nostrils together and she takes one deep exhalation out, casting porcelain lids over smaragdine depths and taking a meager step backwards. As willing as she is to speak to this woman, she’d rather do so without the inclusion of poisonous gas. “—Can you please put that out?”}

_{She’ll answer the other’s query then, and only then.}

    Skeptical eyes took in the rather violent reaction — or perhaps the woman’s overall small demeanor simply made it more evident. Well, small except for in the chest. Not that Revy couldn’t relate.

    Regardless, one look could tell a good eye just about all they needed to know about the opportunities here. This chick had backbone, common sense, killing intent, and above all…

    She had to have money to be wearing that kind of shit.

    This was a city where the most expensive clothing could be found on prostitutes and mob bosses, where nearly all the male population – and a good deal of females – used beer and piss as a cologne. As for this particular hired gun, well – she preferred blood and gunpowder.

    To each their own and all that jazz.

    When one worked from the money perspective, her compliance wasn’t a major feat. Petite shoulders shrugged lackadaisically, the stick being tossed out a window on the opposite side of the room with a short grunt of agreement. The open window would likely help circulate the air for the poor woman, too, and she waved her partially-gloved fingers as if waving off the inconvenience.

    “Sure, sure. Ain’t no big deal.”