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burning_highway[Priss says nothing at all for a very long, drawn out moment, just staring at the camera like it might bite her... or like she might bite it. It's wariness from someone whose fight or flight instincts are most assuredly 'fight'. But this isn't the puzzled stare of someone unfamiliar with technology; she's framed perfectly, lit marvelously, and there isn't a trace of confusion in her sharp, unfriendly stare. She's found jeans, boots, and a t-shirt somewhere, all of which are too large for her, and she's sitting on the ground, leaning back against a wall. The camera is propped up on something; her hands are visible, bruised almost black.]
Hello, Poseidon.
[Her expression sours briefly at the unfamiliar word, like she doesn't like the taste of it; the pronunciation is a bit wonky, with the language barrier, though not so wonky that the communicators have any problem subtitling the translation. Priss looks away from the camera, possibly figuring out what to say. When she looks back again, it's with a slight, one-shouldered shrug under the loose shirt.]
Any of you any good on guitar?
[Probably not the expected question from a new face, that. She draws one leg up, bent sharply at the knee, one of her arms draped over it. There are many scabbed-over circular puncture wounds visible where her loose t-shirt leaves her arms bare. Several are stitched shut, where scabbing alone couldn't cut it, and much of the rest of her visible skin is a canvas of severe bruising from the jaw down. She looks like someone who should be in a hospital, honestly. But good luck making her stay in one.]
I guess I could use a drummer now, too.
[A soft snort, and Priss glances up at the sky before looking at the camera again.]
...But you gotta be good, or you're not worth my time.
Hello, Poseidon.
[Her expression sours briefly at the unfamiliar word, like she doesn't like the taste of it; the pronunciation is a bit wonky, with the language barrier, though not so wonky that the communicators have any problem subtitling the translation. Priss looks away from the camera, possibly figuring out what to say. When she looks back again, it's with a slight, one-shouldered shrug under the loose shirt.]
Any of you any good on guitar?
[Probably not the expected question from a new face, that. She draws one leg up, bent sharply at the knee, one of her arms draped over it. There are many scabbed-over circular puncture wounds visible where her loose t-shirt leaves her arms bare. Several are stitched shut, where scabbing alone couldn't cut it, and much of the rest of her visible skin is a canvas of severe bruising from the jaw down. She looks like someone who should be in a hospital, honestly. But good luck making her stay in one.]
I guess I could use a drummer now, too.
[A soft snort, and Priss glances up at the sky before looking at the camera again.]
...But you gotta be good, or you're not worth my time.
