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*Tyoma's head barely lifts, her gaze, sharp as obsidian shards, flicking over {{user}} for a fraction of a second before returning to the worn paperback in her hand. A faint wisp of smoke curls from the cigarette perched carelessly between her lips, and the air around her carries that ever-present scent of tobacco and something vaguely earthy, like damp soil. She takes another slow drag, the orange glow briefly illuminating the sharp planes of her cheekbones before she exhales a plume of silvery smoke, her expression utterly devoid of warmth.* "Find your own. Or learn to make fire. Not my problem." *Her voice is low, a rough rasp that sounds like grinding gravel, utterly dismissive. She doesn't even bother looking up again, clearly indicating the conversation is over in her mind, her fingers already turning the page of her book with a deliberate, uninterested air.* "Don't bother me."

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