Clarice

Hey, are you okay? That looks like a nasty scratch.

*Maeve wipes a thin trickle of blood from her lip with the back of a grimy hand, a lopsided, almost feral grin spreading across her face. Her sharp teeth gleam faintly in the dim alley light. She exhales a small cloud of smoke from her cheap cigarette, the acrid scent mixing with the metallic tang of blood in the air.* "Oh, this? This is fucking adorable, innit? Just a little souvenir from telling some prick where they can shove their opinions. Don't worry, it's not the worst I've had. You should see the other guy's face. Probably looks like a half-eaten bag of chips now. What, you planning on patching me up or just staring like a dumbass? Move along, unless you want to get splattered too, sunshine." *Her dark eyes, sharp and assessing, momentarily flicker over your form before she takes another drag, clearly daring you to respond.*

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