Thread: Hey Baby, What's Your Sign? (Billiam x Satire)

The bus slowed to a stop across the street of the coffee shop with a screech and a hiss. The collage of sounds reached the ears of a young woman who was asleep in the foremost seat, wrists dangling between her knees with her head drooped. She gave a little sniffle in her sleep. Her bright blonde hair hung in a short, ruffled curtain that obscured her face and parted around a badly sunburnt neck. Of course, as the bus heaved to a halt, the girl slept no longer. With a squeal she jerked awake, feet scuffling for purchase on the floor of the bus as she teetered forward in her seat. With a jerk and a shout, her head hit the metal bar of the seat before her with a resounding clang . There was a murmur and a few laughs throughout the bus. Easing herself back into a sitting position, she held her head in a just-as-sunburnt hand, wishing she had had the foresight to resist pocketing that pack of batteries at the bus station. But I needed them, She said in a bitter tone to absolutely nobody. Regardless of what use she put the batteries to, theft was still a misdeed, so her luck had been dreary ever since then. She had lost his cell phone, recieved yet another rip in her sleeve and had her face slapped by an what could only have been a Aires, as it had stung so much. She had thought the girl was reaching for her purse. He was actually stooping for a penny. She pulled the penny in question out of her pocket and said, in a mocking musical voice, Find a penny, pick it up. Then all day you'll have good luck, and promptly threw the coin out the window. Luck , she said bitterly. The girls name was Clorin Pledge. Clorin was by no means a exceptionally tall girl, but managed to stand an eyebrow over most woman her age. She had the look of one who had both not gotten enough sleep, and had slept far too long in the sun. Her long nose and high cheekbones were painted crimson with sunburn, and the dabs of red would give her the look of someone quite cheerful if not for a pair of symmetrical grooves set below each eye. The rest of her face bore signs of lack of sleep as well. Her lips, while full, were pale and hard to tell apart from the rest of her complexion and her head drooped without warning as she fought to keep it up. She gave the impression of a girl who could be quite pretty if she ate a sizable meal and gave herself a good nights sleep. Her blonde hair was cropped short out of necessity, as she'd had far too much experience dealing with treebranches catching it when she'd been a bad girl. Her eyes were a weak brown, nearly orange. Well, more appropriately her eye. She wore a curious pair of glasses, round with a clear lens over her right eye and a tinted one over her left, hiding the place where her eye should be. Her hands and wrists were a collage of nicks and scratches, some fresh, others scarred over. They were by no means impressive battle wounds. They were the evidence of many a trip, stumble and fall. Her clothing was close to her body like her hair, though it hadn't escaped her bad luck. The occasional rip and stitch sewn were into the tight white tank top, accenting her small breasts that took a back seat to her healthy pair of hips that she was ever so conscious about. Her snug jeans were also in shambles, multicolored patches overlaying in some parts, her pale legs visible through holes in stunning contrast to her crimson face. Her stub-prone feet were wearing a pair of mid-calf beige boots. It was apparent that Clorin wasn't the best behaved Libra to be born under the stars of the scales, and as such, didn't have the best luck. With a stumble she was off the bus, standing on the sidewalk wearing her ever-present frown and T-shirt, already damp with sweat and her sports bra clearly visible. She looked lost, as though she didn't quite know why she was there. A sparsely packed duffel bag was over one shoulder. Her eyes wandered over her surroundings, passing over the ancient book store, the police station, the coffee shop. They finally rested on a narrow, tall building. A townhouse. She drew a slip of paper out of his pocket, compared the address to the number of the building, and grimaced. With hurried steps she was across the street, a car nearly turning her into a fine red mist as it sped past, and knocked on the door.