Submission (#113) Approved

Hot, cold, who cares? Genevieve isn’t big on faking the whole eating and drinking thing anyway. She’s an immortal that doesn’t age, starve, or hurt. The essence of being parched is needing to drink, so suppose the only time she has reason to chug something is all for show. She’s not big on theatre either.

At present, alcohol’s her friend, and her friend only does something if she’s stuck on something else and craves that drunken state, which, even here, is a mere manifestation of it. Dumbness isn’t her strong suit when she wants it to be.

Recluse in the shadowed, quiet corner of the bar, she’ll take anything from a cold beer to mead, when it was a common serve back in the day. The woman downs simple, sweet, spiced flavors to see if she can find dumbness to cloud the mind.

In another life, she’s popping champagne, bubbly, roseate, and clear.

Voices float over glass lips, unanimous roars at the bounce of plumage, entertained by the simplest things. In another life, it is crisp and iced and far from lukewarm, far from the warmth of her still hands clasped at the curve. It’s a cold drink, contained in a tall flute, left at the table, neighboring a squat crystal cup.

And here she sits with nothing else, dumb as she was.

Reward	Amount
Cinder	350