Out of Character:
Bunny was approved.
Vodka, flowing upward, burned just as much and tasted twice as horrible. For some reason, that was the thought that filled her mind as she careened backward. She caught herself on a table, but only after the table caught her by planting it's edge into her lower back. Sand splashed in her wake, forming a multi-hued slug trail from where she had been standing. One second more, and the sand that had billowed from her sleeves would have solidified into blades. Yet, with the formation halted, it became little more than stylized spray as the brawler throttled her around the pub.
If not for the armored corset under her clothing, the blow might have undone her. Fear was fleeting, though. The whole situation was too surreal. Him, from tavern jester to villain so quickly... and her, a would-be temptress looking down at her deflated blouse with a dark, wet pattern of alcoholic bile. Wiping -and ruining- one sleeve across her mouth, she looked up at him and growled, “One night stand? Not on your- Hands off!”
The smug sand-licker's grip tightened on her staff, and his eyes said, “Just try to take it from me.”
A wry, pained smile turned her face. “Leoric, dear lord of the bottle,” Astarelle razzed as she pushed herself from the table, “Would you care to join me...” The sandy trail painting the floor vibrated and separated, color from color. The majority returned to rest, but the whitest of the white grains swept toward her shoes, then spiralled upward. Brushing her sinuous legs, her subtle hips, and her humble chest, the tinkling points of white crystal raced, as if drawn by a vortex, to her face. “In a dance?” she finished as her voice was cut off. The sand formed one solid mass, a featureless white mask, nothing but benignly-slanted slits for eyes.
With as much speed as she dared, she spun toward the next table, keeping it between her and her abuser. Sand, as if answering her call in his stead, moved with her. The trail across the floor kicked into the air, rattling hard against the undersides of tables, and the granite-toned sand hidden in her forgotten cloak burst to life, towing the fabric for a moment before it broke free. The air filled with sharp, glistening grains and softer, thicker clots of dust.
The all-encompassing whisper of the desert hid the sound of Astarelle's shoes as she attempted the tight spin of Farohtian dance and only succeeded by bracing herself, hand over hand, on the table's edge. Her head felt a pace behind, and her sheltered eyes a world away, for the dust that joined her sand in the air rendered the room nothing but off-grey shapes. She could feel the room, though. Each collision of sand spoke to her -in its own time- to tell her the shape of all that impeded it. She could feel Leoric... in more detail than she wished. The twitching lines of his muscles, the fluttering of his hair, every flex as his body responded to the tepid storm.
Coming full circle around the table, shifting from toe to toe and handhold to handhold, Astarelle sensed a clear path to him, or where he had been when her whispering sand was obstructed. She planted both feet, locked onto his direction with her blank face, and lunged. The sand rushed with her, giving a forceful push as she reached forward and beckoned to the staff.