( she doesn't do approval without exceptional and extraordinary cause, but there's a dim flicker of something that isn't overwhelming disdain across her face when he approaches her. acceptance, maybe, which doesn't vanish completely as she deftly plucks the knife from his grip. gamora likes people with an eye for weaponry, even more if they're smart and don't beat about the bush with what one does with sharp, pointy objects.
her cursory glance of him takes a split second longer as well, eyes drifting to the weapons on his hip before going back to his face -- blank eyes making the movements of her gaze difficult to track. terran? possibly -- for a moment she's reminded of pip: short stature, overlarge head, hard to pin an age to. but he's wearing more clothes than the troll, even that horrid vest he'd worn the last time she'd seen him. a mystery, then, and some long buried part of her brain attempts to wake up at that before she stops it back down viciously.
the handle gives away completely under her own forceful examination, and one corner of her mouth turns upwards into something like a smile but very much not. dropping the now broken knife unceremoniously back on the vendor's display, she plucks a more finely crafted knife from further back. )
And then what's the point of going for a knife rather than a simple decapitation?
( she misses her proper sword. not the one she has strapped to her back, but the one she'd had since she was a child, refashioned. gamora repeats the gesture with the new knife, but this time she raises a brow ever so slightly in miles' direction. go on, small human. do your thing. )
no subject
her cursory glance of him takes a split second longer as well, eyes drifting to the weapons on his hip before going back to his face -- blank eyes making the movements of her gaze difficult to track. terran? possibly -- for a moment she's reminded of pip: short stature, overlarge head, hard to pin an age to. but he's wearing more clothes than the troll, even that horrid vest he'd worn the last time she'd seen him. a mystery, then, and some long buried part of her brain attempts to wake up at that before she stops it back down viciously.
the handle gives away completely under her own forceful examination, and one corner of her mouth turns upwards into something like a smile but very much not. dropping the now broken knife unceremoniously back on the vendor's display, she plucks a more finely crafted knife from further back. )
And then what's the point of going for a knife rather than a simple decapitation?
( she misses her proper sword. not the one she has strapped to her back, but the one she'd had since she was a child, refashioned. gamora repeats the gesture with the new knife, but this time she raises a brow ever so slightly in miles' direction. go on, small human. do your thing. )