<br/><div class="floatleft">(http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/88/2b/7a/882b7a8e5773e2ce3bc7f8b7dcefca89.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Eiryn Grim<br/><br/><strong>Location:</strong>At da Partay,<br/><br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Isis, Matthew, open.<br/><br/><strong>Content:</strong>Showing a softer side, sorta<br/><br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>Something Witchy This Way Comes. (http://41.media.tumblr.com/efec81c4668d854e1713032a3930c8e0/tumblr_nd9bf43l9x1tsaz7eo1_1280.jpg)<br/><hr/><br/>There were people who had run afoul of Eiryn's temper who would call her insensitive.  And she'd agree, adding, though, that you first had to accept their definition of sensitivity. She wasn't about false gentleness, about happy little lies, about sugar-coating. She saved her giving-a-shitness for important things, people who deserved it, people who got that truth is hard but kind. OK, there were times she chose her words badly. Who didn't?<br/><br/>She knew that look. You didn't need to be a soldier, or know one. Hell, all you really had to do was be<em>around</em>the arts and music field any time in the last two or three decades. She'd held a few hands in hospitals, hugged a few friends who'd lost 'friends'- since until recently, that's all the law said they could be. Reaching out, she rested a thin, pale hand on top of one of Matt's. "Sorry, man. Want to talk about it?" Then she glanced across the table, to see if Isis had caught the signals. "Or would you rather hear how the hell the Playboy Baker over there got 'Ari' out of Isis? And am I ever gonna get that hemp back, babe, or has it rooted itself to your fingers?"