<div class="floatleft">(http://i43.tinypic.com/16718y9.jpg)</div><strong><em><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: andale mono;">Lyguardia Fen (Iggy)</span></span></em></strong><br/>Location: County Road 923; Reedland, Utah<br/>Time: Day 1, Evening<br/>Tagged:Oyohusa Adawehi<br/><br/><hr/><br/>A voice. Was there a voice? What had it said? With the intake of a sharp breath, the woman's eyes opened, iris' crowned in a strange gold, as they usually did when she allowed herself to be battered by the sun with no protection. A short nap had become an amazing thought to her, and she obviously gave in to that alluring thought. Now able to feel the heat on her chest, arms and abs, the slight color to her cheeks, Iggy sat up, nose scrunching in slight disdain as she she thought once more about the voice. Now what had it said?<br/><br/>”Excuse me, Miss. If I can get your truck running will you take me into town?”<br/><br/>She allowed a leg to rest, folded, to the side, while the other helped to prop up a lazily resting arm, boot placed firmly against the glass of the windshield. The woman removed her Dorman, only to run a few fingers through her long locks and once more place the pure white cap upon her head. Those crowned eyes turned to the man beside her vehicle, flickering over him in curiosity. Head to toe, denim, flannel, denim, backpack- all faded. The look of his face and hair, the faint scent of smoke, and the staff in his hand. It all pointed in the same direction. Some sort of tribal man. Carrying weapons, of course. They all do, especially when traveling; or at least the ones she had met did. They were in the weighted pack, his staff likely only half of a much larger weapon.<br/><br/>Iggy glanced back down the road from with the both had come, silently pondering what to do. There was no reason to fear the man, no. Perhaps if she remember what that felt like-fear, that is. She had lost that sense... Long ago. Regardless, she had also dealt with her fare share of dangerous men, whether they be the nasty truckers that try to pick up pretty girls, or the oh-so-typical rugged types that no woman can resist having a quick romp with behind a deserted gas station. Men were men, very few worth feelings, but enough worth a good fuck. A smirk at the thought as she glanced over the native man once more before twisting her legs and jumping swiftly off the truck, the white t-shirt she had laid on now pushed into her left back pocket.<br/><br/>"Your name?" A brow was cocked up at him. "I don't allow any man to touch my equipment without a name."<em>What a lie.</em>Of course that statement may have sounded a bit strange, even distasteful, but she hadn't thought too much of it. "Tell me your name and we've got a deal," she held out a hand, awaiting his shake.<br/><br/>Did she seem too straight forward? Sure. Was she sometimes too friendly? Definitely. Did she care? Not at all. This man proved no threat to her, and she needed the old hunk running to get anywhere. Save a few bucks and get some good conversation.