There are some here who's touch would have her recoiling, turning away and burning with the strangeness of it; the intimacy of even a hand on her arm, her skin, is far too much for her at times. It does not feel so with Armand, who settles in her mind as though he belongs there, who has already shown her pleasure and accepted what parts of her are more dangerous and feral. If she were to be some other creature, she thinks, Lauralae would imagine herself to be one of his kind.

It would feel easy to slip into that role, to let her teeth bite for purpose for a change.

Tilting into his touch, unable to resist, she nods her head in understanding. Age-old, older than she is, which seems a rarity in this place where there are so many young things. Her age might scream ancient to a human, but to elvenkind she scraped the surface of her eternal life; one century is meaningless when you can live for hundreds.

"I see no reason not to play along," she admits, finally, voice low and careful. "Their magics are powerful, but nothing here offends. It is natural. Exciting." And she wants more of it, the urge to bite and sink her claws into the offerings almost too much to ignore.