Glitter and Gold [Memory]

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Sun Jul 14, 2019 4:02 pm

Late night, 54th Roalis, 2714
The Drunk Tank, Vienda Jail
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The drunk tank of Vienda’s jail was notorious: loud, sticky, vomit-strewn, and well-close to brimming with humans, mostly, and the occasional wick. The smaller tank next door, reserved for the occasional galdor who had had a bit too much to drink, was just as filthy, as if it had slowly absorbed the character of its larger neighbor, but empty more often than not, a small quiet space alongside its noisier relation.

One of the most famous features of the tank was the large stain that spread across the ceiling of it, starting in one corner near the bars and extending long strange tendrils back across towards the far wall. Many nights – and tonight was no exception – at some point, once the tank was sufficiently packed, loud, angry arguments would break out about the origins of the stain. Something about the combination of human waste, stale beer and too much body heat, especially during unpleasantly dry, hot summer nights, seemed to bring what should have been easy, observational conversation to the boiling point within minutes – and they were all there for hours.

The blowout was almost inevitable. It was hard to tell when the conversation would start; someone would see the stain eventually, it was large, aggressive, and there wasn’t much to look at other than the walls, ceiling and one’s fellow drunk tank residents (the last being fraught with danger). Once it started, though, there was no holding it back; it seemed to blaze like wildfire through the tightly packed humans and occasional wicks.

Everyone had an opinion; that was fine. Loud, raucous voices raised on all sides were unpleasant, but not necessarily dangerous. It was only once camps began to form, once people began to sort themselves into sides, that it began to be a problem.

“IT’S VOMIT!” Roared a drunk, angry voice.

“NE! NE, IT’S BLOOD – IT’S GOTTER BE BLOOD!” Another called back over the din.

“YER BOTH FULL O’ CHROVESHIT,” Answered a third. “IT MUS’ BE PUS – WHA’ ELSE ‘D STAIN LIKE THA’?”

“VOMIT!” The first voice called back.

“BLOOD!” Screamed the second.


“NE! PUS!” Yelled the third.

And so the argument was born. The blood camp died out quickly, its members surging briefly then finding themselves on one side or the other, between the vomit theory and the pus theory. Voices raised louder and louder – hands clenched to fists – a few blows came close to being struck – the very temperature in the cell seemed to rise, as if within moments the whole thing would erupt into a riot, as had happened – well – more than once.

“SHUT UP!” A mona-amplified voice, high-pitched, feminine and distinctly bastian in accent, roared from the cell next door. Two small dirty hands grasped the bars, and a few locks of hair and half a small, rounded nose peered out, one bloodshot eye almost visible. Those close to the bars and to the galdori’s tank could feel the sharp pulse of a ramscott field like a thunderclap against their skin.

The noise level dropped, abruptly, nearly to hushed silence.

“I am trying,” Niccolette Ibutatu said through clenched teeth, her taut, humming voice sloshing with drink but still audible in the quiet, hot air, “to sleep!”

The small Bastian released the bars, her narrow skirt swirling behind her, and stalked back to the far corner of her cell. Her expensive shoes sat against one of the walls, long since kicked off, and delicate bare feet stuck periodically to the ground. She plopped onto the filthy ground without the faintest care for the expensive pale pink silk fabric of her dress. The galdor closed her eyes, tilting her head of tousled dark hair back against the wall of the jail, and let out a long sigh.

There was a quiet murmur of voices from the human drunk tank, a soft grumble of ‘It’s gotter be pus.’ Niccolette muttered to herself in quiet monite, the second vocal augmentation spell as easy as the first, though tinged with deep annoyance. A faint stream of something intangible rose up in the air, streaming from her out into the air outside the cell - a loud, forceful “shhhh” echoed in the lower races’ drunk tank, and the hum of voices dropped abruptly to silence once more.

Just after dawn, 54th Roalis, 2714
The Drunk Tank, Vienda Jail
Both cells of the drunk tank had a window; this time of year, dawn came early, unpleasantly so, and Niccolette Ibutatu found herself waking up with a stiff, sore neck, crumpled against the wall, to faint rays of sun shining directly into her face. She glanced around the cell and groaned, rubbing her aching head with one hand, smearing already destroyed eyeliner further around her eyes and onto her cheeks.

Dirty hands ran through already dirty hair, rumpling it off her face, and Niccolette rose unsteadily, pacing a few feet back and forth in the cell. It was, she noticed, even filthier when seen by daylight; her nose wrinkled, her lips pursing together, and she scowled at her surroundings. Loud, aggressive snoring echoed from next door, accompanied occasionally by the sounds of shifting movement, snorts, and the occasional angry snarl.

After a few more trips back and forth across the cell, and a hot, angry conversation with the Seventen guard who still refused to let her out, Niccolette settled against the back wall one more, one leg drawn up to reveal a good deal of pale calf and a faint hint of equally pale thigh beneath the once-lovely dress. A small, fabric-covered arm draped over her raised knee, hand hanging limp at the end of it. Her head rocked back against the wall once more, and Niccolette raised the other arm to sprawl over her face, protecting her eyes from the steadily lightening sun as best as she could. She scowled, the throbbing headache refusing to yield, closed her eyes, and did her best to go back to sleep.

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Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Fri Sep 27, 2019 4:32 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Arion Lux
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 4:46 am

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Vienda Jail
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It began in the corridor, like the yelp of a wounded animal. Yet the sound persisted, the echoes of the corridor transforming it into a kennel of yapping dogs, and then stretched into the cocophany of an ingo beach during mating season. The shriek was high pitched, and penetrating, and painfully deliberate, falling silent only for a brief instance as the chair skipped over the edge of a flagstone, and then continued its screaching journey across the floor towards the more exclusive of the Vienda drunk tanks.

At long last it came to a blessed halt, one last death-wail of wood dragged against stone as Arion Lux carefully adjusted the angle to align both with the stonework of the floor, and the bars of the cage. Content, Arion settled himself into the seat, more composed and put-together than anyone had any right to be at such an early hour. His jawline almost gleamed with pristine clean-shaven freshness, his white shirt crisp and pressed, the contrast with the charcoal grey of his waistcoat and suit as smart precise as the cut of his tailored jacket. A brief moment was taken to adjust the cuffs of the shirt as he sat, knees together and back straight like some textbook illustration of proper posture. It was not just formal, it was meticulous, everything about the man carefully calibrated with precision tools.

In his lap sat a leather-bound journal, which Arion turned its attention to, a long slender length of emerald ribbon helping to guide the book open to the correct page. Unnecessarily, he reviewed the details of the caged woman before him, rendered in his own hand, rather than the unpleasant moa scratchings of the knuckle-dragging kenser whom the Seventen held in such low regard that he was tasked with bookkeeping in the dead of night. The review was unnecessary, because Arion Lux was already quite familiar with the young woman's case: it was why he was here, long before any of his fellow lawyers and barristers would be awake. It was a habit of his, a luxury almost: to rise early, wander the deserted streets towards the jail, and peruse the night's takings by the Seventen, like a collector looking for the early deals at an auction house. Rather than bid, rather than wait for the misdemeanours and court proceedings to be scattered among the legal professionals like rice for the birds, Arion's timeliness gave him the pick of the crop - and today, Ms. Niccolette Ibutatu was the tasty succulent of a case that had drawn his attention.

There were many things about her and her situation that had drawn Arion's attention. Her name alone was a fascination, an odd fusion of familiar and foreign. The arrest report described her as Bastian, too - or at least, swearing like a Bastian sailor - which, though too young to remember the country before he and his mother relocated to Anaxas, filled Arion with an odd sense of kinship with the young woman. Then there were the criminal acts themselves: unlawful use of magic, and assault against a member of the Seventen. Cases like this were candy to the Vienda barristers: no one was ever going to absolve a defendant of such crimes, but there was something satisfying about the act of defending someone who'd clocked one of those practitioners of uniformed thuggery squarely in the jaw. The state or the client would have to pay the barrister for their time regardless, and for their trouble, they were rewarded with the gory details of police comeuppance.

"Ms. Ibutatu," he finally uttered, his tone almost musing as his eyes surveyed the page one last time. "My name is Arion Lux: I am your crown-appointed advocate for the legal proceedings that you have incurred." Like his visage, Arion's words were crisp and precise, perfectly pronounced, each sound and syllable annunciated clearly, though spoken in a soft tone and with all the delicate care of a butler polishing silverware. "And you -"

His eyes finally climbed from the page, allowing himself to regard the Bastian woman with more than just his peripheral attention. There was much he could discern from someone in her situation, even from just a few cursory instants, but in this case what became most apparent of all was the defiance with which Nicollette carried herself. She was tired, yes, dishevelled, and undoubtedly suffering the after-effects of whatever she had imbibed the night before, and yet she did not seem diminished by the experience of her night in lock-up, nor did she seem to have the kind of remorse or regret that clients in such hungover states often developed as the reality of their situation began to sink in.

"- are much paler than I would have expected, given your name."

A hand reached into his jacket, retrieving a writing implement from an inside pocket: a pencil though, not pen - Arion had enough experience to know that nothing a client claimed or admitted at this stage on the proceedings was certain enough to be scribed in something as imutable as ink. The sharpened point poised, ready to begin filling Arion's journal with further notes.

"Is there a Mr. Ibutatu you will be requiring me to send a missive to? Or anyone else, for that matter, who might need to be informed that you will be somewhat indisposed for the time being?"
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 10:43 am

Just after dawn, 54th Roalis, 2714
The Drunk Tank, Vienda Jail
It was difficult, mastering one’s self mentally and emotionally while sitting in a filthy, disgusting cell, back and buttocks pressed against hard stone walls, bright, taunting summer light streaming with increasing intensity through the narrow high window, steady grumbles from next door growing ever louder, the smell of vomit and urine and stale beer thick enough to taste in the air. Niccolette, however, was doing an admirable job, so long as one widened the definition of mastering one’s self mentally and emotionally to include falling asleep.

Even with the throbbing headache that seemed to start at her temples and extend down to her stomach where it churned nauseatingly, even with the way every noise from the cell door seemed to pulse through her, even with the painful crick in her neck, Niccolette was very nearly on the edge of dozing off when the noise started.

It was excruciating; as if someone were dragging nails down a chalkboard (certainly never a thing Niccolette had done), but the chalkboard were her spine and the nails were razor sharp bits of pain that seemed largely focused on her head. The Bastian lifted her head from the wall, slowly, bleary, red-eyed gaze focused on the space in front of her cell, scowl settling deeper into her face. She didn’t move an inch; she didn’t get up to look, didn’t shift her dress down to modestly cover her thigh and calf, she just – waited.

Surely the noise would end eventually? There was a brief second of respite, a moment in which Niccolette knew hope – and then it was snuffed out again.

There was audible grumbling from the cell next door, a few voices raised in quiet protest, and a few others raised in louder protest, exhorting the grumblers to let the rest of them sleep.

The galdor’s patience broke as well, just for a moment. She groaned, audibly, thumping her head back against the wall. At least that pain was a distraction from the headache, although only for a moment, before they seemed to sort of merge, the throbbing, the noise and the dull ache at the back of her skull all settling firmly together. But by the time the gray-suited galdor settled in front of her with his notebook and his emerald ribbon and his perfect posture, Niccolette was (mostly) upright, eyes narrowed, one arm draped over her knee and the other resting with perfect casualness on the ground next to her. There was no sense of remorse or desperation on her face, nothing to remotely indicate that she was at any kind of disadvantage in this situation. They might have been colleagues in the library at Brunnhold discussing some point of (contentious) magical theory or sitting opposite one another in a restaurant having a tense conversation, for all it showed on her (rumpled, dirty, red-eyed, make-up smeared) face.

Niccolette raised a slender eyebrow at Arion’s chosen greeting, glancing almost amused down at her bare length of pale skin, but her scowl settled back into place at the mention of a Mr. Ibutatu. Her jaw clenched, a muscle jumping along her jaw, and Niccolette took in a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh.

For a moment, Niccolette contemplated jumping to her feet and telling this posturing, self-righteous galdor lawyer precisely what she thought of him, his chair – sweet lady, that noise – and where, precisely, she suggested he place that pencil, and perhaps the notebook along with it. She didn’t; not because the desire wasn’t there or the words wouldn’t come to her tongue, but mostly because her head really did hurt, and she didn’t really feel like standing again just yet. It had been surprisingly draining.

And Niccolette could control herself, when she wanted to. She really could. Uzoji had no right to say otherwise, no right at all, not when he was the one who –

Niccolette's jaw clenched again, tighter, and she forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. With all deliberate slowness, she nestled back against the wall, as if her cell were the most comfortable place she had ever passed the night. She tilted her head back to rest her head against the wall once more, exposing the long white column of her throat, slightly smudged with dirt, and closed her eyes once more. “Perhaps you might return later?” She offered, voice surprisingly smooth despite the rough night, bastian accent thickening the words. “I was nearly asleep,” she paused, thinking the words over, and added, almost graciously. “You may leave the chair here, to save yourself time.”

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Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Mon Jul 15, 2019 3:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Arion Lux
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 2:50 pm

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Vienda Jail
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Arion was not deterred by the young woman's suggestion, nor by the subtle indications in her expression and field that perhaps she was contemplating the same kind of actions against him that the Seventen officer had been on the receiving end the night before. That was worth noting, though Arion did not, his pencil remaining stationary a few sixteenths of an inch above the paper's surface. True, it was not particularly difficult to provoke someone in a cage with a hangover, but the fact that her aggression - today, at least - seemed to come with a side of violent intent was an important thing to be conscious of. Once was was a meaningless data point, twice was merely correlation, but three times or more began to define a pattern. The legal profession had a particular fondness for patterns. It was not enough to simply assess what you had done: it mattered if it was consistent, if it fit your pattern of behaviour, if there was a likelihood of a repeat offense. The more discouragement it seemed like you needed, the more hefty your fine was likely to be.

"I'll take that as a no on the correspondence to friends and family, then," he responded calmly, carefully scrawling a few letters into his journal. The writing had been for emphasis, rather than a literal note of any substantial meaning: for now the word 'socks' stared back at him from the page, the first arbitrary object that had sprung to mind. Presumably, it was a subconscious reflection on the bare feet that loomed out at him from behind the bars, the soles dirtied to an unpleasant degree. If Arion had to guess, the pair of discarded shoes beside her had been abandoned some time ago, and the floor of the drunk tank was the responsible party. Either that, or the shoes had been discarded even earlier in the night, and Ms. Ibutatu had walked through the streets in her barefooted state. It was something that he had witnessed, particularly in women who had consumed too much alcohol, and lacked the requisite foresight to have selected more practical shoes. But then, shoes in general were a mystery that Arion was unwilling to waste any cognitive capacity trying to comprehend. Shoes were a matter of practicality and function, and anyone who spent their hard-earned coin on superfluous footwear clearly had more money than sense.

Idly, he wondered if Ms. Ibutatu would take the prospect of a fine more seriously if he expressed it's value in terms of shoe purchases. How many potential pairs would she need to be deprived of the finances for before the gravity of her situation sank in? Or, was she wealthy enough that no amount of shoes could curb her violent tendancies?

This was another facet of the Bastian that the law would be interested in. Fines were not merely a flat fee, they were intended as a deterrent. Charge the rich the same as the poor, however, and that concept failed to function: the wealthy would merely pay the fine without feeling anything more than a little inconvenience, while the destitute would have their lives utterly destroyed by a crime that the state deemed insignificant enough to avoid harsher punishments. A fee proportionate to the offender's means: that was the crucial concept, and one that required a certain degree of knowledge and information - not something that Ms. Ibutatu seemed in the mood to volunteer.

"If you wish to decline council at this time, that is of course your right. You are more than welcome to wait here in the company of these -" He hesitated, eyes straying towards the great unwashed caged in the cell beside hers, "- fine individuals until your hearing, at which time I will defend your case to the best of my ability with the negligable information that you have provided thus far. Or -"

Arion let the word hang in the air for a moment, falling silent, save for the rhythmic heartbeat drumming of his pencil against the edge of the journal. The heartbeat mimicked his own, calm and unwavering, buying him the opportunity to contemplate the woman further, calculating whether or not she represented a flight risk. With a less alert offender, he might have called upon the mona, composing a verbal contract to secure a little Perceptive insight into Ms. Ibutatu's state of mind. Under the circumstances, he did not feel he needed such mystical aid, however; nor did he feel like such an attempt would go unnoticed. Instead, he chose to try and make an appeal to the kind of woman that her current circumstances portrayed her to be.

"Help me piece together the particulars of your case, and enough of your situation to petition for bail, and perhaps I can get you out of this rather unpleasant predicament and into accommodations with a bed, peace and quiet, and perhaps even a bath - which I assure you, even from this distance, I can tell is very much required." Arion's lips tightened into a smile: not one that conveyed any warmth or pleasantries, but not one that implied any sort of malice of amusement either. It was a smile of appeasement, the kind of smile that broached a tentative alliance: a We're in this together no matter what happens, so let's try and keep things as painless as possible, shall we? sort of smile.

"If I were to hazard a guess, underneath all this -" His hand rose, pencil clasped between his index and middle fingers and resting against his thumb, drawing a circle in the air that encompassed the Ibutatu-centric spectacle before him. There was no judgement in his voice, but there was something, a certainty in his words that might have bordered on arrogance, were it not delivered in such a calm and matter-of-fact manner. "- is a young woman who might be considered quite attractive, given the right circumstances. As I said, I will of course argue your case to the best of my ability regardless, as a point of professional pride, but it would make it considerably easier for me to appeal for leniency on your behalf if we can find a way to present you as a respectable young galdor, and not someone you might expect to find stumbling out of a whore house in the Dives in the dead of night."
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 3:33 pm

Just after dawn, 54th Roalis, 2714
The Drunk Tank, Vienda Jail
Niccolette, in point of fact, despite her best efforts was not very good at feigning nonchalance. As if she hadn’t already been obvious enough on the subject, a shudder ran through her at the mention of family and friends, and the hand resting on the ground clenched the already-filthy fabric of her skirt tightly. If such a thing could be imagined, she seemed to have managed to worsen the creases in it.

I have a seer stone, she wanted to say. My husband is at the other end. He will come.

Would he?

Niccolette felt a faint shudder of apprehension at the thought. She hadn’t left him – Uzoji knew that, didn’t he? She had only needed some time to herself, out of Old Rose Harbor, that horrid filthy city where he had wanted them to live. Fine. She would live there, rather than in the Muluku Islands where they had been so happy. Fine. She would live there, with all his whores, those women who –

Niccolette sniffled a little.

Uzoji would come, Niccolette told herself. All she needed to was send word, and he would be in the air within the hour. Wouldn’t he? Another shudder ran through her. And if she called, and he did not come? If he was really so angry with her – not for what she had said. She had said worse before. But she had never left. Already, it was perhaps the longest they had been apart since their marriage, this week that she had been in Vienda.

She didn’t move at the implied threat of staying in the cell. What did it matter, really? The comment about the bath provoked a response at least; Niccolette’s head rose, her gaze fixed briefly on Arion, and then she turned to the side, staring fixedly at the wall, very pointedly not looking down at the smears of dirt on her skin, her dress, her legs, her feet – disgusting, all of it.

The tone of Arion’s voice may have carried no judgment, but his words were a different matter. Niccolette’s gaze snapped forward, and she all but leapt to her feet, anger banishing the sadness, however temporarily. “How dare you!” She cried out, eyes blazing, the faint hint of moisture gone, whatever redness it might have imparted possibly lost to her overall bloodshot state, hands snapping to her waist. She gritted her teeth again, gripping herself tightly.

“As if – “ Niccolette huffed. “You want to know my case?” She mimicked his precise, careful way of speaking, glaring at Arion from behind the bars. She didn’t approach – mostly because there was no point, Niccolette knew fully well she wasn’t any more intimidating up close. Also, in truth, because she wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t stumble; even just standing was much more difficult than the galdor had expected. Her field, in point of fact, was fully controlled, tucked in tight around her. Whatever anger she was expressing, it couldn’t be felt in the cloud of mona that hovered about her, any more than the deeper emotions that seethed between the surface.

“You think you are very superior,” Niccolette told Arion. “You think – ah, she was drunk, she will have a headache. I must have a chair, I could carry it – instead I will drag it along the floor, I will prove I am in control. Fine! You are in control. Did you think I did not already know?” She glared at him. “Do you think I do not know I need to bathe?”

“But fine. My particulars, for the sake of your professional pride,” Niccolette mimicked his cool, precise way of speaking again, crossing her arms over her chest now, drawn up to every inch of her height, jaw square, fury blazing from her eyes, field tightly controlled still.

“Some filthy,” Niccolette’s jaw worked silently, “man,” she spat, glaring at Arion, “some Seventen, but I do not know this – I am at a bar, in Uptown, awaiting my friends, and he wishes to speak with me. Fine, I am polite to him. We speak. Now he thinks I will –” Niccolette glared at Arion, as if he had personally affronted her, fury blazing out of her eyes still. “He grabs hold of me,” she gestured to a particularly crushed looking part of one sleeve. “You tell me – what am I meant to do? I do not know he is a Seventen, how can I know this? He tries to take me with him, to leave, and I – I do what I can do to stop him.” She raised her eyebrows, staring Arion down, hands still on her hips. “Saying no does not work, you understand? I cannot pull away, he is too strong. So what else am I to do?”

“So – you tell me,” Niccolette said, with as much ice as she could possibly inject into her voice. “Is this enough? I will stay here. I do not wish to be in your company any longer than necessary,” she turned away from the bars, staring fixedly at the back wall of the cell. Trembling shoulders promptly gave her away, and Niccolette sniffled, wiping increasingly wet eyes with filthy hands.

"You tell 'im!" Called a faint, female voice from the cell next door.

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Arion Lux
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 4:57 pm

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Vienda Jail
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"I thought that might work."

Arion had endured Ms. Ibutatu's outburst without a word, without flinching, and indeed without much of a reaction of any kind. He simply watched, and studied, letting the details that erupted from her wash over him, soaking into his mind like blood into a clean handkerchief pressed against an open wound. Her anger was intense, and it was warranted: not just at his words, but at her entire situation. Arion would have been lying if he'd tried to claim that he'd foreseen this, somehow gleaned the hidden specifics of the altercation, but he felt like he had. It was certainly a familiar story. Sometimes it was a bystander stepping in, to intervene. Sometimes it was a woman like Niccollete, with the means to defend herself. Sometimes the story didn't emerge until the aftermath, Seventen earning blows for what was already done. Far more times, Arion suspected, such stories were never heard at all: not in the halls of law, at least.

Part of Arion wished that he had been able to foresee Niccolette's circumstances. It wouldn't have changed his strategy of informative provocation, but it might have tempered the nature of his provocative allegations.

His eyes fell away from his offended offender, hand scribing away a few shorthand details of the situation that she'd finally elaborated on. "You're quite talkative when you're angry," he observed, off-hand, as the pencil twirled the flourish on a lower case g. "Quite helpful in expediting my efforts here, but that might prove a little problematic when it comes to your hearing."

The final letter looped, and a set of parenthesis closed, Arion let out a slow exhale: less a sigh, and more of a cleansing deflation. His journal closed with a soft slap of paper against paper, and leaning to the side, Arion set it down on the ground beside him, the pencil laid carefully on top, orientated along the line that connected one corner with its diagonal opposite. He straightened, but also didn't, the escape of breath relaxing the formality of his posture. His feet drifted a little further apart, forearms coming to rest a little way above his knees, fingers threading together, body leaning a little closer to the bars. His voice didn't change, but the shift in stance transformed the context of his words, quietly matter-of-fact seeming gentler somehow, steady and certain but as if they'd somehow gained a softer touch.

"You are correct that I have been attempting to manipulate you, Niccolette." The shift to the more familiar form of her name was uninvited, but it was deliberate, an erosion of the social separation that the more formal form constructed. "For you, this may be your first time enduring the hospitality of this jailhouse, but this is not my first time sitting on this side of the bars. I could have walked in here and addressed you politely, but I don't think it's unreasonable to guess that you wouldn't have been any more receptive. That is not a slight against you specifically, just the harsh lesson of experience. For you, this situation is deeply personal; for me, it is no different from any other fourth. I am not uncaring, but I must be practical. Holding your hand through this process will not see you out of this cage any faster. My methods, though they may feel like I am tugging on a knife in your chest, are the fastest way to get you back on the streets, free to do whatever it is you are here to do."

Arion's brow furrowed, just a fraction. "I cannot know what you are feeling, but I can imagine, at least some of it. You are a woman. He is a Seventen. You must feel as if the world is stacked against you, as if there is opposition on all sides. You aren't wrong. Justified or not, the letter of the law states that your actions are a crime. It may be called the justice system, but that is just a name: your case will be heard in a court of law, not a court of justice; not a court of opinion, or nuance. You and your actions are what is to be scrutinised here, before the eyes of magistrates too jaded to care."

He drew in another breath and released it slowly, another wave of calm draping itself over his words. "I am not one of those opponents. I am your advocate, the only ally you have in this situation. Am I arrogant? Yes. Absolutely. I know how this process works, and you do not. That is not vanity, or hubris, that is fact. Whether you like me is irrelevant. Whether I like you, is irrelevant. My job is to help you, to advocate for your case, to ensure that you make it through this process in the best shape possible. I cannot do that without honesty, clarity, and information: all things that the anger I provoked has revealed, far more expediently than if I had approached you with honey rather than vinegar. If you want to divorce yourself from my company as quickly as possible - and who could blame you? - then the best way to do that, the best way to achieve that, is to follow my lead. I'm not asking you to like me, but I am asking you to trust me. After all, it is in my arrogant self-interest to succeed."

His gaze lingered on Niccolette as he let those words settle, eyes intently locked with hers for a few enduring heartbeats. Had the pencil still been in his hand, it might have drummed out the same rhythm as before, but in its absence his hands remained idle, still woven into each other in a pacifying restraint. Finally, they broke apart, Arion leaning to his side once again to retrieve the journal and pencil. Carefully, he reasserted his page, and his attention returned to his notes, though his eyes glanced up at Niccolette once again.

"Now, you said that you were waiting for friends when this happened, so I'll repeat my earlier question: is there anyone you would like me to send word to about your situation? Anyone who might be worried about where you are?"
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 8:05 pm

Just after dawn, 54th Roalis, 2714
The Drunk Tank, Vienda Jail
Niccolette couldn’t seem to stop the tears anymore. She hadn’t cried the night before; she had shouted quite a bit as they arrested her. She had argued, protested, yelled, screamed, and cursed fluently throughout. At least she hadn’t gone so far as to cast again; drunk as she had been, Niccolette had known it for a poor idea before she’d even had it. By the time she had reached the cell, still drunk, she had been burnt out, but still not sad.

Even now – it wasn’t so much the arrest or the jail cell that troubled Niccolette. It was the thought that Uzoji would be laughing if he were here. He wouldn’t mind seeing her filthy; he had seen her covered in worse and never loved her less.

‘He has you there,’ Uzoji would have told her, when Arion spoke again. He had meant to manipulate her, and better yet, he had succeeded. Niccolette wasn’t so arrogant as to argue with that.

Niccolette sniffled softly into her hands, rubbing her eyes. She glanced back over her shoulder when Arion called her talkative, watching through red swollen eyes as he shifted to a more casual stance, making a little face when he called her Niccolette. Tears had tracked through the dirt and make up on her face, creating oddly clean trails from her eyes down. Unfortunately, it only made her look even dirtier, revealing just how pale the skin beneath usually was.

Slowly, as Arion spoke, Niccolette turned back to face him, arms crossed over her front once more – not folded, but holding the opposite arms, almost as if she were hugging herself, though with her shoulders still squared. She rested her back against the wall, just her back at first, and then – slowly – slid down back to the ground. It wasn’t as if the back of her ruined dress could get any filthier, or at least not as if it would matter if it did. This time, with a careful shift, Niccolette kept her knees tucked beneath her skirt, and she sat on the ground with them folded up to her chin, the hem of the dress settled over them and only her bare dirty feet peeking out beneath.

Niccolette wrapped her arms around her knees, listening to the lawyer talk. He certainly did seem to have many words to say; perhaps it was a job requirement. A few last tears were still trickling from her eyes, but Niccolette ignored them as fully as if they were not there. She met his eyes at the comment about arrogant self-worth, hers narrowing slightly, watching him from across the cell.

He was right, Niccolette thought. He could not know what she was feeling; perhaps he could not even imagine it, though his fancy words suggested he had imagined someone else’s feelings quite well. And Niccolette supposed, he was not wrong that he knew more than she did here. She would not try to take the helm of an airship; she would not try to cast a perceptive spell. And she certainly knew herself well enough not to think she could convince any magistrate to set her free.

“You like to talk,” Niccolette commented. “If you are not angry, then what is your excuse?” She raised an eyebrow at Arion, chin resting on her knees. The bastian sighed, softly, turning her head to rest her cheek against the dirty pink silk, taking a few further moments of silence for herself.

“I do not like you,” Niccolette said, finally, looking up from her knees at Arion once more. There was still no regret in her, no remorse; filthy, disheveled, still faintly furious, and facing an unknown amount of jail time and fines, and Arion would have the clear sense that Niccolette regretted nothing. “And I do not trust you – and, I would rather you call me Ms. Ibutatu,” she raised an eyebrow at him, pausing there for a moment. Her arms tightened slightly around her knees.

“But,” Niccolette said, slowly, grudgingly, “I do not see as I have - many other choices. And it would not be so bad to have a bath,” she made a little grimace. “So I will do as you say,” she paused, and shrugged. “I will try,” Niccolette amended, with something like a grin flitting over her face.

It was the same question again, in the end. Niccolette glanced down at her left hand, at the band of pale skin on her left ring finger, hidden by the filth of the cell. Consciously, she didn’t reach to touch it; it felt oddly empty, had ever since she had pulled the ring off and flung it at Uzoji. She had missed the circle-damned ring before she even missed him, and she had missed him within hours of getting on that airship.

“You may send word to Francoise Rochambeaux,” Niccolette said, finally. “She is one I was to meet last night. Perhaps she worries,” Niccolette shrugged faintly again. “She lives Uptown, that same street as your Aeterna Theatre, but further along.”

Better not to send word to Uzoji, Niccolette told herself. No matter how badly she wished he were here; better not to have him than to know he wouldn’t come. She closed her eyes again, tucking her face into her knees, her head aching with vicious force.

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Arion Lux
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Tue Jul 16, 2019 11:45 am

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Vienda Jail
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Francoise Rochambeaux. A distinctive name. That should make her easier to find. Arion continued scratching out the details, eyes not deviating from the page as he responded casually to the accusation that Ms. Ibutatu - he made a note of that as well - had levelled against him.

"I'm a lawyer," he explained simply, though without any trace of condescension, as if she had asked what the weather was like and he was merely providing a concise answer. "I talk, and talk, endlessly, grinding people down until eventually they surrender and agree with me. It is the nature of my profession, and a task for which I find myself well-suited. I think you'll find that most lawyers, barristers, politicians, and the like would not have become such if they didn't already have a preexisting fondness for the sound of their own voice."

The pencil came to a halt, and was set down into the groove between the journal's adjacent pages. Arion did not require the use of his hand for anything else, but the placement was a gesture, a sign that he had ceased taking notes, at least for now. He was not devoid of questions, but nor was he devoid of time. The question of Ms. Ibutatu's name was something he would press later: not for the sake of his own curiosity, but for the sake of the case. The gulf between the letter of the law and the spirit of it was a subjective domain, and the facets of Ms. Ibutatu's circumstances would affect and refract the way in which it was applied. Already, she was a woman alone in a vulnerable situation, one who had been prayed upon by the Seventen she had defended herself against. Ms. Ibutatu might not have appreciated being characterised in such a way, but it was a presentation that would help, that would steer judgement into a sympathetic phrase of mind. If a husband was part of the equation, that could be a valuable aspect to play upon. If she was a widow, that would generate sympathy. If her husband was away on business, or if Ms. Ibutatu was here in Vienda without him for some other reason, that deepened the narrative of her seeming vulnerability. It transformed the Seventen from the harmless over-amorous behaviour one might expect to find in a tavern at that hour into a predator against a woman who, by society's judgement, deserved better and perhaps even belonged to another.

It did not have to be true: or at least, it did not have to be a whole truth. Arion would merely arrange the facts as a display on the courtroom floor, and allow assumptions and presumptions to colour the opinions and judgements of those hearing her case. Arion himself might understand that Ms. Ibutatu was a formidable young woman who clearly - and demonstrably - was capable of defending herself without issue; but if the magistrate were to see her as the innocent victim here, retaliating the way she had because the Seventen in question had left her with no choice? Well, that would just be wonderfully convenient and helpful, would it not? Prejudice and presumption were factors of society, and factors of the galdori condition. To accept them was the only logical reaction; and to exploit them was merely an efficient means to the necessary end, just as the law required of him.

He considered Ms. Ibutatu for a few moments, noticing the changes in her demeanour and appearance. Her posture had shifted, dress adjusted with a little more consideration to her modesty, or perhaps repurposing the fabric as a protective barrier to shield her from a situation that was slowly beginning to sink in. The dirt on her face seemed to have been disrupted by tears as well, a reaction the provocation that Arion had engaged in, he presumed. Society would expect him to feel remorseful for that, more than likely. To Arion, it was just an unavoidable side effect to the necessary process of his work. This was, after all, for Ms. Ibutatu's benefit. A few shed tears paid to accelerate her progress to freedom seemed like a fairly reasonable compensation, given the circumstances.

"We will talk more," Arion explained, bringing an end to however many seconds of silence had passed, "Once you've had an opportunity to collect yourself, and once we're in a slightly more comfortable setting."

He seemed to contemplate that notion, nodding along with the faintest of subtle nods to his thoughts, for a few moments. In reality, Arion was merely counting, ticking up a sufficiently long pause to separate one set of words from the next. Leaning back in his chair once more, his posture reset to what it had been when he first arrived, and his head craned back over his shoulder, aimed towards the door. "Guard!" he yelled, with all the volume and subtlety of someone shouting a warning about a fire. There was a muffled crash, and a distant curseword, before the sound of footsteps hustling across the stone floor began to echo its way down the corridor beyond.

Arion turned back to Niccolette with an almost satisfied smile as the jail guard huffed and puffed his way into view. The pencil was retrieved and repocketed, the journal closed and tucked under his arm, and Arion hurled himself to his feet with a surprisingly energetic bound, turning smartly on his heel to square off against the guard who, from the look of things, was slowly processing the fact that a riot had not just broken out in one of the cells, and he was, in fact, being treated like a hapless errand boy.

He took a step back, clearing the guard's path, and gestured towards the door of the drunk tank cage with a flourish. "If you'd be so kind," he urged, his earlier matter-of-fact tone and do as you're told because I'm right demeanour back in full force, "My client and I have places we need to be."

The guard bristled, the sense of irritation his expression settled into arriving with a swiftness that showed it to clearly be some sort of familiar and frequent transition. "There's paperwork to -"

Before the sentence could even be fully constructed, Arion had opened his journal - to the back cover, this time - and retrieved a neatly folded square of paper, the necessary documents already meticulously filled out before Arion had even entered the room. The guard slowly began to unfold the papers - upsidedown at first, naturally - and read through them, with all the haste and urgency of a snail fighting against a strong headwind. The faintest twitch of impatience tugged at Arion's expression. "You'll find that everything is in order," he explained, closing his journal and tucking it under his arm once more as a way to waste a couple of the arduous seconds of waiting that the guard was keen to provide. "As usual." Frustration caused the muscles of the guard's jaw to bunch, but he continued on undeterred, eyes scouring the document intently, as if he were actively searching for an error, any error, that he could throw back in retaliation at the lawyer. Arion's patience, more of a mirage than something that had actually existed, drew ever-closer to expiration. "Should I have filled out the forms with illustrations instead? We really don't have enough time to stand here while you sound out the syllables one at a time."

The guard's ire flared, but it was enough: the paper was refolded, and a set of keys was fumbled awkwardly - tiredly - from the guard's belt. "Stand back from the bars," he droned unnecessarily as he approached, even though Niccolette was clearly already on the far side of the cell, teasing out the relevant key and sliding it into the lock with the ham-fisted efficiency of a hormonal teenager about to underwhelm his belovéd on their first night together. The metal ground and screeched as the lock unlocked and the door swung open - a sound far worse than Arion had inflicted with the chair, in his opinion, but somehow he doubted he'd get much appreciation for that - and the guard stepped back, reaching through the bars from the outside to grab hold of the doorway tightly. It was the smartest thing the guard had done thus far, and Arion was willing to speculate that it was perhaps the smartest thing he had done in a considerable length of time, though most likely because he had made the mistake of holding the door open from inside the cell at least once in his past, and had decided to learn from that mistake.

Leaning forward to peer at Ms. Ibutatu through the now open doorway, rather than through the bars, Arion offered her a half-second flash of a tight, efficient, and largely emotionless smile. "Shall we?"
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Tue Jul 16, 2019 2:36 pm

Just after dawn, 54th Roalis, 2714
The Drunk Tank, Vienda Jail
Niccolette made a little face at Arion’s explanation of his own grandiloquence, hidden with her face pressed against her knees. She sighed, softly, not bothering to look up again. Arion might be fond of his own voice, but something about the clipped neatness of it seemed to be drilling a hole directly into Niccolette’s head, throbbing painfully between her ears. With the little rush of anger he’d provoked fading, Niccolette was falling steadily back into sadness, and it wasn’t helping her headache in the slightest.

Finally, blissfully, he was silent again. Niccolette kept her face against her knees, doing her best to shut out the harsh sunlight filtering through the high barred window. The noise from next door was growing a little; it was late enough, and Arion and Niccolette had been loud enough, that only the formerly drunkest were still asleep next door. That cell, if not Niccolette’s, had plenty of regret mixed in with the fumes of alcohol; the feeling of despair lingered about it, mixed in amidst the sounds of grumbling and the smell of – honestly, there were quite a few smells to choose from.

But, even if she was a galdor, no human nor wick, Niccolette also found that sleep was long past. She lifted her face from her knees, settling her chin on them instead, and regarded Arion through the bars of the cell, still quiet. As if it was a cue, he spoke again. Niccolette raised her eyebrows at the mention of collecting herself, and nodded faintly at the offer to change their setting.

She winced visibly at his yell, scowling and rubbing her temples with her hands, shooting him an irritated glare in response to his satisfied smile, more annoyed than amused. On the other hand, it wasn’t as though Niccolette really did want to stay in the cell, and although she stayed seated throughout the guard’s exchange with Arion, she watched with attentive eyes. By the time Arion had finished hassling the guard and needling at his ability to read, Niccolette was actually smiling a little. It still couldn’t quite be said that her face was pleasant to look at, given how disheveled she was, but the smile certainly helped.

Niccolette watched the guard unlock the door and step back. Then, and only then – operating, as ever, on her own time, would Niccolette unbundle herself and rise, with every scrap of dignity she could muster. She stopped for her shoes, taking her time carefully sliding her filthy feet into them. Then, smeared with dirt, reeking of sweat and alcohol, mostly sleepless, wearing a dress more wrinkled than not, and utterly hungover, Niccolette walked out of her cell with the grace of a queen (or, at least, the grace the queen might have had in the younger years, back before she was a wrinkled pile of skin tucked into blankets), her chin held high, and her tangled dark hair streaming down her back. She didn’t bother to try and smooth out the mess of her face, nor to even run her fingers through her hair – Niccolette knew there was very little point.

Arion would feel her tightly controlled field well before she reached him – six, seven feet out. It hummed with the bright energy of living magic, vibrant and powerful in the confines of the cell. Whatever she might have felt, inside, her field was cool and indectal.

“Very well,” Niccolette accepted Arion’s offer as if he had been asking her to dinner, stepping out through the open door into the corridor beyond.

They stopped at the jail desk for Niccolette’s purse, a small pink thing the same color her dress had once been, with a metal clasp at the top. Niccolette didn’t bother looking inside when it was set on the counter in front of her.

“Your handkerchief,” she told the seventen, extending her hand. There was an absolute confidence about the request, as if it had never once occurred to Niccolette that he wouldn’t give her the handkerchief.

“Madam,” The seventen began, then hesitated, looking her over.

Niccolette waited. After a few moments of silence between them, she arched a delicate eyebrow, fingers flattening and extending towards him.

“Yes madam,” the seventen said, swallowing hard. He fumbled in his pocket, fished out a starched cotton handkerchief, and offered it to Niccolette with an almost apologetic air.

Niccolette accepted the handkerchief as her due, wrapped it around her purse, and sailed off with it held delicately in her hand, her back as straight as a rod.

All the same, her dignity what it was, Niccolette stopped a few feet outside the jail house, taking a deep breath of the early morning air – the first, in the last hours, that hadn’t reeked of that horrid place. She squinted at the sun, giving her still-aching head a slight shake, and turned to Arion.

He had asked if she were staying anywhere.

“Hotel Belleverie,” Niccolette named a small hotel – not one of Vienda’s most expensive, but well known for being elegant. “But, like this? I will not go there,” she made a slight face, gesturing at herself with a sweep of her hand. “I wish to be allowed back,” she raised an eyebrow at Arion, as if he should have already anticipated that need of hers, and waited calmly for him to propose a solution.

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Arion Lux
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Fri Jul 19, 2019 9:42 pm

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Vienda Jail
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The Belleverie. That spoke volumes, though they were volumes perhaps best not spoken aloud: not if he didn't want a first-hand experience of what conversational capabilities the Seventen had fallen foul of last night.

Between the dress, well-made despite the manner in which it had been treated, the Belleverie, her general attitude and demeanour, and the cacophany of interesting names that seemed to surround her - names like Ibutatu and Rochambeaux - Arion was beginning to get a definise sense of his client, and the kind of woman that she was when she wasn't busily defending herself against the uninvited advances of galdori intent on abusing their social status. She was a woman who, despite the circumstances, seemed to think highly of herself, a belief that her attire and accommodations seemed to corroborate. She thought herself capable too, and seemingly was, if last night's events were anything to go by. Yet she wasn't someone with the kind of connections that might make a case like this mysteriously disappear before the night was through, nor was she someone familiar enough with the inside of a jail cell that it became blasé. True, her accent marked her as Bastian, but still, even the common nation of origin that he and Ms. Ibutatu shared had some semblance of laws, and he doubted that a Bastian jail was all that different from an Anaxi one. Confident, but not untouchable. Wealthy, but not connected. Capable. Foreign. International, even.

In a word, interesting.

Arion gave her an appraising look as he reflected on that assessment, though given Ms. Ibutatu's last words, it might have seemed more judgemental and superficial than it actually was. "Yes," he mused, "That's probably wise."

His eyes narrowed as Arion turned his attention towards the pavement beyond Ms. Ibutatu, peering into the middle distance as he contemplated their options. He was, of course, required by law to ensure that his client was delivered to her court hearing, and there would be penalties and reprimands if he failed to do so. But, said hearing was several hours from now, based on the time that the highly competent example of Vienda's finest working behind the jail's front desk had provided, and the protocols on what happened in the meantime were somewhat flexible. Typically, a defendant was presumed to have returned to their address of record in the hours before their healing: this was not required, it just made sense, as most would want the opportunity to go home and freshen up - or at least, back to the place where their clothes, baths, and belongings were. Ms. Ibutatu had already - wisely - ruled out that option; but just as she was hardly in a state to go anywhere. Had it been a different season, Arion might have arrived with outerwear that he could have loned to the Bastian, for the sake of her modesty - or at least, her discretion - but today's jacket would do little to obscure the state that Ms. Ibutatu found herself in, and he wasn't particularly fond of the idea of wandering through the early morning streets looking as if the two of them had returned from the worst kind of night out. At best, he might seem like a gentleman lending a jacket to a young associate. At worst, he might find himself reading about the two of them in the pages of the Kingsway Post.

"This way." The decision was made in an instant, and Arion was already in motion, an expectant look thrown at Ms. Ibutatu until she decided to follow along. "It's not far," he added, the only concession to informing Ms. Ibutatu of where they were going that he was willing to make. True, he could have explained that they were headed towards the apartment in Uptown that doubled as Arion's home and office, but somehow, Let's go back to my place had not seemed like a shrewd thing to go and say under the circumstances, and if by the time he'd managed to construct a suitable alternative choice of words, they could have been halfway there already. As it was, the apartment wasn't far: above a tailor's boutique on the Kingsway itself, mere minutes from the courthouse and the jailhouse, comfortably proximate to everywhere Arion's work required him to be.

At this hour, the tailor was hours from being open, blessedly sparing Arion from any unpleasantries with the owner of the boutique. There was a certain animosity between the two of them, utterly of the tailor's creation of course. There had been a - baseless - expectation that, upon taking residence, Arion Lux would somehow be beneficial to the tailor's business, whether through recommendations as a source of formal attire for clients standing trial, or at the very least as a customer himself. Arion had, quite fairly and politely, in his opinion, pointed out that anyone who was paying for his particular services likely didn't have the spare coin to purchase clothes from an establishment as upscale as this one; and Arion himself was a creature of habit, preferring to buy his clothes from the same boutique he always had. There was, he had explained, a special relationship between a man, and the man measuring his inseam, and that was a covenant that Arion had not been prepared to break. The tailor had not been convinced by Arion's noble stance which, frankly, Arion saw as a negative mark against his character.

From his pocket, Arion produced a set of keys, sliding one into the doorway that stood waiting to the side of the boutique's vast glass window. It was the service entrance to the establishment: a door immediately to the left led into the boutique itself, and a corridor continued onwards towards the back of the building. Arion had presumed there were backrooms, storerooms, or something along those lines down the unlit blue-grey corridor, but frankly had lacked the requisite curiosity to ever find out. Of more interest was the stairway, leading upwards and into the first of the upstairs rooms. This was, according to the lease, part of the space in the building that Arion had rented, even though it existed in advance of the doorway that led into the apartment proper. It was this space that had been the primary draw of these apartments, however, a waiting area segregated from the rest of Arion's domain as if it existed outside the battlements: somewhere for clients to wait until he was good and ready to deal with them.

The decor thus far had been muted and blue, the carpeted floors faded to the point of uninteresting, heavy velvet drapes hanging almost ceiling-to-floor either side of the windows, front and back of the reception space, the walls decorated with heavy paper in broad blue and white stripes for their lower half, divided from an expanse above a dark wood chair rail that might have been white or pale blue, depending on which angle you viewed it from. Arion's furniture choices were chosen to match the wood of the bannister rail, something that superficially resembled a deep mahogany but was most likely a far cheaper wood treated with stain. The scattering of furniture, enough for two clients and whatever associates and loved ones they might have seen fit to bring, toed a careful line: fancy enough to convince less wealthy clients that they had arrived to hire an advocate of quality, but poor enough that the genuinely wealthy clients would be forced to stand rather than sully themselves upon the same furnishings that had also accommodated the posteriors of their social lessers.

The exterior spaces may have been muted, but the interior was an entirely different story. The blue-grey of the carpets transitioned into a plush royal blue, the blue and white stripes below the chair rail exchanged for a deep, rich patterned paper in subtly different blue shades, divided from a more light and intricate paper of white and gold above. The drapes followed the carpet's example, the dominant blue and white of the room broken by furniture in warm wooden shades that seemed to draw out the gold filigree. The entire room had the sense of lapis lazuli, of deep blue flecked with gold and white, of something rare, precious, and luxurious. It was then, naturally, absolutely nothing to do with Arion Lux at all, and was merely what had remained after the apartment's previous tenant had moved on.

Arion advanced across the room, which seemed to be serving as both an office for his work, and a study for after hours. Arriving at his desk, he rummaged briefly through a draw, retrieving a letter opener: not the silvered example waiting on the desk itself, but a more garish example that was kept hidden away, a gift from a previous client if he had to guess. The far wall was dominated by a fireplace, but alcoves either side held doorways that lead into spaces beyond: one to the kitchen, and the stairway that led up to the bedroom in the attic space; the other to the bathroom, both reliant on access to the far side of the same chimney. It was at this same door that Arion stopped, dropping to a knee, carefully using the garish letter opener to detach the doorknob from the outside, turning the currently open door into a one way portal that could only be opened from within.

Returning to his feet, Arion crossed the room back to Ms. Ibutatu, presenting her with the detatched doorknob as if it was some strange relic. "The bathroom is through there. Towels, water, everything you need." He explained it all with a gesture, and then hesitated, trying to muster the words to explain his odd actions. His voice changed a little, the faintest hint of softness and consideration creeping into his words. "Under the circumstances, I thought you might feel a little more comfortable knowing the room would be completely secure."

Almost as if he was uncomfortable with the very notion of having done something considerate, Arion pushed past it quickly. "I will leave you to your -" He trailed off, a hand waving vaguely in Ms. Ibutatu's direction, as if that explained everything. "- devices, while I go send word to your friend, Ms. Rochambeaux. I'll have her collect a change of clothes and whatever womanly items you might require from the Belleverie, have them bring them here, and then, well -"

The shrug that Arion offered was almost undignified, made worse by the fact that his hands had disappeared protectively into his pockets. "We'll get started on sorting this whole unfortunate business out, and you and I can bring an end to our endurance of each other's company as swiftly as possible."
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