Drez's Home
Perhaps it was arrogance but she couldn't imagine what sort of threat this man could pose. He couldn't use magic still if the porven nature of his field was anything to go by and while he looked more coordinated than when she'd met him all those months ago in the Dives, she couldn't envision him in a physical altercation. Supporting her had damn near been the death of him - oops! - and she was half surprised that he hadn't lain down or passed out on the bed when he got up here from the exhaustion of it all. Anatole - well, the body - was getting on in years and she imagined that that wouldn't help matters. Although that made her wonder what age Tom was, or rather what his age had been before. This was his actual age now, as Ezre had pointed out, but if he had been younger before then this might be a bit unfortunate for him.
They shared a smile, Drezda's fleeting as she let her lips slacken into a more neutral position before puckering them slightly and letting them part. She was still listening to him of course but she was also keeping herself centred, one side of the flat brush lightly rubbed against the lip stain so that it was coated, the bristles scraped lightly against the container's edge so that it was slicked with the dark red excess. She started in the centre of her top lip, a slow careful stroke that followed the curve of the cupid's bow, turning the brush slightly as her lip thinned so that she wouldn't be using the whole surface and spreading it further than intended. She took a moment to fill in any gaps, trying to keep her strokes smooth and even and taking her time with the corner, trying not to frown in irritation as she struggled.
A year. He'd been dead a year but he couldn't remember the how of it. Obviously it wasn't very fresh then in spite of how recent it was. His humour was gone now and she allowed herself a furtive glance in his direction as the silence between them stretched before moving to paint the other side of her lip.
When he did continue, she did some minor calculations, considering the gap in time, how long he had been dead and yet displaced rather than part of the Cycle. Remembered when "Anatole" had taken ill. She paused in her application to use the edge of her thumb to cautiously wipe away some of the stain that had bled over the top of her lip towards the corner.
It was a good thing that she'd paused because her lip twisted on the topic of taste. It was an odd thing to view in reflection, the whitened face, the bold red of one lip and the muted coral of the other bottom lip.
"I can't think of a better person; no one would miss him, not even his wife, I'd wager," the Hoxian commented, contempt dripping from her tongue like venom and for a moment she looked at Tom but saw Anatole, her gaze carrying hatred for a man that was dead and gone. The moment she realised what she was doing, her eyelashes fluttered in alarm and she turned her attention back to her reflection. Spots of colour were beginning to show up on her cheeks, light but still visible under the powder.
She went back to painting her lips, daubing a bit more of the stain onto the brush so that she could properly coat the slightly fuller bottom lip. One long stroke to cover the lower half, mouth opening a little wider as another stroke coated its top. Once that was done, the diplomat pressed her poppy red lips together and rolled them against each other, spreading what coated them, hopefully evening them out. She stretched them in a smile, showing her teeth and discovered that yes, she had gotten some on the white. Again. She was always doing that. Her mouth closed again, tongue running over her teeth behind her lips, giving her an irritated pout as she concentrated. When she bared them again, there was just pearly white framed by bloodied lips. The smile widened, became more genuine and she set about cleaning her brushes before turning to the raen, an elbow resting on the chair back, legs swung around and crossed at the ankles.
"The poetry? How I knew? What do you mean?" she asked, tilting her head quizzically. How she had known what? What could she possibly have known about him that would involve her mother's-
"Oh! No. No, I... I didn't know then. I... I might have suspected that you hadn't backlashed b-but I didn't know," the Hoxian explained, surprise and recognition crossing her face before guilt crept into her features. She barely managed to stop herself from biting her lip and smearing lipstick on her teeth again. The onyx gaze dropped to his lap, darted to the bedspread, her own lap, her vanity before finding their way back to his face.
"I'd... I'd been considering asking my mother about... supernatural things. I'd remembered some stories but I thought if anyone would know..." she trailed off with a shrug, eyes dropping again so that she was speaking to his chest rather than his face. "I happened to meet another Hexxos, knew him by the ink and I... I didn't mention you by name but I didn't need to. He... probably wouldn't have told me if he didn't know my connection to the Order or that I already suspected... something. Not this though. I didn't... I couldn't have imagined this."
A whispered admittance, something like shame in her voice. She remembered her conversation with Ezre and how he had seemed to worry about Tom. Genuinely worry. What was more, she thought she remembered him slipping and saying something that sounded like the beginning of his name, his true name.
"He didn't want you hurt, he made that clear. He wanted you protected as well, our... mutual friend," Drezda added, a ghost of a smile on her red lips, humourless. He'd know it was Ezre. It was unlikely he'd been talking about his raenness to any other teenage boys from the Hexxos.
"I would have found out sooner or later though. I would have asked my mother and obviously she does have special insight in these things. I should... possibly examine Web of Souls myself. I imagine that I'll see it in a new light now," she added hastily, taking the blame from Ezre. And it wasn't a lie. The pull had been so strong that if she hadn't encountered the teenager, she would surely have contacted Ksjta.
"Tom... I was wondering.... I actually thought of something to ask you and maybe it's... too painful for you, I don't know but... what were you like before you... died? Were you from Vienda or somewhere else? Are you Anaxi? I don't know how far raen can wander when they haven't got a body. Were you younger than Anatole? Older? Were you- Based on what you said before and- I don't want to assume or offend but... were you interested in... men?"
The last garnered a blush, blazing across her skin, the woman not willing to meet his eye. "I'm sure you've guessed with me or... or heard. So many rumours got around over the winter that you probably- I'm sure you. There isn't anything wrong with it, not legally. You can marry who you like but socially- I know some people think it's wrong t-t-to favour those of y-y-your own sex."
Her hands had found their way into her lap, fingers balled so tightly that her knuckle bones were very prominent. She'd never discussed this properly. Had never expected- When she'd spoken to Khymarah, she'd acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she hadn't had her doubts. As if she hadn't panicked when she was in school when the attraction popped up, convinced that the decadency of Brunnhold had tainted her.
This time, she didn't stop herself from biting her lip. In fact, it was taking everything in her power not to start crying again.