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[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

Drezda looked at her for a long time, and then she nodded, an odd, tight little nod as if she were agreeing to go to a play she very much disliked. She was speaking, then, kindly, and Niccolette felt abruptly dizzy, her head swimming. Drezda asked, gently, what she wished of her – if she wanted another drink?

Niccolette looked down at the almost-empty glass of whiskey, at the small gold ring next to it on the table. She reached for it, slowly, and set her hand just shy of it; it looked so much larger than her fingers, she thought, drearily. And it was, wasn’t it? It wasn’t only a ring, it was – it was –

Niccolette took a deep, unsteady breath, and rubbed her hand over her face again. “No,” she said, softly. She shook her head. “You are – lovely, and I… I had not expected to feel… and I thought, for just a moment…” The Bastian was quiet, looking back down at her finger and the ring again. She sighed, softly, and picked it back up – slid it back onto her finger and settled her hands in her lap once more.

Niccolette had thrown it at him once, in 2714; she had been furious, so furious that she had wished to do anything at all to hurt him. And she had pulled the ring from her finger, and flung it at Uzoji, and she had fled – she had hardly taken anything – she had gone to Vienda without so much as a word and waited there for him. Oh, she had told herself that it was not so, that she – she had waited for him to come to her, although of course she had not quite thought through how he was meant to find her.

And he had come; he had come, with her ring and his promises, and he had made them and not kept them. Niccolette thought she would give anything to be so furious with him again, to feel that wonderful, straightforward anger, clean-burning in her chest. To wish him to grovel and beg and to know that he might. Because – he could not bring the ring back to her, not anymore, and if she left it behind –

“He is dead,” Niccolette said, quietly. She felt small, suddenly; every bit of her seemed to hurt, even her skin tender to the brush of her dress. It hurt more than she could bear to sit upright, to keep herself together, although she did not slouch. She looked up at Drezda, and tried something like a smile, and wondered how it looked. The word dead seemed to fill her mouth like ash; it was not the right word, it was not what she was meant to say. Returned to the cycle – gone to a new life – gone, even. Gone was one of the words she was meant to use – not dead. Dead was crude.

“Three months, and eight days,” Niccolette knew that she should stop; she knew better than to keep talking. “I do not know the time,” she glanced back over her shoulder at the door, as if seeing the darkness through the windows outside would reveal it to her. “Seventeen hours, perhaps? Eighteen soon, if not yet.” Niccolette was proud that her voice was still steady; she did not have much else to be proud of, but she took what she could. She closed her eyes for a long moment, lashes laying heavy on her cheeks, and then opened them again. She looked down at the whiskey, and picked it up, and finished the last of it with a little shiver.

No, Niccolette thought, tiredly; there was nothing that could keep her from thinking of him. She closed her eyes again, feeling that same familiar heat aching behind them – longing, suddenly, for the quiet privacy of her room in Francoise’s house, that bed where she had spent most of the last week. She opened her eyes again and looked back at the lovely Hoxian who had made her feel so alive for just a few moments, and she was terribly sorry for having said so much; she knew there was nothing that could be said in response.

It would be best, Niccolette thought tiredly, if she went – if she got up, and walked across the bar, back out into the streets – if she found her way back towards Francoise’s house, towards the glittering lights of the Aeterna and then beyond, to her soft bed and enough privacy to cry as much as she wished. Better than so sit here, bleeding slowly out onto the table in front of Drezda, her words cutting into herself slowly, one by one, a mess the other woman had not asked for and did not deserve. She meant to, but her limbs seemed to weigh more than her body itself, and she was not entirely sure she could rise.

Niccolette took a deep breath. It had been nice, all the same, that little space of time. She had enjoyed herself a moment – only a moment – she had forgotten to be the widow. Not alone, and not in the company of those she loved, but somewhere between, somewhere she could lose herself just enough. It had been a good place, and Drezda good company there, while it had lasted.

Niccolette looked at Drezda again, at the sleek darkness of her hair, the graceful lines of her face, the bright red lipstick – the elegant hands, which had clutched so tightly at her glass. She thought of the wild laugh that had burst through her delicate, careful face; she thought of that moment when she had tasted something vicious in her field. She was sorry, then, that this was how they had met; she was sorry for what she had done, although she did not speak it aloud. There seemed, to her, to be very little point.

And Niccolette shrugged, and found what little strength she had left, and lifted her chin again, and looked squarely at the woman across the table, and there was a last little flicker of defiance left in her still. “Now you know.”

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
The Lycat, Uptown Vienda

.

It wasn't that she wasn't interested, she just wasn't sure what to do. So yes, there might have been a little twinge of disappointment when Niccolette seemed to deflate and the possibilities to find out what might or might not happen were lost to her. She hadn't intended for her kindness to be off-putting, just to indicate to the woman that she wanted to take things slowly and to let them see how things worked out. Drezda probably shouldn't have been all that surprised. She knew that you did and said things that you didn't mean when you were overemotional and so it wasn't out of the question that her talk was simply talk and by calling her bluff, the Bastian had fallen to pieces.

But no, she would have been lying - to herself if nobody else - if she said that it didn't bother her.

The fact that Nicco called her 'lovely' did little to lessen her disappointment. Only lovely, really? Apparently she wasn't lovely enough to keep the Bastian's interest although perhaps that wasn't fair of her to think. After all, the other was more than lovely and yet Drezda herself had considered saying no to her.

Her lips pursed a little, the young woman's expression a little wooden as she watched her put the ring back onto her finger. A moment ago, some true feeling had shown through - frustration - but apparently she still cared for whoever had put that ring on her finger. Or she had been made to feel guilty because Drezda had made her stop to think. If she'd enthusiastically agreed then the regret would no doubt have come later and it might well have been ugly for the diplomat. Considering the matter logically didn't stop the bitter taste on her tongue. She sloshed wine over it to try to wash it away and spluttered it when Nicco opened her mouth again.

Dead.

Dead!

Oh Circle have mercy on her for being such a selfish, self-centred bitch. It had never occurred to her that the woman's spouse could be gone. She'd just assumed-

Look where assumptions get you, she thought bitterly, feeling her face cool and then heat, the blush almost certain to show through even in spite of the powder on her skin.

What did you do when someone else had suffered a loss? You were meant to offer your condolences, you were meant to say that you were sorry but that seemed so pointless, so empty. There were so many things that you were taught to say, so many things that were the 'done' thing or the necessary one in a situation. More fakery. But in truth, she didn't know how to handle this, didn't know what to say or do. There was value in those learned platitudes, especially in a situation like this, because you honestly didn't know what to do. Drezda had never had anyone die. Oh, she had thought that her sister had died, at least for a time although there had always been suspicion about the story of her death. Still, she didn't think that her feelings had been normal (she had been somewhat glad about Tsia's end, and relieved) and in Hox, these things weren't regarded in quite the same way.

The diplomat could hardly say that she hoped her husband well on his journey to the next life. She could hardly point out that it wasn't a bad thing when she could see Niccolette's face. She'd been in Anaxas long enough to know that they did not celebrate death. No, to them loss was a source of grief, something she had seen in both of her parents albeit they had lost their youngest daughter to passivity rather than death; they would have found death easier to bear. The grief though, she had seen that and she could see it before her now. It radiated in every line and curve of the other's form, tense and raw and rippling across the surface.

For the first time, she could see it in its entirety, the woman in naked vulnerability now that Drezda knew what to look for and all of the little things she'd seen suddenly made sense when taken together. Well shit!

And damn it, Niccolette had been keeping time, that was never good. Keeping count of days and hours and minutes was an obsessive thing to cling to and the Hoxian had every right to think so. She'd been clinging to her own count as if her life depended on it although the tally actually weighed more heavily on her soul with each passing moment of knowledge. The count did nothing to ease things, she knew that. Admittedly, their situations were markedly different.

She sat there in silence, not wanting to offer comfort that could only ever sound false. She didn't really know Niccolette and she didn't even know who the Bastian's husband had been. How the fuck could she say that she was sorry when she wasn't? She could say that she felt sorry for her, pitying her current suffering but she didn't clocking well care that the man was dead and that was the truth of the matter. However, that was a truth that was likely to cause more harm than good, likely hurt more than any empty sobs.

At last when a heavy sort of awkwardness had descended around them and the Bastian seemed to have said all that she was going to, Drezda made her own reply, feeling things out carefully and choosing truth but not the cruel sort.

"I didn't know, Niccolette. I wouldn't have been so... so flippant if I had," she explained, pinching the bridge of her nose. She didn't say it aloud but she felt that there was an implicit apology there. It was far better than actually saying the word 'sorry', which was honestly thrown around so frequently and with such insincerity that it had really lost all meaning. She let her hand drop, the politician scrutinising her companion intently for a few moments, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

"Well that does call for another drink then. Same again?" she asked as she stood, collecting her bag. She paused, head tilting as she considered the other sidelong. "Mm no, we'll make it a double."

Without waiting for a response from Niccolette and leaving her own glass on the table, the Hoxian trotted back over to the bar. Provided that the woman didn't stop her, she'd return with a new glass of Gioran whiskey rather fuller than the previous one and her purse a little lighter in coin.

"You didn't bring it up earlier so I assume that you don't want to talk about it. If you do then fire away, otherwise... well... I don't know honestly. I'm happy to bring you back to mine although I'll warn you that my house is uh... rather light on alcohol. Or we can remain here and I can furnish you with drinks. I imagine that you need one - or several."

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

Niccolette was not sure how to describe what she saw on Drezda’s face as she spoke. Shock, she thought, and she waited, trying not to tremble, for the deluge of politeness and courtesies that would follow. Meaningless, empty things that would put space between them, that would heal nothing for Niccolette but that would let Drezda feel satisfied with her social duty.

She had expected it up to the very point that Drezda began to speak. Drezda said she had not known - Niccolette nodded, faintly, in acknowledgement - and did not quite apologize for being flippant. Niccolette sat, still and silent, and waited a moment longer, but Drezda only renewed her offer to buy Niccolette another drink, and all the rest of it ever came.

Niccolette did not argue this time, but nodded slightly, and sat still at the table as Drezda went, trembling a little once more. She did not know what to say; she scarcely knew what to think. She just sat, still and silent and aching, and let time wash over her, her eyes fixed on the dismal painting next to their booth.

Drezda came back with the drink, and offered to listen, offered - Niccolette looked up at her, a little sharply, not quite sure how to take the invitation to the other woman’s home. She settled her left hand around the glass, slowly, aware of the ring resting against it, the contrast of the gold against the pale liquid.

Carefully, Niccolette raised the glass and took a little sip of the whiskey. It burned through her, and she shivered. “I would... I would like to come over,” she said, slowly, feeling her way through the sentence as if she had not quite been sure how it would end when she began it. She looked down at the whiskey, then back at Drezda - at her unfinished glass of wine. “I should not mind trading a - a more agreeable surrounding for fewer drinks.”

Niccolette did not come at the rest of it, not again. It was too uncertain; the memory of Drezda’s kind response to her awkward, blatant offer still burned, stung at her confidence. All she knew was that it was increasingly unpleasant to sit on the hard bench of the bar, and that the need to go to bed to weep felt less immediate than it had - as if, tired as she was, she might still be able to negotiate for herself a brief truce with the tears.

She felt - better, Niccolette was surprised to realize, for all that she was still tired and aching. She had thought it would be worse, being the widow again. Whenever it was sprung on her - it was nigh-unbearable to have to explain. It had felt like ripping herself open, more often than not, to have to make polite nothings about it to the Mugrobi delegation, to friends from Brunnhold, to incumbents who would not let go of her hand. And yet - and yet she - Niccolette wished she could understand why this felt different, but it did.

All the same she did not wish to speak on it anymore. Not to Drezda. Perhaps there was no one with whom she could - with whom she might be able to - even with Aremu, Uzoji’s best friend, Niccolette had not been able to bring herself to put words to...

The Bastian took another sip of whiskey. “But I think it best to discuss something else,” she shrugged, lightly, glancing at the table for a moment, the two glasses.

”You prefer wine to whiskey?” Niccolette asked, curiously, looking at Drezda’s wineglass, then up to the Hoxian’s face. There was something like a faint warning in her mind - something Drezda had said - but she could not think, not properly, and she was not sure what, not sure why, and she held to the question.

“For myself, I require that it is not never too sweet,” Niccolette said with a delicate little shiver. ”I prefer a - a more complex flavor,” she glanced back up at Drezda, and she grinned again, just a little bit; she had not known she would until it happened, but she relaxed into it when it came, and let it settle warmly into her chest. There was something in her, Niccolette thought, that she would have said had died with Uzoji; she was not sure what to make of it.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
The Lycat, Uptown Vienda

.

Perhaps she shouldn't have suggested going back to her house. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd said it actually but she questioned whether it was the wisest thing to have said quite so carelessly, especially given Niccolette's sharp look.

Oops.

Thinking about it for a second, she could see how it could be viewed as an invitation with purpose and given the line of conversation from mere minutes ago, her ulterior motive seemed a bit obvious. Except she hadn’t said it with anything like that in mind, not consciously. Drezda was capable of being around women in a friendly context and while it was true that she didn’t commonly invite anyone back to her home, she really did believe that she could be alone with this woman in private without having to engage in anything. She could have friends, female friends, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Just because it hadn’t really happened before didn’t mean that it couldn’t. Besides, there were some types of loneliness and need that sex couldn’t cure and she had a feeling that Niccolette needed a friend more than a lover right now.

The diplomat could try to be it but she wasn’t sure how good she’d be at this friend business. But something could be said for attempting it at least, right?

It might have been better if she’d held off for a bit though, put some distance between this raw topic and the alcohol with which she was plying the Bastian, and the invitation to accompany her home. Edging her a little further from sobriety first might also have been a good idea because there seemed to be a cautiousness to the other’s movements that she hadn’t meant to elicit. It was perhaps worrying that she had even briefly considered getting the woman somewhat inebriated before trying to coax her home.

What the fuck is wrong with you? she questioned herself, watching as Niccolette took ahold of the new drink, the Hoxian’s mouth pressed into a tight line that could be interpreted as annoyance - albeit not directed at her companion who obviously wouldn’t know that.

The other did agree to come though. It hadn’t been a demand or even a proper question but simply a suggestion so the Bastian hadn’t been obligated to say yes, or even to acknowledge it! She was careful though, almost reluctant as she felt out the affirmation, teasing seemingly dangerous words from her tongue like a snake charmer coaxed a snake; there was a definite sense that she expected her admittance to come back and bite her. As Nicco continued though, the Hoxian felt a thrill jolt through her, of excitement or terror she knew not which. However, she did worry that the woman believed that going home with her would lead to another thing and there was no guarantee-

Damnit, was she in this trap of uncertainty and indecision again? Not knowing her own mind or her own wishes or-

Maybe you’re thinking too much, part of her suggested, something disdainful in that inner voice and she knew it for a negative one; this was the one that liked to berate and deride her. She felt uncertainty wobble uncomfortably inside her, the sensation growing gradually stronger until she was forced to drink, finishing the last of the wine in a vain attempt to drown the feeling.

The young woman couldn’t open her mouth and allude to those things again, besides which she didn’t think that she could offer any clarity but would instead sow yet more confusion and possibly cause offence as well. Changing the subject would be appropriate and while she hunted for something suitably neutral, nothing was immediately forthcoming; she was relieved when Niccolette seemed to get the same idea and hoped that she had a notion what they could discuss.

She regretted that hope a moment later, the politician abruptly rigid as the woman asked her about alcohol.

Oh no, oh no, by Bash’s Strength, no!

She’d treated the matter of alcohol subtly and with some delicacy but she hadn’t believed herself so opaque. Evidently, the other hadn’t picked up her discomfort when she talked about keeping a dry house.

Considering the topic wasn’t something that she wanted to do, especially as her glass now sat empty before her. There was the barest wetness at the vessel’s bottom, an elusive drop that taunted her. If she tried to drink it then it would be a desperate looking act and a strange one. After all, why struggle to lick the dregs when she could just buy another? That was the problem though, wasn’t it? She wasn’t supposed to buy another. She couldn’t permit herself to buy a second one because then it would be all too easy to justify the purchase of a third and a fourth and then she would be lost - to herself and to the tentative control that she’d established.

"I… don’t prefer one over the other," she admitted softly, hands finding their way into her lap so that she could fuss with them subtly, heat creeping up her neck. She licked her lips, considering her words carefully; Drezda was the cautious one now.

Lush, the derisive inner voice whispered and she ignored it.

”Both wine and whiskey have their merits, I think… it depends on the occasion-”

How quickly you want to get drunk.

”-but I have an appreciation for complex flavours myself.”

Mixing your tipples doesn’t count as complex.

It was a sneer now and her left cheek twitched, a subtle little jump. She forced a smile, lips stretched too thinly, too unnaturally, a touch of wildness in her dark eyes.

”I’d recommend this to you, whatever it is, but you shouldn’t mix it with a whiskey. Besides, it won’t react properly on your palate - too many strong flavours already. Wine tends to be more subtle.”

Mm wine drunkenness does sneak up on you…

There was an unmistakable snigger to that inner voice and her smile dropped, her gaze following it. She stared at slightly trembling fingers. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t do this. She was too weak, weak and undisciplined. Drezda couldn’t even enjoy a glass of wine without lusting greedily for the bottle. Here she was speaking as if she was a connoisseur when in truth, she didn’t care about the flavours, hell, didn’t even notice them when she was guzzling her way to the bottle’s bottom.

She bit a trembling lip, hoping to still it before she opened her mouth to speak again.

"You seem like a woman of fine tastes, Niccolette. I suppose that Bastians like to immerse themselves in fine things. Is it a part of your education? Obviously if you go to Brunnhold or a university in another Kingdom then it isn’t part of the curricula in those places but you still seem to have that sense of style and appreciation. Is it simply a matter of good breeding or do you learn it at home?" she asked, dredging a teasing tone up from somewhere, fearing that it sounded too hollow in her own ears.

It was a bit of a tangent but fine wine and fine arts weren’t that far apart. Culture, that was the ticket although she wasn’t sure that she’d covered her erse all that well. She could hope that her companion wouldn’t notice though.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

Niccolette had thought it a light topic, and her attention had already begun to wander a little. She had tried to add something to it, a faint taste of the flirtation that had entertained them before, subtly, because she did not take the other woman’s invitation to her home as an invitation to anything more – not really. Nothing but that the door was not entirely closed, whether to friendship or…

It was not but a moment before she realized she was wrong. Drezda was staring at the last dregs of her wine, and her first words had seemed well enough, but there was a stain of redness on her neck, just visible in the low light, and her smile was pained. A tremble rippled through her body, all the way up to her lips; she bit them, and then tried, herself, another change of subject.

Niccolette took it, swiftly and without hesitation. She took it with a soft little smile at first, and absolutely nothing in her gaze or tone lingered on where Drezda had been before. She might have thought it would tire her, the other woman's aches, but - she felt almost invigorated, a little pulse of something through her. An odd desire, Niccolette thought, to try and make it right, that seemed to wake her back up.

“Oh, both, I am sure,” Niccolette said, smiling at Drezda. It was, she thought, much better to move on than to linger on anything unpleasant. She had not intended to make the other woman reveal herself as Niccolette had been revealed, and she was sorry she had done so; she had not thought anything of the admission that she did not keep alcohol at home, not until now.

“Of course, when one is raised in Florne,” Niccolette said, chin lifted above the stylish collar of her lovely, expensive dress, “one cannot help but learn of the finer things. As you know I attended Brunnhold, and so there must be something of it which was bred in me as well,” she grinned, cheekily. It was easy to make fun of herself, just a little – although not, of course, entirely. Naturally Niccolette did have excellent taste; she was quite sure that it was so.

“I would say it is inherent in all Bastians by now, devoted as we are to Hurte, to appreciate beauty,” Niccolette said, and her gaze lingered on the curve of Drezda’s lips, the vivid red of her lip color. Yes, she thought; it was not too hard to appreciate beauty, when one found it. The Bastian smiled at her drinking companion again. “Some forget, of course, or perhaps… lose sight of it, but, naturally, it is there.”

Even when Hurte let one down, Niccolette thought, more than a little bitterly. But Niccolette was not the one who had failed to appreciate something beautiful – who had failed to preserve it – she had tried. She had done everything she ever could, and if there was blame – if there was blame – it was on the goddess, and not the Bastian who had always believed in Her.

“And Florne!” Niccolette sighed, and took another sip of her whiskey, feeling it race through her, the relief of clouding herself just a little more. She wondered if some day she would be able to speak of how badly she had wanted to take Uzoji there; she wondered if she would ever be able to talk lightly of how they had argued between Florne and Thul Ka, and that she had never had the chance to prove it to him – never –

He would have, Niccolette thought determinedly, without the least doubt that it was true. If only she could have taken him to Florne, he’d have understood immediately why she liked the city so – if, unfortunately, not so much the people. She had not known that they would run out of time, not so soon. She had not known.

“It is a magnificent city,” Niccolette said, firmly, looking at Drezda once more – seeing, she thought, Drezda once more. “Truly lovely. You might know…? It is built on canals, naturally, so one can get around by carriage or boat, even in the worst of winter. The temples are mostly of white marble, and you can see the golden dome of the Sancttedem di Hurte from a second story nearly anywhere in the city. It is,” and here she adopted a deliberately challenging tone, and leaned forward, purposeful, as if daring Drezda to argue, smiling again, “the most beautiful city in the world.”

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
The Lycat, Uptown Vienda

.

If Niccolette noticed Drezda’s distress then she didn’t let on and for that the Hoxian was immensely grateful. At one point, the politician would have worried that silence in a situation could mean that information had been filed away to be used against her at a later date but not now, not here. Maybe the Bastian was doing just that but the woman wasn’t sure that she cared. Then again, she might not even have noticed anything amiss and in truth, what did it matter? Whatever the cause, all that mattered was that her companion didn’t allow the alcohol conversation to persist and didn’t allow the new topic to stall things as it so easily could have, given the awkward way that Drezda had thrust it out there.

She let out a shaky sigh of relief, watching with alarmed bemusement as the other engaged with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. Somehow, the other seemed to have gained energy from somewhere, something vigorous simmering beneath the surface. Was it some sense of pride in her origins? Pride in Bastia, a sort of… national pride? How strange. Did Drezda feel that way about Hox? No, she didn’t think so, highly doubtful really given that Niccolette actually seemed ready to burst with enthusiasm about her homeland, ready to extol its virtues and sell it to the diplomat. She didn’t think that she’d ever do the same for her home.

Although perhaps there was some warmth of feeling for her own little kingdom, some desire to curl her lip at the other’s haughtiness as if being born in Florne was something worthy of distinction. Everyone knew that Bastians were frivolous and often ridiculous, lovers of spectacle and often overly emotional. Yes, it was true that Drezda had wanted to study at Anastou because of the Bastian favouring of Perceptive Conversation but she wasn’t sure that the place had had any further appeal for her. It wasn’t that she disliked Bastians — they produced some truly beautiful specimens — but they deserve the right to feel superior to others? Being pretty didn’t mean that they weren’t disasters to a degree.

Ah yes, a zjovrash has so much right to judge others, the nasty inner voice offered snidely. She tried to ignore it.

"Mm Brunnhold certainly has… tastes. Of a sort," Drezda murmured, well aware that the Anaxi university didn’t foster a taste for the finer things. It certainly fostered tastes for a lot of things, frankly scandalous things that somehow managed to persist within its walls despite the fact that outside of them-

No, the raven-haired woman didn’t have a particularly high opinion of Brunnhold as a cultural bastion. Once upon a time, she would have said that it wasn’t a moral bastion either, certainly not by Anaxi standards but who was she to judge really? Her own people permitted so many things, in fact encouraged things that would have made many an Anaxi — and Bastian for that matter — shudder in horror. It’d be very hypocritical of her, especially given what she got up to behind closed doors but then the young woman had done well for quite some time as a hypocrite.

That all Bastians had an inherent appreciation was something that she was ready to argue, disagreement poised on the tip of her tongue. So much of what they counted as beauty could be considered overly ostentatious and often gaudy as a result. There was such a thing as too much and she’d seen some ideas of what Bastians considered ‘beautiful’ fashion. Niccolette’s taste though… she approved of that.

“I’ve never been to Florne — never been to Bastia in fact — although Anastou was my first choice of university. My parents considered Bastia to be… inappropriate. If I was to leave Frecksat then they wanted me to attend a, eh… sensible university,” Drezda remarked dryly, a smirk curving coloured lips. She raised a brow as if challenging the other to comment on that idea directly. She was certainly feeling a bit better, or suitably distracted at any rate. “In truth, I think they hoped that if I went to Brunnhold then I’d get the silly notion out of my head to pursue Perceptive Conversation. Alas, I believe that I disappointed them there although a secondary focus in Living might have assuaged it somewhat,” she admitted with a chuckle, moving automatically for the glass, fingers curling around the stem and bringing it halfway to her mouth before she recalled that it was empty.

Well damn it all!

The woman took a moment to consider as she set the glass back down, finger resting against the lip as her mouth hung slightly open, salivating lightly at the mere notion of-

Before she had a chance to think about it further, she turned her head towards the bar, a delicate wave and a subtle gesture gaining the barman’s attention and showing that she wanted a refill.

So fucking weak! the snide voice chided but she ignored it — or tried to do so.

“I don’t know that Florne is the most beautiful city in the world-”

She held up a hand, swiping it delicately through the air to wave off any retorts.

“-and I’m not going to argue the point. I haven’t been to Florne so I can’t make a judgment although I… might not agree with you. You may say that it’s very Hoxian of me — and you’d be correct — but I wouldn’t really in a position to judge even if I had seen it. Beauty is a terribly subjective thing and what you find beautiful, I may not — and vice versa. I suspect that our cultures do not have the same sense of what beauty is. We have arts in Hox — music, dance, painting, composition — but I’m not sure that anyone from Bastia would consider them to be such.”

The barman appeared with a bottle of wine, condensation fogging the glass and droplets of moisture clinging to it, and began to pour. She had to resist the urge to lunge for it as the liquid glugged into her empty glass and the aroma wafted out to meet her greedy senses. Her hands remained tense in her lap, dark eyes focused intently on what the man was doing, her field warming as she did so although she tried to make it seem as if she wasn’t staring at the wine itself but was examining the bottle. Beauty’s Provenance, that was what it was called, black label hugging the bottle’s curves in a clear, elegant script. Given the name and the subtly painted tiger that stalked the black, she thought it might be Bastian. Such a bold, almost blasphemous claim! Was the Kingdom the wellspring of beauty or the alcohol itself?

She murmured her thanks, coins changing hands before she all but dived on the beverage. Drezda had restraint and knew how to exercise it. It was why she managed to pluck it up with some delicacy, tilting it gently to her lips and letting it flow at its natural pace instead of trying to suck it in. In spite of her restraint, the Hoxian still hummed her appreciation as the alcohol wet her tongue, the sound edging close to a groan.

She had control. It meant that she could choose to have a second glass and not lose her mind. She could do this.

The wine remained in her hand, swirled in its receptacle while she considered the Bastian over the top of it.

“Have you been to Hox, Niccolette? It would be unusual to encounter many of our works outside of the Kingdom; we are loathe to let such things leave but Hoxians do go to other Kingdoms and bring parts of home with us. However, if you haven’t been to Hox, even if you have seen examples of our art, I’m not sure… how much of it makes sense,” the young woman explained, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind her ear and taking another drink; it was close to being half gone already.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

There was an amused little smile that curled over Niccolette’s lips at the mention of Brunnhold’s tastes. “An impressive refinement of regurgitation,” she added, as delicately as if she were discussing an opera or the correct choice of linens for a dinner party. Niccolette herself had been no stranger to such diversions for many years, and she had added her own upchucked misery to the streets of the Stacks on a not insubstantial number of occasions.

And then -

It had become a little harder to sustain her energy as she went on, but Niccolette had kept at it; it had been almost like trying to cast a spell, the words pouring out one after another. To stop would have been to brail; it would have been worse than not starting at all. And she had not stopped; she had dug in and kept going and she had arrived at the end of it still smiling, one hand wrapped tightly around the glass of whiskey.

Niccolette grinned, broad and unrepentant, at Drezda’s light dig at Anastou. “Bastia is quite inappropriate,” she agreed, as if it were a point of pride; she smiled as she said it, a smile that had something glittering and sharp at the edges of it, dangerous and provocative. She thought she was settling into the conversation now; another swallow of whiskey helped.

Stay here, Niccolette told herself. Stay here. The exhortation only reminded her how easy it would be to slip away; her eyelashes fluttered faintly, and she blinked and fixed her gaze firmly on Drezda once more.

The other woman was calling for another drink. Niccolette took another mouthful of whiskey, even though she could still taste the last. It went to her head, rushed through her, and she drifted, somewhere between here and there. For a moment - one, blissful perfect moment - the entire room slid away, and she was lying wrapped in Uzoji’s arms, and he was whispering to her of Thul Ka - long before she had seen it herself - whispering to her, soft in the Brunnhold dark, every stolen moment even more precious than the last -

Niccolette thought she might weep, and then she thought she might be sick, and she smiled through all of it, and took another drink. “Terribly Hoxian of you,” she agreed, even though she wasn’t quite sure what Drezda had said. She set the glass back down, unsteadily, her hands shaking.

Drezda watched the barman pour, her eyes shining and her field warming the air around them. Niccolette watched her companion, curiously, holding there in the moment, through raised lashes, and wondered. She closed her eyes when Drezda drank, but she heard her and -

A shudder rippled through Niccolette, and she opened her eyes again, and wrapped her hand around her side, fingers digging in tight. Her breath evened out again, slow and careful.

“I have never really been to Hox,” Niccolette said, carefully. She titled her glass, circling the whiskey around it with slow, even sloshes. “But I have heard Deftung at the opera. I do not speak a word, and yet I would have said I understood it,” Niccolette raised her eyebrows lightly, and shrugged. She set the glass down and sat back. She couldn’t seem to let go of herself; her side ached beneath her fingers.

“Well,” Niccolette said, thoughtfully, looking at Drezda. “Beauty is perhaps subjective but a thing can be unfamiliar and yet beautiful. I have never properly met you before - I cannot say if you look well tonight compared to others, or if this is your most flattering gown. And yet I know what I like,” Niccolette shrugged again and smiled, edging back around the subject that had burned her once already.

“Tell me about Hox then,” Niccolette said, a faint air of command in her voice. She grinned at Drezda, finding it somewhere inside, “so if ever I do see such things, I shall be properly prepared.” She did not look at Drezda’s half-empty glass, or the scant measure of whiskey left in her own; the room was spinning, a little, around her, but Niccolette held her gaze on Drezda, and admired the pretty color of her lips.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
The Lycat, Uptown Vienda

.

She didn’t think that Niccolette looked particularly well but what did she know? She was somewhat drunk on the idea of alcohol, hardly thinking straight herself and not certain that she cared. The girl was probably pretty drunk herself because she’d had- How much whiskey was it now? Evidently enough to make her space out a bit; she looked as if she was starting to go asleep with her eyes open. She managed to make the odd comment even while she looked a bit out of it though so she obviously wasn’t too far gone. Even while her drink was being poured, Drezda was considering suggesting that the Bastian consider retiring for the evening. While sacrificing the drink wasn’t something that she was willing to do — nothing was going to come between her and the wine now that she had it — she could have gotten a carriage for the woman; the Hoxian may not be a man but she could still flag down a cab. However, her companion brightened after the alcohol was poured and so she felt that her worries could be set aside; there was no reason to send Nicco off yet.

“Never really been? That’s an interesting thing to say,” the diplomat commented, a brow arching. “Either you’ve never been or you’ve been to Hox, I can’t see how there can be a ‘really’ in there unless you were only there briefly and I can’t imagine a reason for that. After all, who would make a stop off in Hox? It’s hardly on the way to, well... anywhere!” the woman laughed, strangely delighted by the notion of Hox being a pit stop.

She waved a hand in the air and shook her head, dismissing any response that the other might have to that. It hardly mattered if she’d been in Hox before for a brief spell — she obviously hadn’t had a chance to experience Drezda’s homeland. That was evidenced by the fact that she mentioned having heard Deftung in opera — and having understood it!

Her lips pursed at that, one side twitching up in a display of sardonic amusement. She highly doubted that someone — a Bastian, no less! — could have truly understood Deftung just from an opera. Oh she might have gained a general sense of what was going on but for her to have truly understood — to feel what was going on — was laughable. Drezda wasn’t fluent and so while she grasped much of her mother’s poetry, she was certain that there were many nuances that escaped her entirely. Of course, she was also at a disadvantage because she didn’t have knowledge of many of the religious and spiritual matters that Ksjta wrote about but that was hardly relevant; there were still many Deftung writings that she couldn’t fully understand.

The scorn that she was planning on aiming at her companion ended up being briefly diverted by a burst of surprised pleasure at the unexpected but unmistakable compliment. It was clear based on the admiration in her gaze, implicit rather than anything explicitly stated. That there was a mutual attraction between them was undeniable — each saw something in the other that they liked — but that didn’t mean that it was going anywhere.

A measure of scorn returned to her features at the woman’s commanding tone and yes, perhaps when Drezda drew herself up in a laughable attempt to make use of her diminutive height — while seated as well — there might have been some haughty pride in her nation.

“I would say that you can appreciate the… beauty of Deftung — there is a beauty there, certainly, although not everyone can find it — but still be quite unfamiliar with its nuances if you lack context,” she pointed out haughtily, chin tilting upwards. “I’m sure you understood it in the opera — the gist of things anyway.”

She managed to stop herself from reaching out to pat the other on the arm but she didn’t need a physical gesture to be patronising right now. Her hand did move to the table though, fingernails tapping out a gentle rhythm as she took another sip of wine.

“Bastia is flat, things are… smooth, easygoing. Hox isn’t like that, not at all. There’s nothing flat or easygoing about Hox. People think this past winter was cold and it was — for Anaxas. At home, it’s cold, it’s harsh, the land climbs higher and higher and grows more and more rugged. That’s probably not news to you but the air… Frecks is high up. If you’ve ever been in an airship, ever taken a breath up there then you know what it’s like. It’s thinner, you breathe in and it doesn’t feel as if there’s enough air, always on the edge of being breathless,” Drezda explained in a breathy whisper, sounding as if she was in the atmosphere she was describing and almost choking as she did so.

She could remember it though now that she was discussing it, recalling how awful it felt when she went home to visit. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience, not at all, not after so long close to sea level. She probably adapted to it faster than non-natives because she’d grown up in that air, but the sense of being helpless was still pretty awful, no matter how brief it was.

“If you live in conditions like that… your concept of beauty is a bit different. You don’t have the same colour palette for one thing. Things aren’t as straightforward. It isn’t a matter of black and white — by no means as simplistic — but shades of grey and yet… so much deeper than that — more complex,” Drezda told her, watching her closely to see if she was understanding; she didn’t have the same talent with language as her mother did.

“Our lives are difficult enough so our lives have simplicity to them. Our society is… nothing like this. Men, women, we don’t see the difference. You don’t have to be either actually. You can be a mix of man and woman, or neither. You can wear what you want, work in any role, regardless of gender, marry if you really want to but it isn’t really necessary — it’s a rather public statement, getting married. It says a lot about your private life if you wed.”

Her dark gaze found the ring on Nicco’s hand, something troubled in her eyes as her brows crumpled. She took another drink of wine, a large mouthful this time and the level of liquid dropped dramatically.

“What do you make of that?”

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

Niccolette smiled pleasantly at Drezda’s arguments about whether or not she had been to Hox, and how she thought she could find herself in the middle of it. She shrugged in response, lightly, and the Hoxian wove through the subject without much of a question on it. Niccolette had been at the Steppes where they shifted from Mugroba to Hox; she had even ventured up into the frigid air over the country’s westernmost mountain ranges, and once, rather memorably, landed in the midst of an enormous snowstorm, all white air and black rocks, stained red by blood.

Drezda moved on, and finally – finally! – Niccolette saw her begin to rise. The slender Hoxian drew herself up, staring squarely at Niccolette across the table, and there was something like pride in her face, or maybe scorn. Niccolette could not have said, but it did not matter to her. It was a hot sort of emotion, prickling sharp in the air between them, and she grinned a little at the sight of it, and found that she could let go of her side.

The other woman settled into her subject with surprising enthusiasm. Niccolette watched her, enjoying in, and she leaned forward across the table when Drezda spoke of being breathless, her gaze fixed softly on the Hoxian’s woman face, the breathy tone sending something unexpected through her, soft and aching. Niccolette smiled, slowly, and didn’t try to control the little shiver that ran through her.

If you’ve ever been in an airship, she thought, and she smiled a little more.

Niccolette sat back a little when Drezda moved into gender, her eyebrows lifting slightly. She had always found the concept of onjira in Mugroba strange and more than a little uncomfortable. Drezda’s eyes lowered to her hand, and Niccolette did as well, looking at her fingers curled softly together above the tabletop, the gold ring shining beneath the light. She looked back up at the Hoxian, then.

“I understand that last part, I think,” Niccolette said. She did not shy away from the subject, not anymore. Perhaps, she thought, aching, she never could have. She looked at Drezda, and shrugged, lightly, teasing at the ring on her finger, twisting it slowly back and forth against the pale skin. “Of course it is not the same in Bastia, for most. They make fun of us, I think, in in the rest of the Kingdoms, for our contracts,” Niccolette grinned. “As if something like marriage can be written down and made into neat rules, understood on paper,” the Bastian shrugged.

Niccolette was quieter, then, turning the thoughts over; she was still twisting her ring, she realized, back and forth. She let it go, and smoothed her hands against the tabletop, looking at Drezda. “But for me,” Niccolette said, quietly, and did not finish the sentence. She closed her eyes for a moment, and opened them again, and sighed. The world was fuzzing around her, at the edges. Shading into gray, she thought; no black and white.

Niccolette picked up her glass and drained the last of the whiskey, and set it back down, surprisingly neatly. “Almost like Mugroba, I think,” She said, dreamily. It didn’t feel real, she thought; any of it. Had any of it, since? Really? She was drifting again, but she didn’t look away from Drezda. Her eyes fluttered shut, and then opened again, and held fixed on the Hoxian. “They do not lie, you know, Mugrobi. The galdori. It should be straightforward, but they find ways to wander around the truth,” Niccolette was aware, suddenly, of the harsh sting of tears in her eyes. She blinked at them, and sat back, and brushed her hand gently against her face, shaking.

A deep breath, and then another, and Niccolette closed her eyes for a moment, and opened them again with a sigh. “What they tell you, you know you can believe,” Niccolette said, quietly, looking at Drezda, aware of an odd dizziness swirling about her, a feeling like the room might tip over at any moment, if she looked at it long enough. “It is all the rest where one becomes lost.”

“What are you, then?” Niccolette asked Drezda, not quite smiling, but meeting her eyes without hesitation, as if there was nothing else in the room. If she had wanted to tell the truth, Niccolette would have said she had lost track of the rest of it, the hardness of the bench beneath her, the light glowing from the walls, the burst of busy noise by the bar. It was all spinning and swirling around them, and it threatened her with nausea if she looked at it directly.

“Simple and straightforward, like your society? Or shaded in gray, complex, like your art?” Niccolette's right hand crept forward a little on the table, closing half the distance between her and Drezda, and resting there. She blinked the last of the tears from her eyelashes, and held her focus on the other woman, bringing herself back to the present, to the moment between them. “Or is it one and the same, really?”

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
The Lycat, Uptown Vienda

.

Drezda had thought that she lacked the talent of language that her mother possessed but that was hard to believe as she gazed at Niccolette. The young woman gave the impression that she was lapping up her every syllable with eager interest, not only transfixed but seemingly enchanted by everything that the diplomat had to say. The degree of focus was quite- Well, it was flattering but it also left her feeling exposed somehow as if she sat here wearing nothing at all. The self-consciousness of it all made colour creep across her skin, the Hoxian giving a hoarse cough that was clearly fake, taking a quick and careful sip of her drink and patting her chest lightly as if trying to clear her lungs of a blockage. While she liked to think herself a decent liar, in this instance, it was clear that she was better off in the role of politician rather than actress; her performance was distinctly lacking.

She hadn’t lost the Bastian’s attention but the topic of gender seemed to enthuse her less, the woman sitting back and allowing the Hoxian to feel as if she could breathe again. No matter how self-conscious she might feel, Drezda wouldn’t halt her speech, especially not when she had a good flow going. However, the more scrutinised she felt and the more weight her words seemed to hold, the more thoughts would accumulate at the back of her brain, silently derisive and wearing away at her.

It was a relief to pass the burden of speech to the other, her question and her meaningful glance at the other’s ring prompting a response as she had hoped that it would. She found her gaze drawn back to the ring, a near magnetic pull. It was difficult to look away once she started, especially as Niccolette twisted the band. Back and forth, to and fro, the pace slow and soothing, requiring little effort to follow but not so slow that she lost interest. It was hypnotic.

But the other was talking about… marriage, yes, that was it. She had heard about Bastian marriage contracts, yes. Soulless things, loveless things, pure business transactions but at least they were open about such things. Many Anaxi married for status and money, for the sake of connections and alliances and love didn’t factor into it as often as many of them would like to claim. Some of them were arranged, whether openly so, or in back room deals that were kept quiet. The Hoxian regarded Anaxi marriages rather cynically, maybe all marriages. After all, her brother had been told to marry and it was expected of her as well, hardly in line with how the rest of her society viewed such unions. Again, that was down to business and seemed to have more to do with how her family would appear to foreigners as Jaydr sought to expand beyond their small nation’s borders than how herself or her brother might feel about things. Not that she would be sharing any of that with Niccolette — definitely need to know.

The hypnotic spell finally broke as her companion released her ring, the diplomat giving a little jolt as she came back to herself. Funnily enough, when she’d been following the twists of the ring, she’d managed to forget about her wine but now her hand found the glass again, the woman holding it as if it provided comfort although she resisted the urge to drink it down; it needed to last.

Her brow furrowed at the mention of Mugroba and lying, wondering what that had to do with anything. She also had to admit that the dreaminess in Niccolette’s face was rather perturbing. Actually there was something in her voice that made the hair on the back of the diplomat’s neck stand on end. She had no idea why but there was something off about it. The reason for the seeming shift in topic made sense now though, a parallel drawn between how the Mugrobi handled the matter of lying and the layers to Hoxian society. Drezda didn’t know what to reply to that specifically so she simply hummed, finding the rim of her glass against her lips before she could even think about it. She was beginning to feel a bit warm and slightly untethered, the speed at which she was drinking probably a contributing factor.

Her eyes found the Bastian’s as she voiced her question, the young woman hesitating on her clarifying question when she saw the moisture that clung to her lashes. She’d been crying — or on the verge of doing so — but when had that happened. Drezda didn’t understand how those tears had manifested but it made her uncomfortable, the mona around her vibrating, a discordant note that didn’t show on her features.

She licked her lips with care, gaze flashing briefly to her glass to check its contents before returning to Niccolette. She was beginning to think that she’d been overly hasty before in her decision that they could remain; she didn’t think that the other was in a good state and it might well be the fault of the alcohol — or the company!

“I think… they can be one or the other but often both at the same time, both Hox and what it produces,” she explained slowly, raising her glass and chugging half of what remained. Wine was not a suitable beverage for such behaviour, feeling acidic in her gullet and inclined to come right back up it again. She hiccupped, pressing fingers to the base of her throat as she waited for things to settle.

“The main thing about Hox is that it can be full of contradictions and overlap. That’s where the complexity comes from and… I think that’s what I am: contradictory. As for you…”

She swallowed the last of her drink with one large gulp and a grimace, setting the glass down delicately. Her hands found the tabletop and used it to support her as she levered herself to her feet.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink here. I think we should leave, don’t you?”

Her words made it sound like a suggestion but her tone was firm. She offered the other woman her hand.

.