[Closed] The Morning After the Night Before

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 29, 2719 | Morning
Drezda’s Home, Uptown Vienda

Drezda Ecks had regrets.

Given how things had been going in recent months, waking with regrets wasn’t exactly new to the Hoxian. She’d had plenty of mornings where she would have quite liked to have her head chopped off to end the horror of a hangover, those mornings when she hadn’t been able to indulge in the hair of the dog. Compared to those mornings, she had considerably less to worry about but she had managed to do reasonably well in recent weeks and the new, higher level of alcohol in her system was having effects. Her head throbbed, her tongue seemed to have fur growing on it and she felt as if the world around her was subtly out of kilter, enough to make her feel dizzy if she moved too fast.

All in all, she’d gotten off lightly but the young woman was pissed off at herself for her weakness. Discipline and control had been key and she had fucked things up. However, while it was a slip and one that could be rectified (the diplomat intended to be harder on herself as a consequence), Drezda had brought more mementoes of her shame home with her than the poisons in her bloodstream; she’d brought someone home with her: Niccolette. It wasn’t as if she’d brought the Bastian home like that, they hadn’t shared a bed or anything, but there was still plenty of reason to feel scandalised in the sober light of day.

The diplomat recalled her unplanned visitor a minute or two after waking, although at least she could recall that things had been entirely above board, whereas Niccolette would have no such memories; the other woman had been unconscious when Jerome carried her into the house. Her companion had had more to drink than the Hoxian but she’d also seemed genuinely exhausted as it was. The chance of awakening the woman had seemed quite slim but Drezda had ensured that great care was taken with her although both Cora and Rosmilda were accustomed to dealing with an unhelpful subject when it came to nighttime routines.

The woman of the house had lingered for far longer than she ought to have done, far longer than would have been deemed appropriate but she had been oddly mesmerised by the gentle care performed by the two servants. She found herself unable to view events without imagining herself in Nicco’s position, as this must be how it had been when the two women had had to tend to her on her drunken nights. How often had she awoken the morning after a binge feeling confused, having no memory of undressing or tucking herself into bed? Even so, more often than not, she hadn’t had as many adornments to shed as her guest did. The servants had had to unpin her hair and work slowly and carefully with a wet cloth to remove the layers of cosmetics so that she would be undisturbed while still able to awaken fresh-faced. The mesmerising spell of the activity had only broken when the Bastian’s dress had been removed, the Hoxian starting guiltily as she realised that her eyes were roaming over the figure to which a white silk shift clung. She’d had no permission to see the other in such a position, so vulnerable and unaware, certainly not there to be an object of lustful admiration.

That she had lingered until that point brought the diplomat uncomfortable guilt and shame now that she was awake and sober. Of course, most of those emotions were roused by the excitement that tainted her recollections, the raven-haired woman unable to clear her mind of what she’d seen and the thoughts she’d had at the time, her imaginings. It meant that seeing Niccolette this morning would be an uncomfortable encounter but she could hardly avoid the woman. Besides, it must be awful to awaken in a strange bed and have no idea how you got there. Even if the other had managed to awaken before Drezda — highly unlikely — then she could envision the other hiding out in the spare bedroom, wondering if she should attempt to get ahold of a servant for something to take the edge off her hangover. It was that last thought of her guest potentially hiding out that drove the Hoxian out from between her own sheets.

Heaving her carcass up, she wrapped her nightgown-clad form in a silk robe and put on soft slippers before moving to ring the bell that would inform her servants that she wanted their attention. After that, she poured herself some water and gulped it down greedily, swilling some of it around in her mouth to clear it of that furry feel. She perched herself before her dressing table, an elbow on its surface and her face propped on her hand while her other one cradled her water glass.

A timid knock came before the door was opened quietly and the redheaded passive peeped her head in cautiously.

"You… you called, Mistress?” she questioned, inching her way into the room when she caught sight of where Drezda was sitting. Setting her glass down, the Hoxian gestured impatiently for her to approach.

"Rosmilda, I won’t drop dead if you move at a normal pace," the galdor informed her waspishly, she snatched up her hairbrush from the dresser and began smoothing the chaotic dark strands. She found herself wincing almost at once, not simply because of the knots that caught and either snapped or untangled, but also from the sensation of strands tugging on her scalp. She pressed her palm flat against her head, applying pressure close to where the strands were anchored and continued to brush.

“I need tea — strong tea — and some of that tonic — you know the one. I want enough for two and I want you to bring it here. Something light to eat as well,” she ordered, brushing her hair aggressively, mouth set in a grim and determined line.

"Y-Yes, Mistress. Do you want me to brush your hair?” Rosmilda questioned softly.

Drezda gave a quick shake of her head.

“No, simply do as I’ve asked. I may not be here when you — or Cora — return but you’re to leave it here anyway. If I need anything else, I’ll call, understood?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Have you heard anything from our guest? Any sign that she’s awake?”

A shake of the servant’s redhead.

“Fine. Go.”

Once her servant was gone, the Hoxian spent another minute or two on her hair before she rose and padded out of her room and along the upstairs landing to Nicco’s door. She considered returning to her room to grab a robe and slippers for Nicco, perhaps even a nightgown — she didn’t know if the other had been left in her shift or not — but she figured that Cora would have left such things ready; the human housekeeper paid attention to such details.

She knocked softly, waiting a few moments before knocking a second time, a little louder this time. She turned the doorknob quietly, grimacing at the little pings and creaks in the mechanism; the blasted thing could probably do with an oiling. Once it was ajar, Drezda made no move to enter although she cocked her ear towards the gap.

“Niccolette? Are you awake?” she called softly.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 29 Hamis, 2719
A Guest Bedroom, Drezda Ecks's Home, Uptown

Niccolette was no stranger to waking unawares, with only a faint, scattered memory of where she was, how she had gotten beneath the blankets, where her clothing had gone. There had been occasion enough for that, these last years; alcohol had caused a few occasions, though over-casting was the more common culprit by far.

What was strange was to wake unawares and alone.

There had been more than a few occasions, Niccolette recalled, when she had come to consciousness at the drift of Uzoji’s fingers through her hair, the gentle teasing out of hairpins. He had not quite known how to do it, the first years of their marriage, and she had woken to the tug of pins against her scalp. He had learned the knack of it, his long deft fingers easing them free without more than the faintest tug.

What was strange was to wake unawares and alone, in a strange new place. Not the island; Niccolette did not know if she could ever bear it again, to wake in that bed; not even the Rose, though she had woken with scattered forgetting there often enough these last months, though she had not been startled by it, not with the days blurring together and the nights equally indistinct. Not the Eqe Aqawe either, for it was gone, now, and Uzoji too; she would never wake again grumpy and aching against him, to be soothed calm by his steady patience and gentle hands.

Niccolette had wept. She was not ashamed, or if she was, she had long since accepted the shame and made it part of her. There was no surprise to the shame; it was, and she was too, and they were tangled up as intimately as she had ever been. She wept; she curled herself up into her side, her head throbbing, and sobbed into the cool soft pillow beneath her cheek for some interminable amount of time. She had not known it, quite, when the crying stopped and sleep began again; she could not have found the line between them.

Niccolette woke again, knowing only that it was a little while later, to the cool brush of sunlight through pale curtains. She rose, perhaps halfway; she tucked herself up against the headboard, and glanced around. There was little enough to tell her where she was; she had scattered, vague memories - a hand lingering on hers at dinner brought back a wave of nausea, but there was more after it - the sharp tang of cool, rainy air, the taste of whiskey, a memory of laughter and something warm and unexpected inside her, with just an edge of sharpness.

She could not chase the memories further; she did not try. Niccolette eased herself from the bed, aching; pain went fro the soles of her feet up through her legs, all the way through her. Her head was light; she had to cling to the headboard a long moment to stay upright. She did not venture far; there was a candle, on the small bedside table. Niccolette lit it, with shaking hands, and then sat back down. She shivered; she tucked herself beneath the blankets, though she stayed upright still.

No, the doctor had said, frowning. No; rest, and calm. Even meditation, he had warned, might be too much of a strain in the wake of such a duel. Niccolette had let herself listen to him; she could not, now, think why.

And now, Niccolette began to breathe. She inhaled, deeply, and she felt herself fill up with it; she exhaled, as well, and settled into the emptiness, the aches, the belonging. She watched the candle flame; she counted the beats of her breath, in and out. She let them ripple out through her field, out through the world beyond. She set aside the headache, the painful, dry throbbing in her mouth, the churning nausea in her stomach; she set aside the deep ache through all her bones. She was only her breath, and the reach of her field, and all the ways in which it extended into the world beyond. The candle flame flickered with her, drawn in and out.

In time, Niccolette chanted, softly, no more than the faintest whisper, the remembered echo of monite. The candle flame leaned towards her with each breath, and then again away, moving steadily.

The easing open of the door and the quiet voice did not disturb her. Dreads, Niccolette knew, somewhere distant.

“I am,” Niccolette said, quietly, between the breaths. “Come in.” She exhaled out the last of her meditation as the door came open; she settled her gaze on the candle flame. Niccolette murmured a low word of monite beneath her breath; the flame shuddered, and winked out.

Niccolette sat cross-legged on the bed. The blanket had slipped from her, at some point, and settled in her lap. Her long arms were bare beneath the small high sleeves of her shift; the soft white fabric shifted lightly with her every deep breath. Her eyes were faintly red, just barely swollen; her hair was a soft tangled mess around her head, the long strands loose against her back. But she was upright, and calm; but her field was bright in the air around her. Even from the door, Drezda would feel a faint, lingering warmth emanating from the living conversationalist, fading slowly.

Niccolette watched Drezda enter, still calm and upright. She remembered, at least enough; she did not know how to fill in what was gone, but she had grown used to that, these last months. It did not panic her. She had learned long ago that shame touched you only if you let it; sitting, in the wake of her meditations, conscious of the lingering warmth of the mona all around, she could not feel even the slightest hint of it.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Niccolette said. She looked away, slowly, from the lingering drift of candle smoke; she looked out at the window, and the faint bright light which echoed through the curtains. She felt it; she breathed it in deep. She turned back to look at Drezda again, and she smiled, faint but heartfelt.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 29, 2719 | Morning
Drezda’s Home, Uptown Vienda

As she eased the door open, the Hoxian was aware of a soft susurration, more like a whisper of air than the gentle swish of fabrics. It could have been a whisper, it could have been a low hiss, or the stir of something in a draught — although she certainly hoped that it wasn’t the last; there should be no draughts in her home. Perhaps it had been something moving in the rush of air introduced by her opening the door but it persisted, subtle though it was, although temporarily drowned out by Niccolette’s low voice granting her permission to enter.

Easing the door open slowly, she couldn’t help but seek out that sound again, curious as to what could be causing that stirring of air. It was nice perhaps, having a focal point because it allowed her to cast her thoughts outward, away from the pulsation going on within her skull.

Slipping inside, Drezda shut the portal behind her, blocking out the light from the hallway and plunging the room into its prior dimness. However, the Bastian had found her own source of light, a source that winked out abruptly as she looked at it. A ghostly light remained in her vision, pale imprint imposed on various spots in the room as her dark eyes roved around, blinking rapidly to clear it in the new dimness. Of course, it wasn’t wholly dim. Light did filter through the pale curtains but it was a step down in illumination, darker in comparison to what she’d just left behind.

From what she could see, things seemed surprisingly neat and orderly, not that the diplomat knew what she’d been expecting or why she should feel surprised. It was a spare room and relatively spartan. Oh it was comfortable and had furnishings but an acceptable number, an odd precision to its decoration actually. There was nothing superfluous here, no fancy throws or cushions, no knick knacks to add a homely feel to it. In fact, it was hardly different from her own room, except for the fact that this one hadn’t held anybody in… well, she couldn’t recall. Either way, it wasn’t as if Niccolette could really have disrupted anything.

That being said, there were small alterations due to her presence, namely a dressing gown and slippers left untouched on a chest at the foot of the bed. Unsurprising given that the woman herself hadn’t stirred from the rumpled blankets, sitting cross legged in a shift and a state of disarray. However, in spite of her dishevelled state — which was quite attractive, Drezda wasn’t going to deny that, Bash strengthen her — she seemed quite well. Admittedly, she’d been crying, that was clear from her puffed and reddened eyes but there was something peaceful about her, a pleasant warmth pooled around her as if her field had been in use — a sigiled field. That didn’t seem possible though unless she’d been concentrating on using Living Conversation on herself but that hardly seemed a noble use, even if her hangover was a bitch.

Damn her though! Niccolette did seem unreasonably bright as if she hadn’t drank so much that she’d passed out.

Had Drezda feared that the woman would be out of sorts, hiding away here in this room in a miserable condition? If anything, the Bastian appeared to be more at home here than the diplomat was. It was she who was put out and made uncertain. So self-assured and strong, her field unbelievably calm and strong around her, perfectly indectal as if she’d been encountered in the best of circumstances.

Perversely, the raven-haired woman had to resist the urge to act like a chastised child before a stern authority figure. Drezda forced herself to straighten her posture, ignoring that inclination to be meek, holding her field politely but allowing it to pool calmly around her. Her head hurt, she felt a bit sickened, she felt rather bewildered by what she saw before her but the woman could pretend.

“It was no trouble. I had the space, as you can see and you didn’t want to go elsewhere,” the young woman explained, moving to the foot of the bed to lift the silken gown and slippers from the chest. She carried them to her guest, draping the garment on the bedclothes beside her with great care and placing the slippers gently on the floor.

“These were left out for you, and I wouldn’t want you to feel as if you were exposed. I could have provided you with pajamas but my servants evidently decided that it would be more appropriate not to undress you further. However, if you’re going to leave the room…”

She allowed the sentence to hang unfinished, leaving the other to pick up on the implications herself. She wasn’t going to tell the young woman what to do, not this time. Perhaps she would have done so before but now that she was presented with this version of Niccolette, she wasn’t so sure.

“I’m having breakfast brought to my room, enough for both of us but if you would rather eat in here or… dine downstairs… it’s up to you. I wasn’t certain what you’d consider to be the most convenient for you. In all honesty, I didn’t know how you’d feel today but you seem… immensely bright for someone who put away the amount of whiskey that you did last night.”

And for someone who passed out and didn’t wake up while being changed, she added silently. The diplomat took a moment to untie the cord around her waist, tying it anew, smoothing down the material as she allowed her lips to tilt up ever so slightly, the smallest of smiles as she withdrew a step.

“You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like, it won’t cause me any inconvenience. If you’d rather leave as soon as possible then I’m happy to accommodate you. You’re welcome to choose something for yourself from my wardrobe. You have a range from which to choose.”

The young woman didn't know how to deal with this situation, not at all. It was likely quite obvious that she didn't know what to do here, which was why her cheeks had lost some of their sickly pallor and begun to bloom with embarrassment.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 29 Hamis, 2719
A Guest Bedroom, Drezda's Home, Uptown

Drezda brought the robe to her. Niccolette looked down at it, and then back up at the other woman. She wasn’t sure what she felt; she remembered enough that she supposed she should have been embarrassed. It had been, Niccolette thought, with a faint twinge of something like amusement, and beneath it something like shame, a long time since anyone had turned her down. She glanced down at herself for a moment; she could not bear to look too long.

All the same, she did not put the gown on, not yet. She couldn’t have said why. She looked up at Drezda, still sitting on the bed beneath the other woman. It was a long distance up; the angle worsened the throbbing in her head.

“I would not say I feel bright,” Niccolette said, quietly. She did not know if she meant it as a joke; she did not think so. She looked away, back at the window. Her hands were trembling slightly in her lap; she stilled them, together, one over the other. She was not sure of the thought of eating; it had been a struggle, these last weeks. Francoise had a rigorous idea of what an invalid ought to be fed, and she had been persistent in sending up tray after tray, no matter how manner Niccolette refused.

The Bastian swallowed; she ran her fingers through her hair, and pushed it back off her forehead. It would be best, she thought, to take something; dry toast, or porridge, perhaps, something to settle the stomach. There would be tea, she supposed; she knew better than to hope for kofi. The thought stuck in her throat, and she cleared it, faintly. She knew she would have no hope of managing it left alone.

“I would join you,” Niccolette said. She shifted towards the edge of the bed; the shift was caught at her knees, and slim bare legs eased off the side of it. She rose, halfway up; she stumbled, and pitched half-sideways, and sank back onto the bed. Her eyes closed, and she shuddered. There was nausea, much worse than there had been before; it coiled and writhed in her stomach, and pricked cold and clammy all over her skin, dissipating the last of the warmth which she had held so precious.

Niccolette steadied herself; she set her jaw, tears pricking in her eyes once more, and she lifted her chin, looking up at Drezda. One felt shame, she reminded herself, only by their own account; no one could force it on her. If she did not submit to it, then it did not exist. “Where is the water closet?” Niccolette asked, her voice calm and surprisingly steady.

She managed to get the robe around herself, somehow; Niccolette could not have said how, although she knew she had not quite managed the tie of it, not with shaking hands. She managed the slow walk in the slippers, careful and deliberate. She managed to ease herself down, slowly, one hand tight on the counter, so as not to hurt her knees. She was sick, then. It should have been familiar, by now; perhaps it was. She was thoroughly sick, and there were tears rolling down her cheeks as she bent over the toilet, the whole of her slender body tense and shuddering.

She could not have said if the pain was worse. Not worse than before she had meditated, as of that morning. It was a deep-seated ache, which had crept into all her bones since the duel, and made itself firmly at home. Exhaustion, the doctor had called it, with a stern warning in his voice. Fuck him, Niccolette thought, with sudden, surprising clarity. Fuck him. She felt no worse for the meditation, in the ways which counted.

Niccolette stayed slumped against the toilet for a few moments even after she had finished, her eyes closed. She took a deep breath, tasting the foulness of her misery and over-indulgence. She sniffled; she eased herself slowly up, one hand coming to rest on the floor. There was a brief, flickering wash of blue through her field; Niccolette took a deep breath, and soothed it back under control, finding indectal calm once more.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 29, 2719 | Morning
Drezda’s Home, Uptown Vienda

Niccolette’s apparent lack of suffering was a sore point for the Hoxian, not because she truly desired the woman to feel wretched but rather she envied her apparently unscathed state after the previous night’s debauchery. There was plenty about her emotions that weren’t entirely hidden, her awkward uncertainty being one of them, but her envy got the barest airing in her tone of voice and choice of words.

Bright. It was a wonder that she managed to prevent her mouth from contorting in disgust. How grossly unfair for the Bastian to be sporting such a crisp field and an outward calm when she didn’t even possess rhakor as part of her culture. Her people were supposed to be overly indulgent in everything, including emotions — especially emotions. It didn’t bear thinking about, just how relaxed she seemed and how powerful while Drezda floundered.

Her initial response — a denial — made the diplomat want to purse her lips, something she refrained from doing. Even so, there was doubt in her dark gaze, an incredulous lift to her carefully maintained brows that showed what she thought of that statement. After all, wasn’t she looking right at the woman? Oh she was dishevelled, sure, but it didn’t detract from her overall appearance — lovely, of course, in spite of her mussed hair — but simply added to the impression of being truly unruffled. It really seemed as if she were no worse for wear from the previous night until she agreed to breakfast and moved.

The way she scooted to the edge of the bed didn’t set off any alarms in the Hoxian’s dark head, sensible really given her state of dress and the way her shift had ridden up. It wasn’t until she rose and stumbled that Drezda realised that her assessment had been entirely off the mark.

Automatically, she stepped nearer, hands moving as if to break her fall but her brain caught up with her before she got them too near to the other woman. She jerked her body back, almost flinching away. It was like she’d reached the end of an invisible tether and had found herself bounced back, the apparent tug a reflection of her own momentum. Her hands continued to hover slightly higher than her own waist, watching her guest warily even as she took a minute step back, providing her with some space.

It wasn’t spiteful to withhold her help unless Niccolette specifically called for it. The woman had pride—no, dignity—and Drezda certainly wasn’t going to infringe on that, not when they were both sober, not now that the other woman seemed to be in her full power, in spite of her physical weaknesses. No spite and no malice. And she wasn’t intimidated either. She was simply being… respectful.

Her response was as it should be considering how the Bastian responded to crumpling onto the bed. There was no call for help, no groans or tears of self-pity, no, she simply steadied and steeled herself, gazing up at the Hoxian with watery but oddly determined eyes. She looked a bit pale, a delicate sheen to her skin as if it was clammy. No, not bright after all, she looked as if she might-

Water closet. Yes, but which-

The diplomat had two of them in the house, quite excessive really but one was downstairs and basically served everyone, whereas the other adjoined her room, as befitted a master bedroom. If Nicco was going to get sick then she’d rather it wasn’t her one but she could hardly manage all those stairs and there was the horrifying possibility that she’d lose everything midway down and if that happened-

“There’s one attached to my room. Come! I’ll show you,” she explained briskly, a queasy sensation undulating through her monic aura that might have been associated with panic. She returned to the room door and damn near threw it open, hovering out in the hallway as she waited for her guest to shuffle after her. Remaining ahead of her, she led the way to her room, encountering a petrified looking Rosmilda who froze with her tea tray in hand before cautiously bringing up the rear of the odd little procession.

Drezda gestured towards the water closet door, which stood ajar and found herself hovering by her bed as she let her gaze swing back and forth between the trudging figure of Nicco and the passive servant cautiously setting down her tray while also gazing at the Bastian. They both watched the woman take a knee and then the redhead was moving through the intervening space to shut the door quietly behind her Mistress’ guest. The Hoxian winced at the sound beyond, even as she turned her attention to the tray that had been brought, attempting to occupy herself even as something foul and sickening crept up her throat in sympathy.

Bash give her strength…

She would much rather have been able to banish the other to the room downstairs so that she didn’t have to be a party to her misery but this was simply the way things had to be.

The Hoxian perched on the side of her bed, watching her passive at work at her dressing table, decanting a fizzy liquid with a subtle yellow colouring into one tumbler, which she stirred with a spoon before handing it to her mistress. She accepted it mechanically, lips already tugging back distastefully before the deceptively sweet scent hit her nostrils. The sweetness only dominated for a moment before she caught the hint of something metallic beneath, the two blending together to create an odour that was neither wholly pleasant nor wholly unpleasant. It would be bitterness with a hint of metal, and the gritty texture of particulates that would greet her when she drank it as she well knew. The Hoxian didn’t know precisely what was in it but it seemed to work towards boosting hydration and replenishing lost salts and sugars, or rather that’s what it purported to do. Whatever it might say on the label, the young woman had found that it had some benefit providing that she didn’t gag on it while it was on the way down.

Temporarily holding her breath so that more of its smell wouldn’t filter into her airways and put her off, she brought the rim to her lips and tilted it sharply back, doing her best to gulp the ruddy tonic down before she had a chance to taste the clocking stuff. Drezda grimaced as she got to the end and something more granular than liquid passed through her lips and then she was pulling the glass away with a gasp of breath and a noise of disgust, as she pulled a hideous expression. Her servant had her tea ready for her, strong enough to stand on but far too hot to gulp down as yet so that the diplomat was left looking ill-pleased, stirring her tongue around her mouth every so often.

When the Bastian emerged, she’d discover her hostess nursing a cup and saucer while frowning at a small plate containing a single slice of lightly buttered toast that her servant seemed to be trying to coax her to take. She accepted it reluctantly, placing it at her side on the bed where it would be forgotten almost immediately.

“Shall I pour out tonic for Miss… um- Mistress’ guest?” Rosmilda asked politely, green eyes slightly downcast although they flitted between the two women, evidently gauging the situation.

“No, Rosmilda, I’ll take it from here. You can go,” she ordered briskly, the servant seemingly already purged from her mind as she turned her attention to Nicco.

“Feeling better?” she asked softly, suddenly aware that her room wasn’t the most suitable place to breakfast given that she only had a padded stool before her dressing table or a bed to sit on and the dressing table was the only suitable surface to rest things on.

“Would you rather sit here? Or chance downstairs? It’s hardly the uh… ideal venue for… well, much of anything beyond the usual,” she pointed out, transferring her cup back to the tray in case she needed to stand. “I don’t think one is meant to entertain in the bedroom… not with meals anyway.”

The corner of her mouth twitched up a little at that, a bit of warmth finding its way into her gaze. The sly comment had simply crept out and she didn’t regret it; she wasn’t wrong after all.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 29 Hamis, 2719
A Guest Bedroom, Drezda's Home, Uptown

Niccolette had not known the door was closed. She felt something faintly resembling gratitude; it was not as if they did not know, she thought, but there was much to be said for being sick in private. She should have been used to it, she brought, after so many months; she had long since lost any claim to dignity. Her hand tightened on the rim of the toilet bowl, and Niccolette sniffled.

She waited; she waited a little longer. The tears did not come, and, shakily, the Bastian found herself able to rise. She went to the sink, and cupped her hands beneath the faucet; she bent forward, and brought the water up to wash over her skin. She blinked it from her eyelashes, letting it trickle down her cheeks. Niccolette cupped one hand beneath the faucet, and drank from it; she swished it around, and spat it softly into the sink, and again and again until it did not taste so much of her own sick.

Niccolette wiped her hand dry, and her face too. At no point had she looked at her own reflection; she knew when it was too much to bear. She left the bathroom slowly, still somewhat instead.

Drezda was sitting on her spartan bed; her servant was still there too, Niccolette noticed. There were few enough places to sit; there was a low stool that Niccolette was not sure she could manage, and the bed itself.

Niccolette nodded faintly in after to Drezda’s question. The robe had been disarranged; she had not noticed until now. Niccolette straightened it, absently, and pushed her hair back off her forehead, combing her fingers through it. It was a tangled mess; she did not bother trying to comb it out fully, but only pushed it back and let it stay.

Drezda’s hint of a joke caught her by surprise, especially paired with the warmth that flickered across the other woman’s face. Niccolette smiled too, a little faintly.

”Toast does seem an unorthodox choice,” Niccolette offered, her own smiling growing just a fraction more wicked. She came a little closer; she sat on the bed next to Drezda, straight-backed by habit rather than conscious choice. She was not quite in the mood to appreciate how lovely Drezda was, but she was aware of it; she was more aware of it than she had expected, and her gaze lingered, a little, on the other woman’s delicate features and the curve of her lips.

”I should not mind staying here,” Niccolette said, looking at the other woman. She did not like to think of facing the stairs just now, although she thought perhaps it was as much tiredness as true physical weakness. It had grown difficult to tell, Niccolette knew. She smoothed her hand over the robe in her lap; she looked down at the both of them, and twisted the ring on her left back and forth, slowly and carefully, running the ball of her thumb delicately over it.

Niccolette stilled her hands, and looked back up at Drezda. ”I cannot but admit I am not the most enjoyable company,” she said, quietly. ”You may have noticed.” She smiled, although it was wry and a little pinched, although it flickered only briefly in her eyes before putting itself out once more.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 29, 2719 | Morning
Drezda’s Home, Uptown Vienda

The Living Conversationalist looked a bit like something that had died and been reluctantly coaxed back to living on this plane of existence. No doubt she was better or she wouldn’t have left the water closet but colour hadn’t managed to find its way back into her pale face yet. At least she no longer had that clammy look to her skin that more rightly belonged on some creature dredged up out of a murky pond. No doubt her appearance would improve when she had a chance to sit and rest, catching her breath while her body calmed itself down. Maybe some food would return warmth to her complexion rather than sending her flying to commune with the toilet once more.

The comment about toast being unorthodox elicited the upwards twitch of an eyebrow, the diplomat incredibly straight faced as she calmly retorted, “Perhaps. There are worse things than to crumb in my bed.”

She knew precisely what she’d said and how it sounded, the Hoxian having to repress a sigh. Evidently, she didn’t have much of a filter this morning, revealing more of her mind than she was wont to do with total strangers. Well, Nicco wasn’t precisely a stranger but they were hardly friends either. What was more, her rhakor seemed capable of functioning perfectly when she didn’t necessarily require it to do so. It would probably have been better to crack a smile or at least allow some mirth to shine through but she could feel the rigid blankness of her face, the mask that she’d so often had to wear fitting snugly now. Even if she could have responded with some false smirk now, it would have been too late, hardly worth it. The Bastian might decide that she’d been as solemn in that moment as her face and voice had seemed to suggest.

Oh well, so be it. The young woman honestly felt too weary to honestly care how she took it. That reckless disregard was the very reason why she seemed to be saying so much more than she meant this morning.

The mention of toast made her remember her own though, Drezda collecting it from the bed before she inadvertently sat on it and crumbled it into the coverlet. At least it was made so that it didn’t look as if she had simply crawled out of her blankets’ embrace. Furthermore, if they made a mess, at least it would be on the surface, and easier to sweep away.

She slipped the food between her lips, forcing herself to take a reluctant bite, chewing mechanically as she set the slice back on its dish. It went onto the dressing table, its owner allowing her guest to settle beside her before lifting herself delicately, trying to shake the bed as little as possible, and transferred herself to the low stool. There was no reason for them to sit hip to hip, as doubtless neither of them was much in the humour for flirtation — even if her mouth seemed to have differing opinions on the matter — and surely, it was more comfortable to sit some distance apart. It wasn’t that her companion was unpleasant to sit beside, nor someone distasteful who ought to be avoided. It wasn’t as if the woman was contagious and hopefully she didn’t view the situation in such a light. Honestly, it was more pleasant — not to mention more straightforward to look upon the other directly in front of her.

“If we’re to remain here then I shall simply endeavour to do my utmost to accommodate you,” the woman explained softly, swivelling on her stool to collect the tea tray, which she set gently on her lap. With care, she turned back to Niccolette, as her hands held the tray steady. Feet planted firmly apart on the floor, her lap levelled out to become a sturdy, albeit unorthodox, table. This way, her companion didn’t need to stretch as far and she didn’t have to try to balance a teacup on her leg either.

The toast that Rosmilda had buttered for her didn’t have any real warmth left in it and it had hardened slightly on the uncoated underside, its texture grittier beneath her delicate fingertips as she took another careful bite. It wasn’t the most polite thing, eating while her guest remained to be served, but the diplomat could hardly be impractical; she had to eat too, and had to get rid of the taste of that awful tonic besides. Anyway, she could work as she chewed, buttering another slice of toast for her companion. The process wasn’t a smooth one, the cool temperature making the butter sit slickly on the surface instead of sinking into the dried layer as it would have done if melted. At least Drezda’s had benefited from the heat, the spread sinking down into it so that it was soggy on top.

Frankly, she didn’t think that either piece looked particularly appetising but needs must. She passed it to the other woman, casting her eye to the jug holding the remainder of the tonic that she had taken.

“Can I offer you tea? Or… well, there’s tonic that I take that’s for rehydration and what have you, and I’ve found that it works quite well for hangovers,” the diplomat explained, peering into the jug and unable to stop her lip from curling at the mere sight of it.

“It tastes quite vile, however, and it makes me feel a touch queasy just taking it so I don’t know if you want to risk it.”

Black eyes shifted upwards, Drezda regarding the Bastian from beneath dark lashes as the side of her mouth curved into a coy smile.

“I’m sure that you want some now that I’ve sold it oh so well…”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 29 Hamis, 2719
A Guest Bedroom, Drezda's Home, Uptown

Drezda’s face did not so much as twitch with her joke - if it had been a joke. They were sitting almost close enough to touch on the bed; Niccolette glanced at the other woman. There was no sign of a joke from her, nothing, and Niccolette could not find it in her to summon up anything like mirth.

She left the comment lying there between them, unacknowledged, like a physical distance. Niccolette glanced away, silent; she closed her eyes.

Loneliness prickled over her skin. She could name it; it was a cold and clammy feeling, more than a little miserable. It rose up in her throat and prickle behind her eyes, whispering misery inside her. She felt awful; she felt beyond awful. There was a weight all through her, centered in her chest but extending through every aching limb. She could not get comfortable; there was no comfort to be found.

There was a quiet crunch of toast, and then the sound of someone else getting up. No, Niccolette wanted to say - don’t - but Drezda had already risen, and she saw little point of it. The other woman sat on the stool instead, raking the tray of breakfast things. Her legs were a little apart, enough that Niccolette could see two lines of pale calf pressed against the fabric which covered them.

Niccolette had looked; she would not deny it. She looked away now, her eyes fluttering once more. There was the scrape of a knife against toast; when Drezda spoke again it was polite but matter of fact.

Niccolette knew herself sunk in a mire of her own despair. There was no escaping it, not the clawing muck squelching and clutching at her. She knew this place; she was here, now, and she could not simply leave. It would be easy enough to succumb entirely, to sink her head beneath the surface and open her mouth, and let come what may.

She would, in time; Niccolette knew that. The mire of grief would claim her; the thick black mud would cover her eyes and deep into her nose and ears. She would breathe it in and swallow it down, and the weight of it would fill her stomach and her lungs, leaving room for nothing else. It would leak out of her eyes like tears, wretched and black, staining everything around her.

Not yet, Niccolette thought, sudden and fierce. She would succumb - but not yet. She pushed back against it; she found something like fire inside herself, somewhere deep, and thrust herself out of the muck. As if, Niccolette thought, she lay in a board a top of it, balancing on her stomach.

One wrong move -

Niccolette pushed her hair back off her face. She breathed in deep; she blinked, and her gaze settled properly on Drezda. The other woman was smiling now, a little curl of one; it felt oddly out of place after the earlier blankness. A piece of soggy, unappetizing toast sat on a plate in her lap, butter ripped across the surface.

“I shall try the tonic,” Niccolette said with a shrug. Rehydration was what she needed, now; tea alone would not do the trick, and she did not think she would like tea with sugar any better than she would Drezda’s restorative.

Niccolette took the cup from Drezda. She did not hesitate; she did not think or smell or delay. She tilted her head back and she drank, eyes fluttering closed, one hand wrapped around the cup. The other tangled in Drezda’s coverlet, gripping tight, slender fingers tense against the softness of it.

Niccolette choked down the last of it and shuddered; she lowered her hand and her head. Tears pricked in her eyes.

She laughed. Niccolette laughed; it was a half-strangled sound, and then it smoothed out into something like a giggle. “That is truly foul,” the Bastian said, setting the cup aside. “The texture is as if Bash threw up in my mouth.” She reached for the toast from Drezda, grinning through the tears prickling at her eyes. She took a bite of the buttered toast; anything to chase the taste of the restorative from her mouth.

Niccolette looked squarely at Drezda. She did not smile, now, her face smooth and even. “I shall endeavor not to crumb in your bed, all the same,” the Bastian took another bite of toast, her teeth crunching against it.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 29, 2719 | Morning
Drezda’s Home, Uptown Vienda

The Hoxian felt a bit better, leastwise, she no longer felt like something that had had to be scraped off the floor. It had been a mistake to have two glasses of wine while she’d been out last night, not because that alcohol alone had left her hungover but rather it had allowed her to justify sneaking down to the kitchen in the early hours to guzzle some of the wine that Cora used in cooking. She would have quite liked to say that such an action had been a dream but she knew that the way she felt had been caused by more than the two glasses that she’d had in the Lycat. She wondered if Niccolette could tell how much she had been suffering, or if she had been too preoccupied with her own misery to take much notice of her companion’s attitude. If she had, maybe she had thought that the woman couldn’t handle her liquor. Now wasn’t that an amusing thought?

Regardless, the diplomat could be said to be in slightly better spirits than she’d been when she arose not so long ago and while it was too early for the tonic to have taken effect, perhaps it was merely a placebo effect brought on by the knowledge that it was acting upon her. Admittedly, Drezda was less edgy than she’d been when she’d gotten up, a bit surer of herself and her companion. She wasn’t enjoying herself precisely but this wasn’t a wholly unpleasant situation either. Clearly it wasn’t all bad if she was willing to be playful with the Bastian; she wasn’t that way with everyone after all.

Her toast was set aside for the nonce — it would hardly worsen it given that it was already cold — while she set about pouring tonic for her guest, a grim smile on her lips. The other woman had no idea what she was getting herself into and it was more than possible that she hadn’t fully believed the Hoxian’s warning but that was all right; she’d discover the truth of it soon enough. Into the cup it went, Drezda giving it a perfunctory stir before she passed it to her companion.

The diplomat’s lips stretched, teeth baring in a manner that wasn’t precisely unfriendly but more suitable for a grimace than a smile, watching the other closely as she threw the noxious concoction down her throat. She got it down but the Perceptive read the lines of distress in her body, how the last drops were almost choked down.

Her expression might have softened for a moment in sympathy but it was quickly overshadowed by something a little more smug, brows raising ever so slightly as she levelled a look at her guest that clearly said, ‘I told you so.’

As Niccolette began to laugh, Drezda’s lips quirked up, dark eyes briefly narrowing as the lids hung more heavily than before. She was glad that the woman could take it in such good humour and it was a lovely sight, exceedingly pleasant to see how altered her features became with the shift in her spirits. Her description of the tonic’s texture drew a soft snort of laughter from the diplomat, brows arching upwards as she passed the toast to the other.

“Happens to you often, does it?” the Hoxian asked with mild interest, while her eyes laughed. “I’ll be sure to recall that for future reference. It’d almost be like receiving His blessing directly!”

She went back to crunching her toast, mirth still flitting around her lips as she chewed, increasing before she could suppress it in time at Niccolette’s unexpected retort to her earlier crumb remark. She forced her lips to smooth out as she chewed, endeavouring to look as solemn as possible. She swallowed, the movement incredibly visible before she cleared her throat, setting down her toast in favour of her teacup.

“I appreciate the effort,” she responded earnestly, gradually raising the cup to her lips. “I’m sure I can forgive you if you don’t succeed. After all, I imagine that it might be somewhat difficult to avoid and given that I myself have been guilty of such things… If it occurs then I’m sure that we could endeavour to keep it between ourselves — provided that there wasn’t too much of a mess, of course.”

It was a wonder that she delivered her piece so steadily, her voice betraying none of the mirth that bubbled beneath the surface. She was glad of the teacup, which could occupy her lips the moment she had finished, sipping delicately while her dark eyes remained fixed on her companion. While she kept expression and voice carefully schooled, the diplomat did allow her emotions to come through in her gaze, brows lifting for but a moment above her mischievously gleaming dark eyes.

Yes, her mood was definitely showing signs of substantial improvement and while the thudding in her temples still persisted, it could be weathered rather than allowing it to put a dampener on things.

She set down her teacup, softly clearing her throat again.

“Shall you have a little tea? It would clean the palate but I’m afraid that it might not be much to your taste. It’s a Hoxian blend, strong and rather bitter. While there is snowberry to soften it — and sugar, I see — I’m afraid that it doesn’t suit everyone. It is something of an acquired taste, I believe, as is snowberry as an additive,” Drezda explained, topping up her own tea and adding some of the cloudy juice to it.

She swirled the cup’s contents delicately, peering into its dark depths as if intending to scry within them, deeply inhaling the aroma that arose from it.

“This is a fermented blend. It’s been allowed to mature, to gain body and it… well, it can provide a wealth of flavour. Terribly underappreciated, I think but I’m rather biased. There’s a lot to be said for something that’s been allowed to come into its full potential.”

Was she still talking about tea? Oh yes, certainly! Of course, her tastes could be said to follow similar lines in other areas.

“There’s a fullness from the leaves and it’s been toasted — it’s best practice to toast the blocks before you grind them — so there’s a slight smokiness although it’s more of a… warmth, I suppose you could say. Snowberry is rather acidic so it adds sour notes that really do complement the tea very well.”

She set her cup down and turned her attention back to Nicco, lips curving subtly.

“I think I sell the tea rather better than I sold the tonic. I can assure you that it is rather, erm… stimulating. You’re welcome to taste it and set it aside if it doesn’t suit you. I won’t be offended. You’re also welcome to have something else. I’m afraid that what we have mainly caters to my own preferences. I don’t tend to entertain often and when I do, I usually expect others to simply… accept what I give them honestly.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 29 Hamis, 2719
Drezda's Bedroom, Uptown

Niccolette could not deny the little thrill of pleasure she felt at the laughter in the Hoxian’s eyes, or the way it seemed to spread to her lips. It wasn’t as hard as she had expected to focus her gaze on the other woman’s lovely face, to watch the hard-won taming of the expression that had been nearly verging on a smile. The other woman took a careful sip of her tea.

Niccolette managed a third bite of the toast, slow and careful. She licked a delicate crumb off the corner of her lips, and then set the piece aside. “A very generous offer,” Niccolette said, inclining her head delicately, for all the world as if Drezda had made some polite suggestion at a party. What surprised her more was how much she felt it, this strange and unexpected flirting – and where she felt it, as well.

She had remembered, when she woke up, the hesitant exchange the night before, Drezda’s reluctant acceptance which had – in truth – felt much more like a rejection. She had remembered, too, although with an odd feeling as if it had been a dream, how she had felt about it – all of it, and the other woman too. It was strange to feel it again – still? – in the cool morning, sober, so recently nauseous.

There was no embarrassment in her, no shame, not even from having been sick in Drezda’s bathroom minutes earlier. Niccolette sat every bit as calm and upright as would have at any other time.

“I am not sure I could promise to keep from making a mess,” Niccolette continued, a little shrug of her shoulders making the fabric of the robe shift against her skin. She smiled at Drezda, politely. “I suppose I could try.”

Niccolette’s gaze lowered to Drezda’s tea cup. She would have accepted even before the long explanation. It was her turn to lose control over her lips, however briefly; the Bastian’s lips quirked when Drezda went on about her preference for things which had come into their full potential, her eyebrows lifting and then settled back into place.

“I will try it,” Niccolette said with another little shrug. “I have seen nothing so far to make me doubt your taste. And I suspect some stimulation would be good for me.” She glanced over the other woman’s lovely face once more; she shifted, delicately, against the soft covers of the bed. It was a strange, dawning sort of awareness; Niccolette felt oddly exposed, and – if not quite self-conscious, self-aware, then, in a way she had not thought to feel again. “No sugar,” Niccolette added, not quite willing to submit entirely.

Niccolette held still on the bed as Drezda poured the cup of tea. Her fingers just barely brushed the other woman’s as she took it, although it might well have been an accident; nothing in her expression gave any hint in either direction.

Niccolette breathed in the smell of the tea first, curiously. She remembered the first time she had had kofi – not Brunnhold kofi, flavored with milk and syrup. She had thought it would be the same; she had told Uzoji, confidently, that she did not care for it because of the sweetness. He had laughed until she had grown offended, and smacked him on the arm, and ordered him to make some for her, then, if he thought it was such a joke. Mugrobi kofi was not sweet, Niccolette had learned; it was bitter and strong and dark. She had liked it, once she had gotten over the shock of it; there was much in Mugrobi cuisine that she could have said the same for.

It wasn’t a painful memory; it was an easy one, and there was a soft little smile on her lips at the treasuring of it. But it was not here in the moment, either. Niccolette took a deep breath, and found she could put it aside for the sharp, acidic tea, with an odd smell that reminded her of vinegar. She tasted it, a small sip.

It was odd; it reminded her a little of the sourness of island cuisine, that same strange fermented taste which she had never experienced in Bastian or Anaxi cuisine. Niccolette took another sip, curiously. “It is an acquired taste, I think,” she said, looking up at Drezda. She was still smiling, although faintly; she was coming back, slowly, to the moment, anchored to the flavors and the memory of the toast, and the slow warmth spilling through her. “One I think I could rather like.”