[Closed] Some Like It Bitter (Nicco)

[Drezda Ecks]

Yaris 49, 2719 | Afternoon
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

.

The treeline was indeed thinning out ahead and she suspected that she was running out of patience — Niccolette’s. It wasn’t that the other had given any indication that she’d grown tired of Drezda, in fact she hadn’t given many signs of well… anything. The Bastian was inclined to keep her feelings to herself so it was highly unlikely that she’d give any outward expression of her waning tolerance but it must be waning; patience was a finite thing after all. Surely there was only so much that the other was willing to put up with considering that she’d effectively forced her company on her and was now subjecting her to the ramblings of a woman fast approaching thirty with no clue what to do with her life. They were little more than acquaintances so she had even less reason to put up with… well, all of this!

The air of detachment that her companion had was a polite one, the sort that might be employed by someone like a doctor in a professional capacity to ensure objectivity with a patient. Nicco listened because Drezda wanted to be heard, but that was as far as this went. In truth, the Bastian could have been a vaguely attentive wall and the Hoxian would have been content with her lot. Instead, she was telling a veritable stranger her business — which was frankly none of Nicco’s.

Already regret had begun to seep in, mingling with the unfortunate humour that had sparked this chain of events and brought her into her present company. The regret hardened her, renewed the barrier that should always have been maintained and while it did nothing to shield her from the heat of the day and its effects on her, it did return coolness to her manner. Control needed to be re-established and that was aided by creating the right type of outward appearance.

Before the trees properly thinned, the diplomat extracted a small mirror from her bag and tilted it at various angles that would enable her to see the different parts of her face. Even as she regarded herself this way and that, her own gaze worked to restore the mask that had begun to slide off in the Yaris heat. When she was satisfied that everything was in order, particularly unfavourable patches of sweat blotted away, the mirror was returned and she resumed a more acceptable pace.

“Volunteering is an admirable pursuit — and a noble use of your talents,” the woman remarked diplomatically, her onyx eyes focused on her parasol as she set about opening it and placing it against her bare shoulder once more. There would be no further mention of her own career or her indecision. No, instead, she believed that they could remain in silence from here until they broke free of the canopy. At that point, they could part ways without any sense of obligation to the other.

The Living Conversationalist had been conveniently placed and Drezda had needed that. She hadn’t believed that Niccolette owed her for what she had done during the rainy season but there was no doubt in her mind that the scales were balanced nonetheless. They had both had their unpleasant moments and seen more than they ought to do and it meant that they held a shared secret, which would likely remain buried. It was an odd position to be in with this woman who she hardly knew and whose path she had rarely crossed despite their nearness in their Brunnhold days.

Some people’s paths ran along similar lines, weaving and dipping around each other to avoid collision, rarely — if ever — meeting; it was simply one of those things.

The Hoxian was absorbed in the sound of her own breathing, the soft pulse of her heart, the delicate beading of perspiration on her skin, anything and everything that centred her, grounding her in herself and only herself. It meant that she was more than a few steps behind her companion — together and yet apart — when the girls appeared. Her response was later, hinging on when she drew nearer in proximity but she returned the caprise of each teenager with little feeling, almost brushing aside the Perceptive belikeness with cool indifference. Her parasol was raised scant inches, a partial twirl accompanying the shallow bow of her head that passed as a bow before drifting past the youths.

Her pace increased to allow her to draw somewhat level with the Bastian, the diplomat intending to peel off in search of some favourable target once the necessary civilities had been bestowed; the woman had done her a service after all.

“It’s been… interesting. Unless another damsel in distress situation arises, I believe this makes us even,” the diplomat commented, a corner of her mouth lifting subtly in what might have been the beginning of a smirk on her otherwise impassive features.

“Best wishes, Niccolette.”

The farewell was scarcely across her lips, the last syllable carrying the bite more at home with a Deftung consonant, before she swivelled to one side and strode somewhat purposely in her new direction. She didn’t have a notion what she was actually going to do but it was important that her actions at least appear to have meaning.

.