[M] I Don't Feel Like Dancing (Tom)

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

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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Mar 25, 2019 5:13 pm

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Madden Residence
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Anyone on the street might have thought that the galdori woman was a life-size clockwork doll, the gears slowing down as the power left it or perhaps ill-oiled. Her gait was stutter-stop, shoulders held quite rigidly in spite of the all over tremble and both the stiffness and the cold made odd little jerks go through her upper limbs and torso. Maybe the little doll had lost a cog; she was certainly broken. In the cold, whatever colour was in her drained away. Ivory skin seemed to grow paler, the flush that had initially come to her face draining away as the warm blood retreated to her core.

Stutter... stop.

Anatole had unintentionally wound her up but she couldn't continue indefinitely, not like this but she soldiered on regardless, a mix of stubborn determination and self-loathing as she allowed harm to come to herself. Who would care after all? She couldn't go back to those cackling faces, those vultures who would delight in her misery as happily as a carrion bird feasting on her innards. Why give them the satisfaction? Why prolong things? Maybe she'd make it home like this, more than likely though, she wouldn't. Her carriage was around somewhere, nestled out of the way with the others belonging to the most important and snobbiest individuals in Vienda at the moment. She wasn't entirely sure where and she didn't have the energy or the will to find out, couldn't muster the social skills necessary to order someone else to fetch it. It would mean interaction. She wasn't capable of interaction.

Stutter, stop.

Drezda Ecks had more important things to focus on. She had her own thoughts and the unenviable task of navigating iced pavement in heels, which was difficult no matter how low they were. One slip and the little doll would likely hit the ground, fine porcelain sure to shatter in her presently delicate state. At the very least, she could easily manage to twist her ankle if physics went against her. So it was a matter of stepping with care, not putting her full weight anywhere until she was certain she couldn't slip, resisting the urge to bring her feet closer, make herself smaller as if she could somehow creep past unnoticed. Don't mind me, I'm very small, you don't need to make me land on my face... Instead, she kept her feet apart, feeling her way cautiously as misty eyes sought signs of bad ice and tried to find a safe path to traverse.

Stutter, stutter... stop.

The diplomat certainly wasn't in the right headspace for such an activity. Of course, if she was in anything approaching a normal headspace then she wouldn't be out here in the cold with next to nothing on, tipsy at the very least and barely on the right side of drunk at best. The young woman was also utterly intoxicated with her own misery and self-contempt, drowning in hopelessness and not even feeling like a bottle would be a solution, even if she had one to crawl into at this moment in time.

Just lie down and die, Drezda. Go on, save yourself all this bother, just lie down and die. If you're going to be like this then just get it over with, the voice derided her, wearing at whatever resolve was keeping her standing and moving forward in that stutter-stop fashion. It would be so easy just to have a misstep. It would take very little effort really and then she'd be horizontal and could have the icy ground as a forever bed. And it was funny really because she was cold, yes but she was numbed too, cushioned in almost warmth as air moved around her. She did almost feel as if lying down would be good. Just a little rest...

Stutter, stop.

That she had gotten as far as she had by the time Anatole caught up with her was something of a miracle. He'd caught her as she was considering having a little rest, lids drooping a little over onyx orbs and so his call came to her like a dream. It was surreal, felt almost imagined but she slowed.

Stutter, stutter... stop.

She turned a little, movements a little stiff and blinked owlishly. She had a hard time understanding how Anatole Vauquelin could be here, where he had come from. Everything seemed to have gotten so slow. She winced in response to his admonishment, a little jerk back from him as her gaze fluttered shut over wet and salty lashes.

"I-I-I know I-I-I'm s-s-sorry," she chattered out, icy white hands wrapping uselessly around her upper arms. Why was she apologising to him? Why had his tone gotten through to her like that?

Her bleary gaze fell on Anatole as he thrust her fur cloak at her and ridiculously, helplessly, she started to cry at the unbelievable kindness of it all.

Numb fingers struggled to manoeuvre the heavy material, shaking with sobs and cold so that it was more difficult to get it around her shoulders. It enveloped her freezing form and she shivered as her body rediscovered some warmth, hugging it to her and turning her head so that she could wipe away her tears in the fur. She sniffled, cringing a bit as she realised how pathetic she must look, how weak he must see her as being. The young woman dropped her gaze to the ground, clasping the warm outer layer to her as she tried to work out what to do or say. Thanking him would be a good start she supposed but she couldn't understand why he'd followed her out here, why he'd paid enough attention to even notice that she'd left without her cloak and why he'd chosen to be so thoughtful.

Anatole had never liked her. She didn't think that anyone liked her, not really. So why....

"Th-thank you... Anatole. You d-didn't have to- Why? Why did you follow m-m-me?" she questioned, gazing at him through watery, red-rimmed eyes. Her gaze skittered away, roaming back towards the house before glancing about the street. "We should p-probably get out of the cold b-b-but I can't go back... there. Not yet." Not ever, or at least not tonight.
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Last edited by Drezda Ecks on Fri Mar 29, 2019 5:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Mar 25, 2019 11:40 pm

THE MADDEN HOUSE
early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718
He held up his hands at her apology. Hearing her voice come juddering out in the cold, faltering like a puttering engine, made him regret his snappishness. The anger was draining out of him, replaced by confusion; he looked at the woman in front of him, with her red-rimmed, brimming eyes, and he couldn’t reconcile her with the Drezda Ecks he knew. The bottom fell out of his accusations. His mouth half-open, dry as a bone, he’d no damn clue what to say.

Then, pulling the heavy cloak around her shoulders, she began to sob.

At first, he didn’t know what to do. The expression on his face, which had been straddling confusion and anger, fell to shock; his lips quivered, jaw working as if, now, he particularly wanted to say something, and had found himself particularly emptied of words. As she buried her face in the black fur, he reached out one shaky hand, but it twitched and jumped back, hovering hesitantly in the air. The person in front of him did not seem like Drezda Ecks. She did not even strike him as a galdor. There was someone standing in front of him, sobbing into her cloak, as unexpected as if she’d materialized that way. The knot in his stomach grew heavier, and he tasted something coppery in his mouth. The lump in his throat had become an anchor.

It all rushed up in him as if it’d been waiting. The numb haze of his drunkenness gave way to wordless, indefinable pain. His hand dropped to his side, and suddenly his own eyes were brimming with tears; he could feel the ice-cold wetness on his cheeks. Somebody – an unfamiliar voice – gasped, and he realized that it was him. His breath hitched.

Since when had Tom Cooke cried? He’d been a boy, maybe. He hadn’t cried since he was a boy. Men didn’t cry; men gritted their teeth and carried on. That was something Clark had never understood. Tom had grown up. He’d stopped crying.

But now it was all inflamed in his heart. Somebody’d let it out, and how terrifying it was. How the people at Madden’s party had looked at him, how the women had shied from him, how he’d treated the doorman – how different things were now. Incomprehensible. He kept thinking about his mother, smeared kohl and rouge. Kind, sad smile. Kept thinking about the Madden girl dancing, about how Ecks had replied to him.

That response haunted him, and it seemed written across her face in tears. He knuckled at his own eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, hissing between his teeth. “Gods, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m embarrassed.” He tried to focus on Drezda’s face, a deep frown on his own, eyebrows drawn together.

“Listen, I— we’re both— different. We’re not in the fold, like you said,” he said at last, feeling thick-tongued and silly. “Sack it, I couldn’t stand those people; I wanted to leave anyway. And I was worried. I’m only glad that I spotted the porter with your cloak. After I’d stuck my foot in my mouth and—” He broke off.

Clock the Circle, but it was cold. The tears on his eyelashes were like frost; flustered, he reached up to knuckle them out of his eyes, but found himself making more. He sniffed, drawing in a great, shuddering breath of frozen air. Breathing in, breathing out.

“I don’t want to go back, either. It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

Tom let out a wilting laugh, shutting his eyes for a moment, lips twisting bitterly. He seemed to think hard for a moment, then: “We can, ah… as far as anyone knows, you left early in a hurry because I was making you uncomfortable. Put you over the edge. You know, gods—” He gestured ineffectually. “Typical Anatole behavior. Not your fault. And the old dog even followed you out, eh?”

Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he forced himself to breathe evenly and think. The cold leather of his glove stung his skin. When he opened his eyes, he turned briefly, snatching a glimpse at the Madden house down the street, festooned with warm-lit windows. Turning back to Drezda, he turned up his collar against the chill wind, drawing up his shoulders and burrowing himself into his coat.

“We need to get you someplace warm, and I’m freezing to death. And drunk. I’m— I’m not good at this. Do you want to go home, or—? What do you want to do, Drezda? What do you need me to do right now?” Her first name felt odd in his mouth.
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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Apr 01, 2019 10:53 am

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Uptown, Vienda
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Drezda was slow on the uptake right now that was true, her mind seeming to have almost ground to a standstill, everything moving much more sluggishly than normal. However, slow as she was, she didn't understand what she was seeing because she couldn't fathom the reason behind it. Anatole was crying.

The initial signs didn't register, mainly because she was too caught up in her own distress, too self-absorbed. Thus, when she had a gap in her own sobs and heard his breath hitch, she was surprised to turn her gaze to him and find him sobbing as well. Black lashes batted away gritty tears, the Hoxian attempting to pull herself together but also puzzling over what was going on. The young woman understood why she was crying - mostly - which wasn't always something that she could say but she had no idea why the man was crying. The Incumbent didn't come across as a highly empathetic sort who would shed tears because someone else was doing so, not that much of a sensitive soul. There didn't seem to be any reason for her own tears to have prompted his, no reason for her meltdown to have affected him and it seemed strangely coincidental that he was crying now too.

Clocking hell, this was a strange evening, a very strange evening indeed and Drezda didn't understand how they'd reached this point at all. How had she ended up in this bizarre situation with the two of them crying together in a freezing cold street in Uptown Vienda? The young woman brushed away at her tears, silently cursing as she felt eye make-up smear, fingers coming away blackened. She wiped them on the inside of her cloak.

"That... makes two of us. I'm not meant to- I shouldn't cry in front of-" she broke off, gaze turned away as her lip was caught in her teeth, eyelids dropping down as she sighed. The young woman stood there and considered her upbringing, wondered about rhakor and her utter inability to maintain it. She admired it, she respected it but... was it for her? Had she ever been able to maintain the composure necessary to make her people proud? Yes, she'd managed it but at what cost? Fighting tooth and nail to maintain the right mask, the best public face and even then the cracks appeared, cracks that needed to be patched with such violence of will. And when she got out of the public eye, she fell to pieces because of the strain of the whole thing. Look at her now? She'd gotten out of most people's view and all composure was gone. She couldn't do this obviously and it was showing. If she could be caught out like this then why not in places with more people? This was public enough and she was already failing so, so badly.

Maybe Drezda should just give up. Maybe she'd be better for doing so. Baby steps though but there was no point hiding in front of Anatole; it was a bit late for that.

"They're... a lot, yes. Quite overwhelming and... assholes, honestly," she responded, nodding along as she wrapped her arms about herself, the diplomat hugging herself as she waited for warmth to return to her chilled limbs. She sniffled, discreetly wiping at her nose because she didn't have a handkerchief and wondering how they'd gotten here with Anatole providing valid reasons for Drezda running off: him.

Her onyx eyes fixed on him, sadness there as the corners of her mouth dragged down. "Anatole... what I said before... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- You aren't the same. Whatever happened to you... maybe it's awful to say it but you're... better now..."

She let the words sit in the air between them, the sounds seeming to echo in her ears, writhing in discomfort as if they were living things; they certainly seemed to have gained a life of their own. She felt guilty for saying them and she couldn't understand why. The man had shown a concern for her that no one else had and it seemed to be genuine, not some attempt to get something out of her. He wasn't trying anything in the street but then... she wouldn't have expected him to do so. The lust that had once flooded his gaze was utterly absent as if he lacked even the slightest mote of interest. It was quite a change but a welcome one and she couldn't deny that. She felt guilty about darkening new Anatole's character with that of the old one, which was a very odd thing indeed.

"You aren't that bad. Not anymore. I know that you aren't... like that," she admitted awkwardly, all too aware that she didn't want to be talking about this. But the self-deprecating tone of his words bugged her and so she found herself defending him.

It wasn't something she'd ever envisioned doing for Anatole Vauquelin.

Hesitantly, not entirely sure what she was doing or why, the young woman reached out and patted the top of the politician's arm. "I want to go home and... I want both of us to get out of the cold but... I need to work out where my carriage is. The servants normally sort it but... I'm not going back in there and you aren't going back in there so we need to work it out ourselves. You are drunk though so... just make sure I don't fall over," the diplomat explained with a sigh, biting her lip as she considered him.

Drezda Ecks would not hold onto him under any circumstances as they walked, no way. If she had a slip then she'd reach for him to maintain her balance, yes, but she wouldn't cling to him. Besides, even if she was willing to sink to such a level, chances were that he'd lose his balance instead and drag her down with him.

As such, she tried to wrap the cloak around her as tightly as possible, trying to keep it in position so that she could keep her arms for balance and set off back in the direction of the dreaded house, taking her time as she did so.

"I usually give Jerome a time to collect me but... maybe he'll have hung around tonight knowing that I'm... less than well," Drezda murmured, colouring at the euphemism. "There should be a coach yard or stabling towards the back and I imagine that even if he's not around then there should be a servant to- Do you have a lift home, Anatole? If you don't... do you want one?"

The question was accompanied by the turn of her head, a mistake as it altered her balance and she felt the heel of her shoe slide beneath her, a soft shriek escaping her as she did her best not to panic. She stopped trying to proceed further, doing her best to come to a stop as she tried to increase her weight on the slipping foot, to put on the brakes, arms out, unconsciously making a grab for her companion.
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Tom Cooke
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Wed Apr 03, 2019 1:19 pm

THE MADDEN HOUSE
early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718
Tom couldn’t reconcile the Drezda Ecks in front of him with the one he had in his head, so he stopped trying. By now, he’d put a stopper on his tears; he was flustered, red- and raw-eyed from how many times he’d ground away his tears with his gloved fingertips, burning with discomfort and that numb confusion that follows right on the heels of an unexpected and unwanted cry. “Well, uh,” he fumbled out, but then she spoke again – and he looked down to find her hand on his arm. A brief, but gentle, pat.

His flush deepened, and he turned and started walking just as she did, unable to force out any words. He refused to meet the diplomat’s eyes. “By the good Lady, save it. You don’t know me,” he muttered into the damp wool of his collar, gritting his teeth and fixing his eyes on the icy street. His voice was frayed and a little high, unsteady, from crying.

You don’t know me, and you don’t know ‘bad’. Not my kind of bad, anyway. He would’ve been done with it, but – drunk as he was – his head was muddled, and his thoughts kept looping, and he still stung with the embarrassment of his own idiotic tears. Drezda’s uncharacteristic apologies, wobbly and sentimental, grated at his nerves, agitated his embarrassment.

He didn’t like this. Hell, he didn’t deserve it; Anatole Vauquelin certainly didn’t, and neither did Tom, just for having the good (mis)fortune of not being – or acting like – a man he wasn’t. The way she looked at him and talked to him and played at forgiving him made him painfully conscious of the body that was and wasn’t his, with all its alienness and all the things that went along with it: Drezda’s confused, drunken, tearful “forgiveness” was worse than the woman in the red dress, worse than Niamh and Toibin, on par with the thin, oddly cruel smile he had to look at in the mirror every morning, the face that felt wrong no matter what expression he made; that knife-twist reminder of what he was now, and what he’d never again be—

He continued brusquely, this time more loudly, “You were right to say those things to me. I think it was good you spoke your mind. People should have to pay for what they do. I don’t understand all this” – his words were slurry, confused; he didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t know how much he was giving away – “all this – all this dancing around, and – if I hadn’t left that house to bring you your cloak, I’d have broken Toibin Madden’s nose before the end of the night. Just, a man’s got a right to… just…”

A man’s got a right… The thought dispersed in his head like so much melted snow. He was distracted by a sudden gust of damp wind; it nearly knocked him off balance, though he steadied himself well enough, determined not to fall on his erse again and make even more of a fool of himself. He felt it pluck at the hem of his coat, dig its hooks into his joints and bones, and he tried (in vain) to warm himself with breath against his collar.

Tom squinted over at the diplomat as she spoke again, raising his eyebrows. Do I have a lift? For a moment, he’d forgotten; he had a vague, creeping sense that he might have forgotten where Vauquelin lived, but he remembered almost immediately. “No,” he started, “I w—”

Then he felt her fingers dig into his shoulder, knotting in the fabric of his coat.

“—w-waalked—?” She’d been roughly at eye-level with him, and now she was nowhere to be seen, except the hand that had a fistful of his coat was yanking him forward and to the side – he couldn’t think— He let out a strangled gasp as his boot slid in the sleet and he went over backwards.

“Fuck,” he snarled without thinking, fumbling around in the snow. “Shitting – gods damn it. Drezda. Drezda?” He managed to push himself up onto his haunches, scramble halfway to his feet, but then his foot twisted awkwardly and he crashed back onto his erse again. The hems of his coat were soaked through with icy water, and his hair was full of snowflakes. “Godsbedamned—”

With a sigh, he gave up for a moment, swallowing thickly. Sorely. He sniffed.

I’m useless in this body, he thought. Behold: the mighty, gods-favored galdori. Chroveshit. “I don’t suppose we can crawl back,” he muttered, and tried again, this time more tentatively, feeling out the ground with trembling hands. He rose to his feet, steadying himself for a few long moments with outstretched arms. Then he kicked at the sidewalk, kicked at the sleet, squinting down through the dark to make sure there wasn’t any ice underneath him.

He held out a hand to Drezda.

“Sorry about that. Perhaps I should take you up on your offer. I’m just a street over, but, uh…” He snorted bitterly. “I’m not as good on my feet as I was when I walked over, eh? If it’s on your way, and you’re comfortable enough with it, I’d appreciate it.”
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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Apr 08, 2019 5:31 pm

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Uptown, Vienda
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She caught the murmur into his collar, the sound carrying well as the chill wind caught it, the higher pitch than normal making it easier to hear. She didn't know him? Well, true enough. She knew how unknowable people typically were, especially politicians. Hoxians weren't the only ones to wear public faces and there were plenty of facets of a person's personality that never saw the light of day. All the same, she had seen enough of Anatole in public and unfortunately had seen him in reasonable privacy and so she saw the difference. She didn't know who this man was, she didn't know much about him at all except in terms of what he wasn't. She was trying to put together an image of him through absence, which could be revealing enough. What stood out - the silhouette or even the details - didn't necessarily given the clearest picture. It wasn't always what was visible but what lay beneath the surface, merely suggested at by its relationship with other things around it. Anatole coming to check on her, showing kindness where it wasn't expected or necessary, and the opinions about Niamh and Toibin said enough. She didn't know him and he didn't know her, not truly, but they had both reached a special understanding, an unexpected kinship even if it evaporated without trace like ice when the sun came up.

"You don't know me either," she retorted, words clipped and sharp with just the slightest trace of ice. It could have been the environment around them seeping in but she was at least a little irritated by his speech as well. She was already self-conscious enough about her words, couldn't he just accept them and keep quiet rather than-

No, she wasn't going to get irritable over nothing. Well, it wasn't really over nothing. Anatole Vauquelin had just seen her sobbing pitifully like an ill-disciplined child. Still, it wasn't reasonable to take her own lack of control out on him. She sighed.

Just let it go, Drez, just-

But Anatole wasn't going to let it go, pressing on in a vein that had the young woman squirming internally, the guilt setting in at words that couldn't be taken back. The raven-haired diplomat bit her lip, trying to maintain her concentration, trying not to let the discomfort of it all upset her physical balance as it had her mental. However, he was set on being distracting, shockingly so, dark eyes finding him, stretched wide open at his proclamation about Madden, truly stunned by how little dancing around was being done now.

That unfinished sentence made her tense though, her insides tightened as she wondered how it was meant to have ended, wondered what "right" men were meant to have. He wasn't the same, he wasn't, but her mind went to unfortunate avenues, old avenues where she would have expected the man to go before. Carnal rights, lustful rights, the kind of rights that had her shying away from him. That probably didn't help with her balance and concentration.

Her world tilted and she tried to grab Anatole, even though she'd told herself she wouldn't, even though he'd just said what he had and she wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't solid though and while she managed to get ahold on him, he didn't arrest her fall, managing to slow her by a few agonising milliseconds so that she had enough time to realise that she was definitely going to end up on her arse and could do nothing to stop it. The heels, low as they were, were gone from beneath her and the ground came up to meet her. She landed awkwardly not quite on her backside but turned enough to the side that she felt the jolt through one side of her pelvis. An elbow plonked into the snow, the cloak taking the majority of the wet and cold, the material soaking it up and growing heavy and sodden. The garment helped cushion her fall somewhat as well, as did the snow and the slush, saving her from having her delicate frame smashed on the cobbles. She'd still have plenty of bruises on the morrow.

It hurt obviously, knocking the breath out of her a bit but she wasn't the only one to fare poorly. The Incumbent smacked down beside her, swearing quite colourfully, and spluttering before he recovered sufficiently to call her name. He tried to scramble up and landed hard again and it was awful, it was terrible really, it was all her fault.

But it didn't stop the giggle from bubbling up or the full laugh that rolled up after it, as powerful and unstoppable as a tsunami. She was sitting in snow and ice and was shaking quite a bit but whether it was from cold or laughter wasn't quite clear. His comment about crawling back elicited a snorting sound that was far from controlled, the young woman almost keeling over with the force of her mirth as she gasped and wheezed for breath, crossing an arm over her belly as it began to ache. There were new tears trickling down her cheeks but they were joyful now, although maybe there were a few sad ones in there too; she might be a bit hysterical.

"I'm less drunk than you but... I'm clearly not much better on my feet," she giggled, shifting around so she could reach her feet, wincing a little as she felt the icy burn of snow against her leg, the pain-filled tickle of air over the damp flesh; it was only going to get worse. The woman pulled off one shoe and then the other, turning so that she was leaning on the side of one leg, getting her feet beneath her, placing her soles flat against the freezing ground. It wasn't the first time she'd done something like this but the shock... she hadn't gotten used to that.

It had been a game as children, a dare in some ways but also an exercise in control. Stand barefoot in the snow, let the hard and icy moisture encapsulate and seep into the skin. It was a different burn than one got with fire, a deep aching, stiffening the bones inside and numbing but yet... the feeling didn't go. It was a unique pain, freezing and weighing down on the feet. Who could stand there the longest? Who could stand there without twisting their face too much? Who could keep their composure when they went back into the warmth of their home and their feet grew so hot that they felt like they'd spontaneously combust?

Rhozdr was older, always doing his best to remain stony-faced, the eldest Ecks child all too aware that he had rhakor to uphold. Drezda had tried but Tsia... she had been far smaller, far freer in her emotions and it had been a little mean to drag the littlest one out into the cold but she'd always inevitably made her siblings break, unable to stop themselves from sniggering at her silly little dance numbers as she hopped madly from foot to foot. It had been a fun game until Tsia had complained about Snowfoot and their childish antics had brought their mother down on them.

She hadn't wanted to take her shoes off and walk barefoot but she could do this. It would only be for a short distance, a short time all things considered. And Hox was so much worse in terms of the chill. She waved off Anatole's hand with a snort as she got shakily and a little stiffly to her feet.

"Thanks but I'd rather you didn't fall on top of me trying to help me up," Drezda commented, flapping her freezing, soaking cloak as she tried to get some of the moisture out of its leaden weight. The cold bit into her hands as she tried to squeeze it out before she gave up. "Right, take two. Nobody fall on their erse or freeze to death, that's the goal, right? If you can walk a little way then I'll give you a lift. Provided I have a carriage. If I don't well... we can warm up in the stable and someone will show up to pick us up at some point."

With a shrug, the diplomat moved forward, feet finding easier purchase on the slippery ground although the chill was quickly making them as unfeeling and unbending as a shoe. She headed back towards the house, heading towards a gap that would let them in toward the back and hopefully towards some dryness and warmth.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Apr 13, 2019 4:45 pm

THE MADDEN HOUSE
early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718
The sound of her laughter struck him dumb for a few moments. He watched her, face slack with confusion and concern, as she pulled off her flimsy shoes; he opened his mouth to say something, then clamped his jaw shut, lifting an eyebrow. He was thinking, Has she lost her clocking mind? His hand twitched and fell back to his side, and he took a step away.

He stood there, unsteady on his feet, erse still a little numb from the cold stone, the hems of his coat spattered and soaked – and as he watched her stand, the soles of her feet now bare to the ice, he felt something inside him snap in two. It was her little snort that pushed him over, the sight of her shaking out that great, hairy monstrosity of a cloak, now even heavier with wet. Suddenly he found himself shaking, and he heard somebody else rumbling with laughter.

He gave a start as he realized it was Anatole’s clear, basso voice, but it wasn’t Anatole’s practiced giggle. It was messy and unanticipated and genuine, the kind of laugh Tom might’ve made when he was alive, drinking with Murko or one of the boys. The surreality of hearing that – his own laughter in somebody else’s voice, and under these bizarre circumstances – made him laugh even harder. Then Drezda was speaking again, and her words sent him into another fit of snorting.

After a moment, he took a shuddering breath.

“Gods, you can walk like that? Just--?” He stifled another incredulous laugh. “Right, right. Right. Nobody fall on their erse or freeze to death,” he repeated. “I think I can” – a snort tumbled out of him – “I think I can manage that, but you’d better watch out. It’s dangerous for a couple of drunk gollies out here in the wilds of, uh – Uptown fucking Vienda.”

He’d done well to rein himself in at the party, but now, bit by bit, he found himself coming unraveled. He heard the fucking come out of his mouth a few seconds after he’d finished speaking; he wanted to apologize for his language like the incumbent might’ve, but what came out was, “Shit, sorry,” and then he had to cover his mouth against another ugly snort. Still grappling with the last dregs of his laughter, he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. The dark, cold street wavered around him; his mouth was starting to feel hellishly dry, and a dull throb had entered his head through the base of his skull.

Gods, how he wished he had more to drink, if only to stave this off. No more port: when he got home, he thought, he’d break out the whisky. He’d regret this tomorrow, but it’d been a hell of an evening – didn’t he deserve a little rest? – and in any event, come morning, there was nothing a little hair of the dog couldn’t fix. In a couple of days he’d be off to the Rose, but he’d nowhere to be tomorrow.

He nearly slipped on another patch of ice, but he steadied himself with an outstretched arm, gasping in the freezing air. When he’d regained his balance, he fumbled to keep up with Drezda, watching the approaching lights of the Madden house waver and tremble like bobbing candles in his sight. He’d only half a clue where they were going, but with her shoes off and her head up, the galdor looked like she knew where to go. It looked like they were headed around back, he noticed with some relief, unlikely to attract any attention.

“Thank the Circle,” he breathed, spotting the stable. He picked up his pace, then stumbled, then slowed down again. For a few seconds, the only sound was the irregular crunch of his boots and the near-silent pad of her feet. He cast an uncomfortable glance over at her, unable to read her face in the silvery light.

He cleared his throat.

“And thank you,” he added, rasping. “For this, and for, uh – well, for this, for what you said…” His voice was muffled in the wool of his collar. “For the Dives, too. Leaving me alone, I mean. Letting me sort things by myself.”

He knew he was venturing into dangerous territory, but something spurred him on. Maybe it was all the port in his belly, or maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was the wreck of the party in his head, the muddled stew of Niamh and Toibin and the woman in the red dress, the ladies giggling behind their fans, the whispered rumors. Something had loosened his tongue.

“I wasn’t ready to be Incumbent Vauquelin then, and I’m – still not ready to be him. They had to teach me how to act like that man, when I was recovering. Save face. All the little gestures and manners of speech, all the things that made him him. See how that went.” He bit his lip, jerking his head toward the Madden house, the messy memories of the party. “I’ve no love for these people, but, uh – you’re not bad, eh? You’re not bad at all, Drezda Ecks.”

Again, he cleared his throat, awkward. Scratched his head.

“Anyway. Never mind that. I’m clocking freezing. Let’s get inside.”
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Drezda Ecks
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Sun Apr 21, 2019 9:35 pm

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Uptown, Vienda
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Her laughter shocked him, disturbed him even, and perhaps it was the same for her. Her laughter scared her a little because of its intensity and its chaotic nature but it was also the first time that the young woman had felt truly alive in years. Even as a child, unbridled laughter had been frowned upon, a dangerous thing to get into the habit of indulging because what if it was released away from family and friends? It wasn't a healthy habit to get into and so it had never been encouraged, Drezda made to feel self-conscious of such a thing from early childhood when she was learning how she should know 'better'. So it was nice, better than nice in fact, an exhilarating ecstasy that came from flaunting a taboo; Anatole Vauquelin was hardly a close friend.

To hear the laughter bubble out of him in return was a little unexpected but definitely appreciated, the young woman's smile broad and genuine, delighting in the ludicrous nature of this situation and the flood of endorphins. In fairness, she was also in a bit of pain from the cold and that some of the euphoria she was experiencing was probably a side effect to her body's response to that but what difference did that make? Drezda was enjoying herself and it was bloody good.

His laughter and words were met with an equally incredulous snort, the diplomat pausing for a moment to make a show of wiggling her toes in the slush, ignoring the feeling of stiffness that seemed to have shot through the bones, painful as things seemed to grind against one another uncomfortably.

"I should think I can, zjai," she remarked, allowing the short Deftung word to fly off her tongue, a sharp contrast to the alcohol-softened syllables of Estuan that she was using, a slight slur to her words. "I haven't done this since I was a child but this is easier than shoes, especially these ones." She raised her shoes for emphasis. The heels really were low; the young woman had pairs that were far higher than these ones. Thankfully she hadn't come in higher shoes tonight as she was sure to have twisted her ankle and possibly her neck to boot on one of those spindly heels. As it was, she was lucky that she hadn't broken anything tonight aside from her pride and her emotional state but she wasn't sure that the latter had been anything close to being intact when the night began. Actually, it wasn't even night, was it? Not really so she really was doing great, wasn't she?

"Hey now, Uptown Vienda can be pretty wild," she chided, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably as she dissolved into chuckles. "It can be cutthroat here but it's not the Dives and it's certainly not Old Rose. Don't see many humans around here or wicks. Not roaming freely, I mean, servants don't count and they're only humans. Could you imagine having a wick as a servant?" she sneered, shaking her head before laughing abruptly.

"Only humans... Listen to me, I've gone native as if you say 'only' about anything to do with humans. I didn't grow up with this. Galdori and humans don't mix in Hox. You wouldn't have a human servant, let's put it that way. You wouldn't have a passive one either for that matter. The staff I have here... I couldn't have it at home, they'd be galdori."

Dark brows pulled together, porcelain skin creased as she wondered why she was saying this. What had prompted this again? The Hoxian didn't know, couldn't recall where this particular thread of conversation had begun. She lapsed into silence instead, the woman chewing on her lip and focusing on her walking which was growing quite painful, joints stiff and toes cramped, skin ice-burned and tender even in spite of the numbing layer that made it feel like she was walking on blocks instead of feet. The rest of her body wasn't faring much better, especially given that she was wet and chilled, her cloak laden with icy water as it slapped against her bare legs. Thus, the stable was a welcome sight indeed, even if there would be humans inside it.

Anatole's comments pulled her attention away from warm salvation, the confused tug of brows renewed. "For what I said? Which thing that I said?" she asked, genuinely bemused but waving off the rest in a distracted sort of way.

The Dives. She didn't want to think about that night right now. Instead, she said, "It's not a problem."

They were close enough to the stable now that she could see laughter and conversation from within, just now audible above the bustle of the house. Galdori weren't expected to come here, servants sent to fetch carriages and the like rather than galdori having to use their godsbedamned feet, especially on a night like tonight and so of course, the servants here were having a party of their own. They were clearly unwinding, free from the watchful eye of their masters for a time, given the chance to be themselves; here, they had a chance to be individuals in their own rights rather than defined by a master. Intruding wasn't an issue for her, especially given how cold she was but apparently her companion was in no hurry to get in, beginning to talk in a way that was just as free and unrestrained as the staff within the stable's bounds. Once this odd little truce was over, the night over and done with, she doubted that the pair would ever be this free with one another again. There was an odd sort of magic in the air tonight but it had nothing to do with the mona; perhaps stepping into the stable would counter it.

So his words made her pause, part of her knowing that they couldn't keep progressing while he said them, couldn't risk being overheard but that didn't mean that their content didn't... perturb.

He had learned to be Anatole. The mannerisms that she had linked to a connection to who he had been, some remembrance leaking through the dog of amnesia were faked. They weren't remembered, even subconsciously but drilled into him. If after all this time, he still wasn't really the man he had been then who the hell was he? Those words were certainly shocking to hear aloud but perhaps not that surprising in the scheme of things, unlike his comment directed to her.

Cheeks went pink, lips moving in a trembling fashion as she tried to come to terms with what he'd said. She wasn't bad? What did that even mean? That he... liked her? Well, at the very least, he didn't dislike her and his words suggested some positive feeling, maybe even some friendly fondness towards her. Drezda couldn't understand that one at all.

"I- Well, I... I've n-never liked you, Anatole but as you are now? You're... all right," she explained awkwardly before moving with a greater speed than was strictly necessary towards the stable entrance, throwing it open to step into the domain of the laughing humans within.

As she stepped into the stable, two things happened. The cold which had so mercilessly bitten into her feet was abruptly gone, the interior warmed for the sake of the animals and so her form suddenly felt as if it was on fire. Her feet especially were molten, the diplomat almost ready to hop around as the pain of it took hold. The other thing that occurred was the changes she wrought on those assembled. There had been a card game in progress, the human men there evidently enjoying themselves, one of them with a pipe hanging out of his mouth as they joked and laughed and played. However, the moment she stepped into their midst, she saw them glance, evidently expecting one of their fellows, in the act of looking away when their gazes whipped back to her. Eyes, wide in disbelief focused on her as her field lapped across them and then they were in motion, one moving to block her view of the game in progress, the now abandoned cards while others made to look busy.

"C'n I help ye, ma'am? Sir?" questioned one, coming to stand beside the card hider. Drezda had the impression that if the man had had a cap that he would currently be twisting it in his grasp before him, his nervousness palpable. They didn't have fields and yet the very air was charged with their discomfort at having two galdori enter their midst.

"Ent reg'lar for yis to come pers'nal, ye see. More usual, ye ask someone to fetch a carriage for you an'... not this early at tha'," he continued on, taking in the state of the pair before him, his tongue seemingly incapable of stopping right now.

"Given that it's such a lovely evening, I thought I'd take a stroll," the Hoxian responded with a deadpan expression, teeth gritted slightly at the agony that she was experiencing. That she was being humorous should have been obvious but she'd found that some thought her people incapable of such things; what they said could only be said in perfect seriousness.

Her voice was clear in the newfound silence that their arrival had brought about and it obviously it carried because Jerome appeared, clearly having been in an area away from the humans, possibly communing with the moa themselves. Seeing his tall, dark-skinned form moving towards her was an unimaginable relief, the numerous angles of his face seeming to pop more than usual as worry and disapproval altered his features as his gaze swept over her.

"Mistress!" his voice was deep and full, a rich bass that sent warmth through her, making him sound paternal although he was only a few years older than herself. Passive or not, right now she was quite ready for him to care for her and remove responsibility from her freezing shoulders.

"Jerome... I want to go home," her voice was lower than before, a rasp, almost hoarse as she failed to transition fully from a whisper into a proper use of her vocal cords. There was also something childish about the tone, a child on the verge of tears that just wanted to get away from the place that had upset them.

"I will prepare the carriage immediately, Mistress. Why don't you wait by the stove before you catch your death? And I'll get someone to wring your cloak out."

She nodded dumbly as he came close, helping her out of the waterlogged garment before passing it off to imaginary cap twister who stiffened a little, leaning away ever so slightly to avoid the brush of dark-skinned digits. She followed her passive to the large stove, huddling beside it, limbs shockingly pale, almost blue-tinged.

"W-w-won't be l-long," she muttered between chattering teeth, being close to the heat having made her shiver more violently than before.
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jun 02, 2019 11:03 pm

THE MADDEN HOUSE
early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718
He snorted at this is easier than shoes, but the moment the word “humans” had passed her lips, his face fell. She was still snickering and chuckling, burbling with the same laughter as before; he summoned up a frail little chuckle, off-tune and forced, but then grit his teeth and pressed his lips tightly. Kept his eyes fixed on the warm lights ahead, wobbly and blurred to his stinging, bleary eyes. Kept himself focused on moving his feet right, one after the other, putting all his weight down so he wouldn’t slip in the ice and slush.

Didn’t want to fall on his delicate golly erse. Wouldn’t be as cute this time. “Huh,” he grated, shrugging his shoulders. Being honest, he couldn’t picture a wick as a servant, and he didn’t care to. He knew too many of them too well. Knew one of them far too well.

Not that he knew much about Hox, he thought, expression softening a little as he stole a sideways glance at her. The rush of her words was still surprising to him, but now, he found it souring his mood. With a start, he realized she was like some silly little girl – then again, they all were, weren’t they? He thought about how he’d felt the first time he’d snapped at a human servant, how he thought he must’ve looked like a boch having a tantrum. They were all missing something, all a little soft.

“A galdor maid. Picture that,” he replied softly, snorting. “A galdor laundress with worn hands. Hox must be a strange place.” Tom tried to keep his voice good-humored, but it was cool. There was an edge he couldn’t quite get rid of, a tension in the set of his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

Never liked the incumbent, you didn’t, he thought, gritting his teeth even harder, but I’m all right, now, am I? Well, love, hate to sink your godsdamn ship, but…

As they entered the stable, he kicked the snow and sludge off of his boots, shivering. Drunk as he was, the chatter from the card table sounded inviting, and old habits made him want to jaunt over and join them. When Drezda approached, though, he saw them all snap to attention: they even made to hide the cards, and one man hopped out of his seat to address her.

He stood back, silent, glance flicking from the galdor to the gaggle of humans. Then he looked over at the approaching passive. The man was a little apart, but Tom reckoned there wasn’t anything unusual in that. He’d never quite known what to do with passives, himself. A golly’s a golly, he’d always reasoned, and a Circle-cursed golly couldn’t be better. Now, he didn’t have much room to talk, and the way the human avoided the passive’s touch made him feel something he couldn’t put his finger on. Reminded him of when people drew back at the feel of his porven field.

Drezda’d already headed over to the stove to get warm, but Tom hesitated. He met the eye of the man who’d been hiding the cards; the man forced a lukewarm smile, eyes guarded underneath his heavy brow. Tom raised his brows, but the man just looked down and away, lowering his head a little.

He wanted to say, Rooks? He wanted them to relax, to keep on smoking and laughing, to play another hand. He wanted to go over and play a hand with them himself. He wanted to get clapped on the back, wanted to get called a tricky toft when he won a hand.

The one thing he didn’t want to do was join Ecks by the stove, but that was the thing he did. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets and shrugging again, he trotted over and into the warm radius round the stove. He took up a position with his back to it, sighing deeply and shutting his eyes. A shudder racked his whole frame. His teeth were chattering, too.

“Hope not,” he replied through his teeth. “Look forward to getting home.”

His tone was hard and guarded.
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