[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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Tue Feb 26, 2019 5:48 pm

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Madden Residence
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Everything appeared to be running smoothly so far. Toibin Madden had given the servants plenty of orders concerning the heating of the household and keeping the drive clear for their guests. The last thing they needed was for any of their visitors to run into an accident courtesy of slippery ice or snow and he didn't want any of them able to say that the cold had crept into the residence. The boiler was to be kept fully stocked, radiators were turned on full blast, fires had been lit in every grate and thus the Incumbent's home was positively balmy. He saw its effects in his guests who stripped off what layers they could once they were across the threshold.

It pleased him greatly.

Everything in the house was as he wanted it. Tables were laden with food and drink, there were servants to move between the guests carrying more for those too lazy or too busy to fetch their own victuals. There were enough staff to greet, take cloaks and coats, announce guests, serve food and drink, and do whatever else needed doing. He didn't have to concern himself with the minutiae of running an event like this and he shouldn't have to; servants had to be good for something.

Aside from the preparations for his guests, he had had words with Eliza about how herself and the children should conduct themselves, dropping less than subtle hints that she should ensure that Niamh looked suitable for attracting potential suitors. The pair certainly didn't see eye to eye but the woman could be relied upon to be an impeccable hostess and a perfect-seeming wife in company although she was perhaps a little too friendly with male guests, which had its advantages when she was watched and appropriately managed. While Eliza had a bit of a reputation for being... loose, at least their only daughter was the picture of sweet and virginal innocence. It was a shame that the little bitch had opinions but she was sufficiently well-trained in company that if he could just get her a husband, that unfortunate little aspect could be discovered at a later date and someone else could squash it.

Oísin was his true pride though. Only son and heir, this little event was a good one for him, especially as he was beginning to take an interest in the same brand of politics as his father, starting to make the right sorts of connections in school and he'd be turning eighteen come the new year so he was certainly old enough.

He inserted the young man into the right sort of social circle as Toibin made his rounds, thanking his guests for coming, even those he'd personally have excluded from any gathering. Perhaps it was while he was with Oísin, more distracted than usual that he missed the announced arrival of Anatole Vauquelin and had to discover the man's presence for himself. Of course as soon as he spotted him, he was by his side, a broad smile on his face.

"Anatole, my friend! Excellent to see you after so long!"

The man offered his hand to shake the other's warmly, that handshake broadcasting to anybody nearby that these two were close. "I wasn't sure that you'd put in an appearance tonight but glad to see you returned from the dead, ahahaha," he joked, actually sounding out laughter although it somehow managed to sound like genuine mirth.

He caught a glass of port from a passing servant, turning partially away so he could survey the room as he talked.

"I'd heard about your predicament. I'd even heard that you uh... did a vanishing act. Now... you can tell me but if you don't want to then well... I can certainly fill you in on some things that you've missed."'

The Incumbent's green gaze fell on the silver-clad creature that had just entered, not needing the announcement to know who that raven-haired woman was: Drezda Ecks. The corners of his mouth pulled down a bit, a slight twist on one side at the sight of her. He hadn't wanted to invite the woman or any of the other female political figures here tonight but as disgusting as he found them, the mere idea of them, he couldn't make that sort of political statement - it would be unwise. But that woman was a bad one. She wasn't just a woman but a foreigner and possibly a homosexual. There were plenty of reasons not to want her here but he couldn't exclude her as much as he wanted to do so.

However, the sight of her - especially near his daughter - didn't amuse him at all and it brought words more readily to his lips.

"You aren't the only one out of sorts recently. Our dear diplomat from Hox - the ambassador in all but name - has been ill of late as I understand it. The kind of illness that you find at the bottom of a bottle of strong alcohol from what I've heard. Very sloppily handled. Have you ever heard of a Hoxian having a breakdown?" he questioned, a nasty edge to his voice although he kept his tone low. He had an awareness of witnesses even if some people did not.

"But she is a woman. They all lean to the emotional, don't they? Or maybe she's just strange for a Hoxian. I've always thought she was peculiar but then little wonder. She's been seen going off with women recently in a very familiar fashion. A possible homosexual that woman and just look at her talking to my daughter as if- I know it's not as bad in women as it is in men but it's still disgusting and that bitch is that cold..."

He shook his head, evidently disgusted although he'd schooled his expression many words before. Only his voice and his words told the truth and only because it was Anatole. Himself and his fellow Incumbent shared certain values after all.

And the woman was coming towards them now.

"Oh well, I suppose we can't keep everything cold at bay," Toibin told Anatole from the corner of his mouth, warm stretching across his lips as he bowed to the diplomat as she came close enough.

"Good evening, Miss Ecks. So glad that you could make it this evening. I'd heard that you hadn't been well recently..."

***

Toibin clocking Madden. There were very few people that she wanted to see right now and he was very, very far down that list. The Incumbent was a conservative Anaxi of the worst order, so many things that she hated about this blasted kingdom. She got the impression that the man resented her and other female politicians for trying to take power rather than being good and docile under some man's control, ideally popping out brats. If her parents had her way, that was exactly what she'd end up doing albeit they'd see her as the head of the family, figuratively speaking, the one to bear the burdens and provide the strength and guidance for her husband and children.

As if that was going to happen.

She thought that Incumbent Madden disliked her for being from Hox as well but she had to be invited to something like this because to snub her would send a particular political message and not a good one. So here she was dressed in a shimmering off-the-shoulder dress that fell to mid-calf, clinging to her form although providing little in the way of warmth. She was Hoxian, they went in for fashion that showed you could afford heating and the Maddens... they could certainly afford heating. Thus, once she was indoors, she could shed her ankle-length black fur cloak, passing it off to a passive as she walked with care on low heels, barely paying enough attention to provide her name so her presence could be announced.

The young woman knew that she wasn't inebriated but she still felt wobbly and unbalanced on the heels, in the same way as when she was tipsy and her equilibrium was off. Not drunk, not tipsy. She'd managed to get a shot of liquid courage into her before she left - thanks be to Luca for finding wherever Rosmilda had hidden the whiskey - but that wouldn't be enough to addle her senses or disrupt her balance. She had to concentrate so that she didn't stumble or something equally stupid as heads swivelled in her direction at her announcement, a bare ripple in the scene before the guests' focus turned elsewhere.

She was just nervous and paranoid, worried about dealing with that red haired politician with his charming smile and his cool, calculating gaze. There was plenty of reason to dislike the idea of encountering the man who she would have to find and approach to thank for his kind invitation, as if kindness had anything to do with it.

The ebony-haired woman caught sight of his wife among the guests, chatting away, perhaps a little too friendly with the man she was currently engaged with, and she spotted Madden himself, chattering away to none other than Anatole Vauquelin. Anatole who she had last seen in the Dives in a less than noble state and admittedly, she hadn't met him under the best circumstances either. The man had seemed changed then but he was apparently back to normal if his interaction was anything to go by; Madden and Vauquelin had always gotten along well, misogynists both. The former liked to keep a sharp eye on his women and yet parade them around while the latter liked to eye every woman going. He'd probably had more than an eyeful of Eliza and Niamh Madden, the mother quite striking and stunning in surprising youth, the daughter fresh-faced and delicate. The daughter didn't have the same spectacular presence and beauty as her mother but even Drezda had to admit that there was an candid openness to the girl that was quite attractive and she was almost finished in Brunnhold besides so calling her a girl was hardly right.

More than likely, the youth was done up tonight - a semi-translucent white dress hanging loosely on her skinny frame - to catch an eye or two. What better way to find your daughter the right sort of husband than to show her off to your colleagues and other notables? She was a sweet, innocent thing, something that probably craved attention and love as a hingle did but her father was going to offer her up to be devoured.

Maybe that was what brought her to the child's side although in truth, it was a delaying tactic so that she had reason not to talk to Niamh's father.

"Good evening, Miss Madden. A pleasure to see you, you look lovely," the politician purred as she intercepted the girl, amused at the blush that spread readily across her cheeks. Such an open creature and gosh, up close, she was even more beautifully innocent, a simple crown braid only adding to the image of girlish innocent. She probably didn't even realise that she was being trotted around as the perfect virginal potential-bride. No doubt her mother had had a hand in her styling.

Although she was watching Niamh, quite attentively in fact, she had positioned herself in such a way that she could keep an eye on Anatole and Toibin in her peripheral.

"I- Th-thank you... Miss Ecks, that's very kind of you to say. You look... stunning!" she breathed, sounding genuinely awed and the woman had to resist the urge to snort. She wasn't sure that she could be classed as 'stunning' especially this close because she wouldn't stand up well to scrutiny. Even with make-up, she was convinced that the shadows under her eyes were visible, her skin lacking its typical health, clean porcelain now off-coloured and worn, not the kind that had been loved and well maintained. The girl meant it though. She was a politician's daughter but she was no liar. What was more, she was honestly surprised that the girl knew her name.

"You're too kind, Miss Madden. I haven't been well recently and I'm afraid that it shows."

The young woman hummed her sympathies, gesturing for a servant with a laden drinks tray to approach. "Are you... are you well enough to drink?" she asked, suddenly anxious as if she'd interpreted the lack of a glass to mean something else. Drezda reached out to take wine, watching the relief spread on the redhead's face as she took a glass too, smiling at the servant before she seemed to remember herself. The expression was abruptly smothered, the young woman's eyes moving in a quick dart that suggested she was afraid of having been spotted, perhaps by her parents.

"I'm well enough although I've only just arrived," she explained, taking a sip.

"Oh! So you haven't spoken with my father yet?"

She was glad that she'd taken a sip of wine because it bought her a few seconds' excuse for not replying. A simple pause would have been telling in response to the other's question.

"No, I haven't. I actually hadn't seen him," she lied, resisting the urge to cover her face with a sigh as the redhead looked around.

"Oh there he is with um... Incumbent Vauquelin," Niamh commented, voice curiously flat when she named Anatole although there was a slight downturn in tone that showed her true feelings even as she tried to hide them. Drezda wondered if the man had a way of looking at the girl as well. Probably. Poor child.

The diplomat turned and "spotted" the pair.

"Oh yes, there he is. Thank you, dear. I'll go speak to him now. Have a nice evening."

She left the girl with some reluctance, resisting the urge to down the glass of wine she held and get another one as she headed towards the pair, bowing when she was within range.

"Good evening, gentlemen."
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Last edited by Drezda Ecks on Wed Apr 01, 2020 1:28 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Tom Cooke
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Wed Feb 27, 2019 12:53 am

The Madden House

☙ early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718 ❧
The incumbent’s study was silent except for the tick, tick, tick of the old floor clock, still except for the silent swing of the pendulum, the shuffling of Cooke’s feet. He took deep, even breaths, counted out the seconds between the inhale and the exhale. Peered into the mirror at the unfamiliar man that peered back at him. He bit his lip; his left eyelid fluttered just a smidge. The tic was now barely perceptible. (How quickly he’d gotten good at hiding things like that.)

Since the fumbling wreck of Roalis and his return from his ill-fated months in the Dives, he’d put on a little weight; his cheeks weren’t nearly as hollow, and he’d lost that sallow tinge that goes with sickness and life in the smog-wreathed tenements of the Soot District. If he hadn’t been able to recognize himself a few months ago, he certainly didn’t now. The man that stood in front of him now was Incumbent Vauquelin through and through, all five feet and four inches of him – from his shock of deep red hair to his polished black shoes.

Tom Cooke didn’t like that man. On an instinctual, primal level, he just about hated him. But unless he wanted to run the risk of something a whole hell of a lot worse than dying, he had to accept that he was that man now, and that man was him, and that was all there was to it. And right now, he had more important things to think about. Like Toibin Madden’s fucking toffin caoja.

He took another deep breath, cleared his throat. So did Vauquelin. One last time, he thought, for luck. One of the servants Diana had put in charge of his rehabilitation had taught him a little children’s poem, a tongue-twister to recite until he could pronounce all the syllables without dropping anything (or adding anything, for that matter). He’d been saying it over and over again for the past few weeks, paying attention to the way Diana and the other gollies he’d met talked – trying to wrap his tongue around it until he sounded like a proper Uptown golly. Now, it’d become something of a talisman.

Some people prayed, but that wasn’t really his thing – he reckoned the gods didn’t like him much, given this whole dead-but-not-really shit. Whenever he had to go and be the incumbent for a little while, it helped to have a mantra. Something to ground him and remind him of how he was supposed to sound.

“In Vienda,” he repeated in his politician’s deep, resounding voice, “the Seventen peruse ev-ery avenue…”

The one thing he couldn’t quite get right was Anatole’s smile. His wasn’t a different smile, necessarily – it was Anatole’s face, that was for sure, and faces don’t often forget the expressions they’re in the habit of making – but there was an edge to it that he couldn’t really rid himself of. Being honest, he didn’t know if he wanted to. It was odd, seeing that crooked, wry smile on someone else’s face. He knew it was a little piece of him, stranded in an ocean of somebody else.

Well, he thought after a few seconds of silence. Wouldn’t want to be late.



Toibin! Er --” Shit! We’re on a first-name basis?

He’d already had a glass or two – maybe three – who the hell was keeping count? – of port; he’d just swiped another from a roaming passive for good measure. He’d need more than that, he reckoned, to get through the rest of this nightmarish cavalcade of unfamiliar familiar faces, this game of Uptown who’s-who that set his head to whirling. He was flushed, but it wasn’t just the wine: in contrast to the stinging, aching chill outside, you could’ve boiled a lobster in the Madden house. Gods knew that most of the Soot District would’ve killed to be in his position, and he certainly wouldn’t have rather been out in the cold, but he wasn’t used to this. It was making him queasy.

He’d tried to slip in without much to-do, but they’d announced him – and what in the clocking hell was that all about? One minute he’d been passing his coat off to one of Madden’s passives, gritting his teeth to keep from thanking – or even acknowledging – the poor lass; the next, somebody’d yodeled something about Incumbent Anatole Vauquelin to the whole room, and then two dozen golly eyes were trying to sneak a glimpse of him in amongst the bustle. He’d barely gotten a foot away from the door, eyes locked on a passive shouldering a tray of glasses, when a young red-haired galdor had materialized as if from nowhere, bowing deeply –

“Incumbent – forgive me, but – I’d heard you were ill, and –”

On the one hand, he’d never felt so appreciated. If Tom Cooke had dropped off the radar, nobody’d have known or cared, save maybe Clark or Hawke’s men. He was only worthwhile as long as he was useful, and he wasn’t useful for anything that didn’t involve a knife or some broken limbs. Now, everywhere he turned, some deferent, sniveling toffin reared their head, helpfully informing him of how terribly sorry they were to hear of his period of illness, and how speedy a recovery they wished him, and, ah, well, if it were possible to, perhaps – not to be an imposition, but if he had a moment…

On the other hand, he was lost. He’d never been surrounded by so many people; he’d never been so often – and insistently – called a name that wasn’t his. He had never quite felt the weight of living somebody else’s life – not until now.

Not until he started noticing other things. The strained smiles. The tight-lipped, worried frowns. Some woman, some pale, red-haired golly – he didn’t know who she was – cringed when he passed her, moved away as if she expected him to – what? Something about her face, about the look in her eyes when he met them, burned itself into his mind. It mingled with the eyes of the men, those callous, hungry looks. At one point, a man he didn’t know patted him on the back, pointed out some lass, some so-and-so’s daughter in a pretty white dress, cracked some obscure joke about something he’d said recently. Something he’d said he’d like to do.

Tom was in a sorry state. He’d gotten his fourth glass of port and he’d gone over to what had seemed to be a quiet corner, determined to carve out a space for himself that was free of laughter and the hems of dresses and the handshakes of hopeful interns and ambitious advocates and old friends from Brunnhold and gods knew who else. His heart was pounding, thrumming, irregular and fluttering, and he was trying to take deep breaths, to get himself under control. He felt like he was hanging by a thread.

Enter Toibin clocking Madden.

He forced a smile and clasped the incumbent’s hand firmly; he gave it a good, abrupt shake. “Toibin,” he repeated, laughing. The laugh was hoarse, a little too harsh. A little shaky. “Old friend! Gods, is it good to see you again. It’s good to – uh – be back.”

...glad to see you returned from the dead, ahahaha.

A muscle jumped in Anatole’s face; his left eye twitched, fluttered. Briefly, but noticeably. Tom swallowed a lump in his throat. He didn’t know what to say, but he reckoned that wasn’t a problem; thankfully, Incumbent Madden seemed to have more than enough words for both of them. Courtesy of the port, the room was a little fuzzy, the candles a little softer and warmer than they’d been an hour ago. He was barely following what Madden was saying when he saw another familiar face.

If it ain’t the Hoxian diplomat herself.

Tom became aware that Incumbent Madden was saying something about her – something about Anatole not being the only one out of sorts this past couple of months. He perked up, meeting Madden’s sharp green eyes again and lifting an eyebrow. “Well,” he started, taken aback by the incumbent’s bluntness – in all honesty, he’d never seen a Hoxian have a breakdown, no, though he’d not seen many Hoxians – but then the incumbent continued, and the sinking feeling in his gut sunk further.

To his credit, Toibin’s winning smile never faltered. Tom fought to keep his own composure; the vodundun that was pouring out of the incumbent’s mouth was beyond anything he’d prepared himself for. A possible homosexual, that woman – he was barely catching Toibin’s hushed, quick words – not as bad in women as it is in men…

“Er – well –”

He took another drink of port, nearly spilling it in his hurry to get the glass to his lips. He had no idea what his face was doing; he barely knew what his hands were doing. All of the sudden, he felt simultaneously light-headed and sharp as a knife’s edge, like somebody had poured fire into his nerves. He felt cornered, claustrophobic. Another servant in powder blue had just wafted by with another tray, and Tom had a sudden vision of himself wrenching the tray out of the passive’s hands and flinging it at the incumbent’s face, scattering cucumber sandwiches everywhere.

Instead, he simply lowered the glass and smiled brightly at Toibin Madden. His jaw was screwed shut, and he didn’t feel capable of opening his mouth. He just nodded. He made himself tear his gaze away from Toibin, made himself look at the Hoxian diplomat and the incumbent’s daughter.

Ecks had turned to them and was approaching them now. Despite the familiar confidence of her gait, there was something different about her; Tom hadn’t met her at the best of times, but this was worse. He knew a carefully-concealed mess when he saw one; he was one, after all. He wondered how much of what the incumbent had told him was true. He wasn’t prepared for the stirrings of sympathy he felt.

When he turned to her, he smiled, and it wasn’t Anatole’s thin smile. He stepped quickly away from Incumbent Madden.

“Ms. Ecks! Good evening.” He inclined his head, then bent in a proper Anaxi galdor bow. When he rose, a laugh slipped out of him – a cracked, genuine laugh. He shot an uncomfortable glance back at Incumbent Madden. “How are you? From what I hear, it’s been a – difficult winter – for both of us. But it’s good to see you.”
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Drezda Ecks
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Sat Mar 02, 2019 3:37 pm

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Madden Residence
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Toibin had known Anatole for a number of years now, just how many he couldn't quite put his finger on, but long enough to think that he understood the man well. He knew him well enough to know that they were on the same page about homosexuality, although Anatole had always been less concerned about it provided that it didn't encroach on his life in any way. So obviously he must think it was distasteful. However, while in theory, Anatole thought that homosexuality was odd and often unfathomable, Toibin wondered if in fact that distaste failed to extend to women. Incumbent Madden certainly didn't see it in the same damnable light as he viewed relations between men but he also didn't view two women together as particularly attractive. Stupid, wasteful, the product of some boredom or dissatisfaction because they didn't have a man to treat them accordingly. But they were daft little creatures, easily led astray down the wrong path if they weren't corrected and led as they ought to be. In recent years, more and more high class galdori women were taking to tipping the velvet exclusively and it had become something to laugh about, some reason to point to if a woman was too cold to a man's advances and while Toibin had laughed along with many of his peers when crude words were exchanged on the matter, there were men who were actually interested in such relations. Intimately.

Anatole liked women. Now there was nothing wrong about that, nothing wrong with a man having certain appetites, even in excess, but it was something that was known. He was almost obsessed with women, even if he didn't have the same inclinations as some men in their position. The ones who made potentially costly mistakes that required a certain amount of bribery and the shushing of distraught women by their far wiser - and usually newly enriched - male relatives. Still, everyone knew how free Anatole was with women, an open secret really, which of course meant that it was no secret at all. He'd caught more than one look in his daughter's direction that was problematic but as long as he only looked, it wasn't really a problem.

With a love of women like that, it made sense that he enjoyed the idea of them being together, especially as it wouldn't necessarily mean that he'd be excluded; Anatole usually got what he really wanted and he was a difficult man to refuse.

Thus, the soft splutter, the body language, the almost tangible sweating under the collar in response to his comment about Drezda potentially being a lesbian made sense. In fact, he managed some wry amusement at the display. Poor Anatole getting himself in a bother. He'd always had a strange interest in the woman - he guessed that he found her exoticism appealing - and it had nothing to do with politics. Toibin didn't like women who acted the coquette but he also didn't like them frigid but his tastes were his own, not his friend's and his friend's were... broad. The notion that he might find the idea of Drezda Ecks being a lesbian an attractive prospect was laughable really but that was Incumbent Vauquelin for you. Everyone had their little eccentricities, their weaknesses. Women were definitely one of Anatole's, not that he'd ever allow his proclivities to weaken him.

The other Incumbent's gaze turned to the Hoxian diplomat and Niamh. There might have been a brief flutter of something in Toibin, some feeling other than a worry that Anatole would sully her and reduce his ability to use her as a bargaining chip because she was actually his little girl and he did care about her even though- nope, feeling quashed as it ought to be. He wondered if Anatole was thinking of Drezda and Niamh... like that. His daughter had had that... accusation levelled at her - Oísin had passed that tidbit of information onto him - but that was just the words of boys who'd been rejected. They hurled it because she was frigid, which certainly wasn't a bad thing. And besides, regardless of what she was, she'd do what she was told in the end anyway.

It would have been all too easy to make some further disparaging remark before Drezda reached them, something connected to his daughter but it died on his lips. Instead, they parted slightly, surprised before he managed to cover the expression with a smile.

Because Anatole was talking to Drezda as if he was- As if she was-

The Incumbent rocked back on his heels, caught between amusement and bemusement as he observed the interaction. Was there... a punchline? Was it coming? Had he somehow missed the joke? Obviously this commonality that he was trying to set up, the joke had to do with... how their situations were ultimately dissimilar? Because she was a lush and Anatole had actually been sick? Well... he'd had a bit of a... monic wobble from what he knew, which definitely wasn't the same but... possibly had its own weakness attached.

"Well, I must agree with Incumbent Vauquelin in that it's good to see you, Miss Ecks. It would have been a shame if you couldn't be here this evening. Although do be mindful that you don't overdo it," he commented, gaze moving almost idly down to the glass that she held in her grasp, his smile thin-lipped. Why couldn't the bitch just back off? At least he'd have a good reason to excuse himself soon, he'd have to go see where the musicians he'd ordered had gotten off to so that they had entertainment. He just resented the fact that he'd have to leave his friend simply to extricate himself from this woman. All the same, he was careful to school his expression so that his resentment didn't show.


***

The diplomat had expected Incumbent Madden's reaction. The carefully couched words, an underlying current of something sneering, underhandedly insulting. If she raised the matter directly, the politician would claim that his concern was genuine and there would be the implication that she was being sensitive. Obviously she was just being paranoid, wasn't she? Clearly the man was truly concerned about her wellbeing - as if that was something he gave a damn about! No, he was ready to take a dig at her about the rumours, to twist the knife in. She was going to have to endure this nonsense until it was socially acceptable for her to extricate herself.

"I wanted to thank you for your kind invitation, Incumbent Madden," she responded, ready to deal with this stupid verbal fencing, the obligatory back and forth. It was all so... dull and needless and stupid and-

Then Anatole stepped forward, distancing himself from Madden and she wondered how shocked she looked. Completely thrown, the young woman blinked at him, unable to comprehend that this was Anatole Vauquelin. It had been a while since she'd seen him and he looked more himself. He had the clothes, the demeanour, he wasn't standing in the Dives at night - that certainly helped - and that was strangely surreal because he still wasn't himself. He had a genuine smile on his face, truly sympathetic, his field was still in tatters and he wasn't looking at her with those horrible lust-filled eyes.

What on Vita was this?

He was still strange and this was when he was back in the midst of galdori society with Toibin fucking Madden beside him. How could he not be himself and yet be talking to Toibin? They'd looked friendly, was she wrong? There was no place in her head for this Anatole and the one she knew from before to co-exist. There could only be one.

"I... I'm well?" she responded, the inflection at the end suggesting that she was asking him to confirm if she was or not. This was too surreal, it really was. A quick flicked glance in the other man's direction confirmed that this wasn't customary behaviour. It was so out of the ordinary in fact that she could see Toibin's surprise and it was genuine. She wasn't the only one having a difficult time with this then. "Thank you, Incumbent Vauquelin, It's good to see you again."

The last word was just slightly emphasised, enough to draw Anatole's attention to the fact that she recalled their previous encounter quite clearly. Yes, that encounter could theoretically put her in jeopardy, certain things he'd overheard making blackmail a possibility but she'd also found him where he ought not to be so they might be on an even footing in terms of manipulation material. To be frank though, Drezda wasn't even sure why she was going through the motions, having these thoughts. She'd had a certain edge before, sufficient drive for this but now she didn't give a damn.

It was probably why she did what she did next. Although perhaps her tolerance for Toibin Madden's chroveshit had finally worn down enough after all this time.

"Overdo things? Oh yes, that's very sound advice, thank you. You understand the value of moderation."

Her gaze flicked around the room, managing to encompass the scale of the scene, the woman fanning herself casually with her hand, smiling genuinely because she was enjoying herself. She took a sip of her drink as she watched Madden freeze, smile decidedly fixed. "I'll be certain not to become too excited, a challenge for me, I know," she added with a soft laugh, her antagonist pausing for a moment too long before he laughed along with her, the sound even more forced and faked than usual and that was saying something.

"Oh well, if you feel the need to leave early then please don't feel obligated to stay. I'd hate to keep you here." the man retorted, a certain eagerness in his voice. He was probably only a step or two below telling her to fuck off.

"Perhaps you might sequester yourself away when the entertainment begins? There might be some dancing and I wouldn't want you to overexert yourself. However, if you do, I do hope that you can find a partner to suit your, ah.... tastes, ahahaha. If you'll excuse me, I have a band that requires my attention. Good evening."

The parting shot was enough to colour her cheeks, the Hoxian doing her best to keep the sudden and intense hatred from her face, her field. There was definitely something buzzing in both of their fields as Toibin skimmed past her, even though both had them held close. She'd evidently struck a nerve or two but so had he.

Did he know about her interest in women? Could he? Had she been too obvious of late? What had she revealed when she'd been inebriated? What recklessness had she indulged in?

Too much.

So Toibin had waltzed off, leaving her alone with Vauquelin who was no doubt the only one of them not inwardly seething.

"You know, Incumbent Vauquelin, I feel as if I haven't been out of things for very long at all," she commented dryly.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Mar 02, 2019 7:39 pm

The Madden House

☙ early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718 ❧
Clock it, and clock the whole Circle. He felt Incumbent Madden’s eyes on his back, and when he glanced over, that tactful look of utter confusion was worth whatever breach of Vauquelin’s persona he’d just committed. You think you know me, he wanted to say – it was illogical and it was mad, and Madden did know him, or at least the man he was pretending to be. But as uncomfortable as Ecks made him, the idea of ganging up on her with Toibin Madden made his skin crawl. He figured this was what you called a swing vote, and he figured he’d pay for it later.

Ecks looked surprised enough herself, and Tom supposed he couldn’t blame her. A muscle in his jaw jumped when he heard ‘again’, that gentle emphasis – right here? Right now? He pursed his lips, but managed to force the smile back onto his face.

He was midway through a sip of his drink when she responded to Toibin, and he had to concentrate to prevent himself from spluttering port everywhere. It was a double-edged sword, and even Tom could see that; it left her open to a response from the incumbent that was even nastier. But she’d struck a nerve, no doubt. He felt the frazzled edges of Madden’s field, heard the clipped, tight tone of the man’s voice as he excused himself to go and find his band.

Then he was gone, leaving the two of them alone.

As soon as Incumbent Madden was out of earshot, Cooke passed a hand over his brow and took a deep breath, muttering – barely audible – under his breath, “Thank fuck.” He finished off his glass of port in one long draught and handed it off to a passing servant, who’d stopped to watch him gulp it down with a look of mild alarm. Then, raising both eyebrows, he turned to Drezda Ecks. The color in her cheeks hadn’t quite gone down, and her field was still abuzz, the mona clamoring and agitated and tight around her; Toibin’s dart had cut deep.

He whistled, smiling wryly.

“Not the kind of banter you expect at these – functions.” He rolled his shoulders, wincing at a couple of pops – he hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding himself. That stop-clocker had had him on edge, that was for sure. One more minute of that chroveshit and, whether he’d wanted to or not, he might’ve broken Anatole’s pristine knuckles on Madden’s face. He hid a soft, meandering hum of a chuckle behind his hand – a mannerism he knew was Anatole’s and had practiced for some time. “And good for you. I feel as if I’ve been out of it for a century. Although I suspect we both know why.” Or we think we do.

With that, he met her eye and held her gaze. His smile didn’t falter, but he sidled a bit closer, leaned in; he lowered his voice, conspiratorial, as if telling a particularly good joke. But his tone was deadly serious.

“Listen. I just want to put it out in the clear that whatever you’ve got on me, I’ve got on you – in equal measure. No games. I don’t plan on holding that night in the Dives against you unless I have to.” He blinked. “And it’s up to you whether I have to.”

He leaned away, studying her face. He bounced back on his heels, clasping his hands behind his back; his glance danced astray, eyes lingering on another servant with a heavily-burdened tray, and his look soured. His last glass was already settling on his stomach and blurring his head – pleasantly, mind you – but he didn’t want a repeat of the Lantern in Achtus, and he still wasn’t comfortable enough with Anatole to know how much he could take. Maybe later. I’m doing so well. Don’t want to slip back into Old Rose speak. He looked back at the Hoxian diplomat, sucking at his teeth.

“I’d heard you were having quite a time yourself, but I wasn’t sure if I believed it. I don’t know what’s going on – frankly, I don’t care – but you’ve got my sympathies. For what it’s worth. I’m not in great shape myself.” His voice was still low, but conversational. This time, his smile was rather thin. “Oh, sorry, I’m being blunt, which is apparently not something I do. Maybe it’s the port – or maybe your bluntness is catching. While we’re being blunt – what is that man’s problem? You think you’ve found a moment of peace in this stew, and then he’s on you like a tick.”

Another of Anatole’s humming little chuckles. I hope to the gods I know how to turn that off.
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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Mar 04, 2019 9:17 am

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Madden Residence
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Irritability and hurt clung to her, her field held tight and close to stop it bleeding outwards, from making it too obvious. Anatole probably already had a fair idea, the young woman likely having borne - at least for a moment - the appearance of someone who'd been slapped. Sometimes you didn't need to caprise someone's field to gain an indication of what they were feeling because there were always little tells. No matter how well schooled you were in hiding your emotions in terms of expression, tone, body language or monic field, you always gave something away for those who were looking for it. Your broadcast might be a subtle one but if someone knew what they were looking for, knew you, then it was possible for it to be picked up.

While she'd probably given off enough - too much - she wasn't the only one. She couldn't tell anything from the man's field. It was still a mess, a scramble of monic resonances that could have been his own emotions or the sentient particles'. There was just a constant hum, a sound beneath the level of hearing that scratched on the eardrums, prickled over the skin as if each hair on its surface was being tipped. Almost beyond the normal senses, the mundane ones, but not wholly so. However, the way he downed the port, the drink a difficult one in Drezda's opinion to gulp down in one go but it indicated quite a bit. She understood that gulp, the rapid swallowing of alcohol to try to chase away thought. To drown it out. Chasing oblivion.

For the first time, she considered him more closely. The flush in the face, a certain unfocused look in his gaze, a bit of looseness to the speech and maybe something a tiny bit uncoordinated in his movements - although it was difficult to tell - seemed to point to a man well on his way to being flat out drunk. How many glasses of port had he polished off like that? Not that she could judge him for it. Well, not for the activity, no, but the choice of location? Yes, definitely yes. Did he understand how dangerous it would be to get drunk here? You couldn't afford to let your guard down for a moment. Except that she already had, jabbing at Toibin and leaving herself wide open to retribution.

Gods, she needed more to drink. It took a great deal of self-control not to follow Anatole's example and down her own drink.

"Banter? Do you consider what we engage in at these functions banter?" she questioned wryly, a short, humorless laugh issuing from her before she took another drink. This time, it was less of a sip and more of a gulp, the young woman savouring it in her mouth before she swallowed so that she'd resist the urge to gulp more of it down. Slow and steady she had to remember. Drezda lowered the glass from her mouth slowly and deliberately, brows raised in incredulity at the Incumbent's comment.

Was he praising her for dressing down Toibin? Seriously? This just grew more surreal with each passing moment. He seemed to have enjoyed it, been entertained and he also seemed oddly relieved to have Madden gone. Had he really changed so much or had she misread their relationship before? She'd been certain that their camaraderie was genuine, the pair seeming quite content to seek out and remain in each other's company. Could she have gotten it so wrong?

She could understand the feeling of being out of it though. It had certainly seemed like an eternity since she'd been in the political game and it was largely because she kept falling off the map. Days of freedom from politics tended to be long days of hell, minutes crawling past as she dealt with the consequences of overindulgence. Time grew very, very long indeed when you were suffering. It was her own fault of course but at least she could thank the weather for being a nuisance as well, making travel to events more difficult or impossible. Let them think that she was ill because of the weather, a Hoxian with issues with the cold. Although that wasn't entirely inaccurate; she'd become sufficiently acclimatised to Anaxas that her visits home were torturous for her for reasons other than the culture itself and her family.

She wasn't out of things all the time but she'd missed out enough lately for it to be noticeable, very noticeable. It probably looked worse than it did for Anatole, worse as well because she'd been seen in certain places. She wondered if anyone had connected certain locales and her 'illness'. Probably but rumour was a wild thing. She'd gotten wind of a few things to do with the Incumbent before her, words like 'breakdown' and 'unstable' flying around. If she hadn't encountered him and his field earlier then she might have dismissed such things. Since her own backlash, minor as it had been, she had rather different ideas about breakdown and magic.

Her cheeks cooled, maybe a bit of colour drained away as she nodded grimly, more than a touch of sympathy in her onyx eyes. She thought she knew how he felt but he'd had it worse and she couldn't be certain that he was handling it better, not given the way he was drinking. The night was still quite young after all and it didn't bode well for him.

When he stepped closer, her entire body went rigid, keeping her still rather than recoiling as she was wont to do. He'd definitely glimpse a small momentary panic in her gaze and field before she controlled it, a thin-lipped smile fixed on her face. It was cold and stayed that way, growing a few degrees chillier perhaps as she considered him and his words. His threat.

Was everyone going to be blunt this evening?

Her field pulsed, a small sniff of disapproval leaving her as she considered him. She really didn't have any interest in this. It was all such fucking chroveshit.

"Are you under the impression that I care, Incumbent Vauquelin?" she questioned, a hint of a sneer in her voice, a sardonic laugh to go with it as she shook her head. "I could care less, Incumbent, do what you want, it's not liable to do the harm you expect it to do." It can't make things much worse than I've made them already," she added silently.

Politically, she'd already done enough damage to herself and she imagined that she'd be receiving certain words from Hox's real ambassador about the matter in due time. Maybe he'd actually come to Anaxas personally, a horrible fate surely. By rights, he should already be here and the not-quite-an-ambassador status not left on her skinny shoulders but then the man might actually have to be responsible for something rather than being politely petulant and bossy from afar. Was it any wonder that she enjoyed feeding his letters into the fire often unopened? But perhaps he would come here and she'd have more to worry about than the consequences of leaving letters unanswered.

Her words weren't a show of bravado or an attempt to call his bluff, she just honestly couldn't see the point of this. All he cared about was that no one would find out about him. Before her backlash, she would have been disappointed by this impasse, maybe even been willing to push her luck on the assumption that what he'd been up to must have been much worse if he was willing to be so blunt in his threat but now, it was all so... trivial. She'd seen herself in a new light and she couldn't shove herself back into her own lies.

Her? As a politician? It was as ridiculous as the idea that she might have made a Seventen! All of them were excuses, reputable reasons for her to remain in Anaxas, to remain away from Hox. She couldn't hide it from herself anymore. Couldn't hide the fact that she was only buying time before she had to face the inevitable.

"Do what you like, Incumbent, it doesn't matter to me. However, if you're that worried about me telling someone, you don't have to worry. I frankly couldn't give a damn what you do so I've no interest in spreading it either."

Her chin rose, a certain haughty defiance in her demeanour before she polished off the glass of wine in her hand because frankly fuck it! She liberated a fresh glass from a passing servant and entrapped it in a firm grasp that was perhaps a little too tight.

While Anatole talked about bluntness, she wondered why she'd come here in the first place. She'd missed plenty as it was so what would have been one more? Everyone would have been quite happy, Toibin especially she was sure because he hated her as much as she hated him and then everyone could have gossiped about her. She wouldn't have been happy of course because she would likely have crawled into a bottle but it wouldn't have been much different to this. At least at home there would have been more alcohol - even Rosmilda couldn't keep it all squirrelled away - and fewer judgmental looks.

However, his question about Toibin Madden drew her out of her apathy and self-pity, black eyes widening as she tilted her head to the side, regarding Anatole closely. Her gaze flicked back and forth across his face, seeking a trap and not seeming to find it.

"Madden? I thought the two of you were friends. I suppose that was a silly thing to consider given that you disagree on certain matters. Like Incumbent Madden has a very rigid and narrow view of what is morally correct and you... don't, I suppose," Drezda commented, voice low and conversational as she took a careful step back, not liking to be so close to the man. It wasn't his morality so much as his tastes that she was judging and even if he wasn't gazing at her right now like that, she expected his lascivious nature to rear its head at any moment. the last thing she wanted was to be in range. The woman had little in the way of cleavage but there was still something horrible about the few inches height that he had on her, which made all the difference when he got too close.

He might feel the squirm in her field, the momentary discomfort. Clock the Circle, the man had always given her the creeps and she couldn't shake the feeling even now. He would be creepy to her on some level forever, she suspected.

"Not that many people could wholly agree with his viewpoint, or fit into it," she added, perhaps hoping to lessen the potential blow of insult from her previous comment. It might have been as much out of a delayed sense of self-preservation rather than kindness. She didn't particularly want to irk the man. "I suppose he must grate on you after awhile. I've always known him to be that way but I imagine he's grown... stricter since he got married. Being a family man," the diplomat pointed out, not wanting to say anything further in case this was a trap. Even then her words were carefully couched.

She wasn't going to speak openly about Eliza and her... friendliness. Although she wondered if Anatole had ever-

Don't even think it. Don't even think it!"

She might have to bleach her mind.
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Tom Cooke
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Tue Mar 05, 2019 11:48 pm

The Madden House

☙ early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718 ❧
Damn. He wasn’t used to having that effect on people – not anymore, at least – not since he’d died. He remembered what it was like to cow folks, and he’d done it enough in his life; there was a reason why they’d send him when they needed somebody to have a little chat with a dobby. He hadn’t always had to rough them up, either. Sometimes all it took was a laugh, a pat on the shoulder that was a little too hard, a little too lingering. He’d been an expert at letting people know they were on thin ice.

Tom wasn’t expecting this from Drezda Ecks. Still, he tried not to show surprise at that slight stiffening, that brief flicker of a facial expression – something not even a Hoxian could hide? – those tell-tale little muscles in the neck that corded when a body tensed. She couldn’t be that worried he’d dob on her, could she? All he had was a flimsy little story he’d gotten while he was in a place he shouldn’t have been in, either; somebody like Ecks would know a bluff when she saw one.

And she did. He caught the drawling edge of a sneer in her words. You act like you care, though, he thought, or like you’re expecting me to – It dawned on him rather belatedly; it made a lump well up in his throat. After he’d moved away from her, he swallowed sorely, mouth dry. A strange feeling had settled over him like a layer of grease. He felt dirty. He had to get out of here.

“I care as little as you do. I’m just glad we’re understood,” he said, keeping his voice even.

He was momentarily distracted by a passing servant with another load of drinks, and he nearly nabbed himself another glass of port; she passed, though, before he got the chance, leaving him distracted and a little put-out. He scanned the crowd, drifting flocks of well-dressed galdori, most of them (that he recognized) politically-connected. Pockets of tasteful dark suits and cigar-smoke; clouds of ruffled, asymmetrical dresses, hats whose brims and baubles wavered like willows in the breeze.

Ecks was talking again, and he had to glance back over. He was starting to ground himself, but he didn’t let his gaze linger on her long. Just put it away. It’s over now. I just won’t do that again.

Her comment about his morals had put him on the edge of a laugh. Anatole’s or his, it wouldn’t have been a lie, depending on how you looked at it; he’d have given Anatole a run for his money, as far as bodies in the harbor went. When she stepped away, though, he flinched. For a second, the look on his face was genuinely hurt; his lips twitched, brows knitting, and he looked down at the floor. This time, he couldn’t hide his dismay. Not by a longshot. But then he seemed to recover his composure, forcing another thin smile.

He took a step away from her himself, clearing his throat.

“If you’d said that to me before my – accident – I don’t know what I’d have done. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this devil-may-care attitude” – he gave a little snort – “isn’t like you, Ms. Ecks. Then again, I suppose I’ve been doing a lot of things that aren’t like me, so you’re in good company. If there is any good company in this gods-forsaken place.” He eyed a servant that bustled by with a tray, but this one was loaded down with empty (and half-empty) glasses, little saucers with half-eaten tidbits. Crumbs and waste.

Tom’s lip twitched again. He glanced back to the Hoxian diplomat. “As for Incumbent Madden,” he started, then paused, biting his lip; he narrowed his eyes as if juggling something in his head, trying to puzzle something out. How in the gods’ names do I play this? He thought about just putting it off on a bad mood, a bad day, a short fuse – he didn’t doubt that somebody like Anatole’d lose his patience with somebody like Toibin occasionally – but then stopped, steeling himself. Like hell. No. I’ll play this role, but I’ll play it how I want to play it. I’ll learn how to talk like him and act like him, but I don’t have to keep his company. And something told him that Drezda Ecks wasn’t much for gathering political ammunition anymore.

So he shrugged, eyes straying up to the ceiling, a sea of gilded paneling and glistening, teardrop lights. He lowered his voice a little. “Good Lady, who knows? Between the two of us, I barely remember how we got along. I think you might know how that goes. Perceptive conversation has some… unique risks.” He feigned a subtle wince, as if remembering something traumatic. “I feel like I don’t even know the man. He’s a handful, certainly. Something tells me he wasn’t any better before he became a ‘family man’, as you put it. Then again, I get the impression that I wasn’t much of a gentleman, either.”

He frowned and looked over, met Drezda’s dark eyes.

“How are you handling being back in the fold? Better than I am, I hope,” he said, although with a troubled glance at the glass in her hands. Her fingers were a little too tight around the stem. “Bluntness for bluntness, eh?”
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Drezda Ecks
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Sat Mar 23, 2019 4:31 pm

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Madden Residence
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Had she seen something flick across his features? Some small betrayal of confusion at her rigidness? Yes, he'd spotted something off about her demeanour, some indication in her manner that indicated that his nearness had an effect on her. She didn't think that he picked up on the exact nature of the disturbance but then he never had as far as she could tell. However, this Anatole was different, he forgot things too so if he ever had known of her discomfort in his presence then it might well have slipped his mind. Whether he moved away from her because of sudden self-awareness or it was merely coincidental, either way the diplomat was incredibly relieved. She was more relieved by that than by his words, which he had presumably said to assuage any of her concerns. She really didn't care about what had happened in the Dives, she really didn't so the Incumbent could say whatever he liked because the Hoxian didn't even have to muster the energy to care. It just wasn't her concern anymore. Why had she even bothered to come here? Why hadn't she had a bit more to drink before she did?

If she hadn't been a politician then perhaps she would have been less accustomed to dealing with surprise, to pressing on in spite of it. If she hadn't been then perhaps she would have stopped speaking altogether, unable to retrieve her train of thought at all when the hurt registered on his face. Yes, he understood why she was distancing herself, why she didn't want them so close. That wasn't the surprising thing she supposed. The young woman would have thought him to be the sort to be irritated with what he viewed as rejection, a blow to the ego. He was the sort that thought that he was the Circle's gift to women. Anger, some sourness over wounded pride, maybe something snide and haughty would have been expected reactions. Drezda didn't expect hurt and dismay, maybe a touch of horror. As if he felt bad for causing the response, guilty and maybe a little disgusted about himself.

And he put some distance between them, just a step back but it spoke volumes; he was aware. The young woman almost felt sorry for him - perhaps he'd never realised before - but at the same time, some glad of her was glad for his suffering. How many times had he made her skin crawl or made her feel ill to the pit of stomach? Wasn't he due a bit of discomfort, a bit of ill-feeling for a change? Although she did feel at least a little bad because he really did seem different. Especially as he seemed quite keen on bluntness at this moment, both of them in the same mood it seemed.

Devil-may-care indeed.

"I concede that we might... have that in common," she murmured. "That we might both be acting less than typically."

The young woman let a finger trace the rim of her glass, gazing almost thoughtfully into the liquid as the other spoke, outlining his thoughts on Incumbent Madden. It was more than possible that he really had forgotten enough. His wasn't simple forgetfulness but something magically induced. His personality had changed. She'd heard cases of personalities altering when someone was hit sufficiently hard on the head or had something lodged in the brain. Provided that they survived the injury, they were said to be changed. Magic could be more subtle but perhaps something similar could occur. The man before her might truly be someone else entirely. Well... he had some of the mannerisms but perhaps they were inherent or... maybe he'd been taught them? Anatole had been rehabilitated, his family had kept him out of the fold for awhile and he seemed enough like himself but perhaps that was by design. For the sake of appearances, he might have been taught how to act like himself.

That was an odd thought indeed. But once again, she found the idea appealing that the previous man might never reappear. If this was Anatole, the only version of him, that would remain then she wouldn't be sorry. Perhaps she could be friends with this one or rather as friendly as she ever got with anyone. The diplomat couldn't say that she had friends exactly, her servants certainly weren't those. She did trust them a bit more than the average person but that was because she relied on them a little more, needed their discretion and their help. The same was true of Mister Williams, her slightly shady - okay, maybe quite shady - doctor acquaintance. He was a galdor at least but he wasn't a friend either. If she was capable of friendship, she wasn't even sure that she could be friends with a man, not in the same way. There were things about them that could be appreciated, she supposed but they tended to be so... so... irritating. Women could be as well, she supposed but often it was something she could weather if they were pretty.

Being friends with Anatole Vauquelin just didn't seem possible, not even if he was utterly different. A warm acquaintanceship wasn't entirely out of the question though...

The 'gentleman' comment elicited an interesting response from the diplomat, lips stretching and pulling back slightly so that her teeth were slightly bared. It certainly wasn't a smile but it also wasn't predatory. In fact, it was more like when a threatened animal showed its teeth, a display of weapons and yet a distaste at the idea of using them because they didn't like their odds. Responding to such a thing, either truthfully or tactfully could be very dangerous indeed and the Hoxian wasn't keen on opening that up for discussion. There was a worry, at least in part, that bringing up such a thing could bring out those old distasteful and uncomfortable qualities in him that she so detested. However, if there was ever an occasion for such a thing, as he said bluntness for bluntness...

Fuck it, Drez, just speak your mind for once.

She sipped her wine, the hold on the stem still too tight, perhaps tighter now as she bit the bullet. "If I may be honest, Incumbent Vauquelin, I think you knew enough to bear the appearance of a gentleman, especially from a distance. I think you knew how to look as if you were entirely above board, very polite and proper so that it was never possible to accuse you of anything but underneath it... Well, it was a very thin facade, at least up close. You wouldn't be the only man to act in such a fashion though although I think that other men, especially here are more... subtle." she explained softly.

Her gaze was downcast, onyx eyes hooded although her composure was otherwise good. Her field was in check, carefully so, although still close to her person and she made a conscious effort to hold her glass a little more normally so that the tension wasn't so apparent. However, she couldn't quell some of the physical responses, those that rose unbidden at certain remembrances. Her throat moved, nervously swallowing as the saliva she produced suddenly seemed like too much, the young woman almost feeling like she might drown from it as it clung too thickly. Ivory cheeks grew dusky pink at recalled discomfort and embarrassment. This wasn't something that Drezda wanted to talk about.

"I'm not back in the fold, not really. I come, I go, I'm never here long enough to settle into past routines. I was never in the fold to begin with, not truly. I'm just...

She trailed off, her gaze having found Diaxio Shiuni across the room, surrounded by so many politicos and businessmen. She was the true picture of what a Hoxian ought to be and she was so clearly better at this than Drezda was. Those around her weren't rigid, they didn't hold themselves as if they expected to catch a chill from her if she grew too close. She might be a Hoxian bitch and a cool one at that but she wasn't what the diplomat was, her presence wasn't off-putting. And it was all the more ironic because she knew just how dangerous her countrywoman was, just how shady she truly was. It was funny really. If she did abandon her position as Hox's diplomat then that woman would likely replace her. She'd be an ideal candidate and she'd be ambassador, not some puppet figurehead without the lofty title.

She looked away, the briefest flicker of hurt blazing through her field as she felt its twinge within her.

"It's not because I'm Hoxian, it's because I'm me. People don't warm to me," she admitted quietly.

The woman lapsed into silence, the first strains of music reaching her above the hubbub of the gathering although there was a dip in activity, a gradual drop as people caught the sound and turned to investigate. Toibin Madden had found his evening's entertainment it seemed and a space had been made so that those who wished to dance could do so. He appeared to have nabbed himself a string quartet and they certainly injected a great deal of class into the function without overwhelming anyone. Conversation resumed at previous levels and the strains soared above their heads, the musical ensemble on their own little stage so that their notes wouldn't be absorbed and lost in the press of bodies. Their host appeared to have conscripted his daughter into a very serene little dance, most likely against her will although the girl seemed to take it well as she danced with her father. She couldn't help noticing that some men had drifted nearer, eyeing the girl with interest and no doubt when the family's patriarch was finished, he'd pass her over to whomever seemed most suitable. The poor child.

"Do you know that's just sickening. Oh he has it all dressed up very prettily, it's very classy and dignified but... anyone can see that he's trying to prostitute the poor girl. Everyone except perhaps for her," she whispered, a new flush of colour entering her cheeks as she realised what she'd allowed herself to say out loud. If anyone else had heard- Anatole hearing her was bad enough, especially as she wasn't sure that he was safe. She tried to return to safer ground.

"I-I'm not as accustomed to these types of gatherings as I once was although I've never been... the best at them. I suppose that I ought to be grateful that it's not a ball. It's not that I can't dance, just-"

No one wants to ask you to dance and if they do then you have to put up with a man's hands on you, leading you.

"-I... prefer not to do so," she ended slowly, cautiously, watching Niamh and Toibin's footwork. The man was a bit stiff, it wasn't something that came naturally to him but the girl was naturally graceful. Gods, why couldn't she be clumsier so that she was less appealing? Watching her... was hypnotising, the movements almost soothing so that her gaze kept straying that way. The woman couldn't help it. The eldest Madden was meant to catch the eye, that was the point - and the problem. Her brother was present as well with his own dance partner but the diplomat looked past him, through him.

Gods, dancing was not a safe subject, not at all.

"So don't ask me," she blurted out as her eyes went back to the Incumbent, forgetting for a moment that it wasn't the one from before, wasn't the same lecherous fellow who would perhaps delight at the opportunity to lay hands on her, even in the most decorous fashion. "Not that I thought you would, just... if you were thinking- never mind."

She took a hearty gulp of wine, wondering if she could just escape. Could she just turn tail and run before she said something else - anything else - that she really shouldn't?
.
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Mar 24, 2019 5:02 pm

THE MADDEN HOUSE
early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718
When she’d done speaking, he stood stock-still for a moment, regarding her with a look of vague surprise. He put his hands in his pockets, bounced on his heels. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, clamping it shut and lifting an eyebrow. A faint bemused smile played around his lips.

“Thank you for your feedback. The Vauquelin office will take it into consideration,” he replied, inclining his head and shoulders in a brief bow. But he’d seen the color in her cheeks, the delicate bob of her throat as she swallowed thickly. The smile faded from his face, and he frowned, sighing and glancing away, out over the room. “So much for being a ‘gentleman’. In all seriousness, for what it’s worth, I apologize. For whatever I was on about before, whatever I did. Between the two of us, I don’t remember the greater part of it, but I’m not blind. And whatever I happen to be picking up on, I have no doubt it was worse.”

Tom fought the urge to look back at her when she spoke again. I was never in the fold to begin with, not truly. A muscle jumped in his cheek; he couldn’t be sure what he was feeling. He recalled Drezda’s face when he had met her in the Dives, when he had been so young in death and still so human, and the mannered, made-up Uptown flock had seemed so incomprehensible to him, so alien. The words that came out of her mouth now, steady and low, seemed terribly human to him. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. Struggled to think of what to say. Why was she just admitting this to him?

So he kept his eyes on the string quartet, settling themselves on their dais, tuning their instruments with deft, long-fingered hands. A faint smile twitched onto his face – a smile very unlike Anatole’s – and then vanished. He heard the soft clucking of plucked strings, the quiet hum of a warmup.

He’d heard about her, heard all the rumors from Diana: the Hoxian diplomat’s sickness, her relationship with alcohol, her proclivities. (He’d gritted his teeth at the latter two. He knew how those rumors went; he knew them intimately.) Somehow, though, he’d never tried to tie it all together in his head, never tried to find the frayed edges of those broken strings and realign them. She’d seemed the perfect picture of a galdor to early-Tom, to the Tom who was still the Tom he’d been in life. Exalted, haughty, cold as ice. He’d caught her look at the other woman, surrounded by her flock of the good and great of the realm. He’d felt that look like a knife to the heart. It didn’t make any sense to him, this new Drezda Ecks. The things he saw in her – the familiar things that gnawed at him – they didn’t make any sense on this professional golly, this toffin’s toffin.

All the port he’d drunk was settling on his stomach now, and he felt his head getting fuzzier and fuzzier. Idly, he realized his feet were hurting. He wished he hadn’t had to come, wished he wasn’t here right now. He’d rather be hiding in his study with the rest of Anatole’s liquor cabinet.

He couldn’t think of what to say, and he didn’t say anything, and then the quartet had embarked on their careful, meandering melody – and then there was nothing to say. Finally he glanced over, just in time to see the diplomat’s eyes on Toibin and Niamh Madden. Gods, he thought, it’s true, isn’t it? The knot in his stomach grew tighter; he knew that look like he’d once known the back of his hand. Captivated, guilty.

Then Drezda spoke, and Tom’s eyes snapped wide open. He blinked, trying – and failing – to suppress his surprise. What the fuck? Sack it, but she was speaking her mind, wasn’t she? He’d barely processed her words; he glanced at the incumbent’s daughter, then back at Drezda, parsing what she’d said in his head. His eyes strayed back toward the dancers.

He’s trying to prostitute the poor girl, Ecks had said.

Prostitute.

Tom swallowed glass.

Meggie had always seemed so young to him. He blinked, eyebrows knitting, biting the inside of his gum; an unreadable look came into his face as he stared at the dancing Maddens, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away. He thought about her, about the cluttered vanity where she’d rouged her cheeks, long pale face smeared in the dusty mirror; he remembered once kissing the purple-black-brown-green that flowered across her left temple, the feeling of her runny-kohl tears against the tip of his thumb. The heady smell of too much cheap perfume. He remembered the giggling, the whispering, the shrieking and the thumps. His eyes traced the movements of Toibin’s hands, the way he swept the pale lass along, red hair struck glistening by the merry phosphor lights, hems swishing.

“Chroveshit,” he spluttered under his breath, just loud enough for Drezda to hear. It was through his teeth, wavering, somewhere between a snarl and a gasp. “Fucking Madden.” After a pause, a passing servant offered him a tray full of glasses; despite himself, he snatched one, taking a long drink of port. His own knuckles were white against the glass, and he fought to master himself. He knew that his cheeks were flushed – he could feel the heat in them, and Anatole went red as his hair at the drop of a hat – and he felt sloppy, thick-headed. The lights seemed softer, the colors more vibrant, the room balmier and full of alien faces and too much lace.

“No, I wasn’t thinking of dancing. I don’t really know how anymore, I’m afraid. I’d step on your toes. Although—” He smiled a thin, angry smile. “I can think of some toes I’d like to step on here.” His consonants weren’t precisely slurred – he was too experienced of a drunk for that – but his intonation was a little messy, and he was aware of it. As was usually the case after a certain number of drinks, he didn’t care anymore.

“She visited Diana and I the other day,” he murmured. “Looking for Cerise. Martin let her in without my knowing it, and I ran across her in the parlor. She was – so – uncomfortable around me. So jumpy. Not surprising, eh?” He took another long sip of port, mouth suddenly dry. “Don’t sell her short. I think she knows what he’s doing, what they’re thinking about her. But what do you do about it, Miss Ecks? What can you do? There isn’t anything to do, is there? Except go along with it, try to make the best of it? What could she possibly do about it?” Much quieter: “What can – what can we?”

An old anger flared up in him. Trying to prostitute the poor girl. A handful of his mother’s johns had been galdori; of those, a couple had been gentle, but most had done exactly what they liked and not been too broken up about it afterward. She was a human woman, after all, wasn’t she?

One of them he’d offered to go after. It was just after his sixteenth birthday, and he was fresh out of his work for the Carlisles, feeling the weight and privilege of his place as Hawke’s man. He’d been at least a foot taller than the little golly weasel, and he’d already given his fair share of beatings to other humans and wicks. It’d made him feel a fury like no other: Hawke meant maybe owning property someday, meant a steady income, meant taking care of his ma who’d been a working woman her whole life. Hawke meant no more damned toffin galdori throwing their weight around his home without permission. No more bruises on Meggie’s face. And there, then, that sickly rat with his field that’d made Tom’s skin crawl –

She’d taken his face in her long, delicate fingers. Thomas, look at me. He’d kill you, love, before you got to him. That’s the way the world is; you’ll never change it.

“I need to get out of here,” he said to Drezda quietly. He swallowed a painful lump in his throat. Somehow, his glass was already empty. He rubbed his jaw, trying to figure out what to do with his face. “I can’t stand the way they all look at me. I feel like I’m—” He could hardly believe what was coming out of his mouth. “—I feel like I’m in someone else’s life. I’m— I’m going to say something bang moony and ruin everything. Maybe you need to get out of here, too. I just can’t bear…”

He let out a laugh, and to his horror, it was Anatole’s giggle – automatic. Natural like he was the man. He covered his mouth for a moment, took a deep breath.

“Do you ever want to set all of them on fire?”
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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Mar 25, 2019 8:50 am

Ophus 18, 2718 | Early Evening
Madden Residence
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His flippant response wasn't appreciated, the Hoxian's jaw tightening, a brief flick of her onyx gaze showing a slight eye roll. It wasn't a very Anatole comment, not the one who had come before at any rate but that didn't mean that she liked it. It felt like she wasn't being taken seriously. She was the silly woman again, the one who was overly sensitive, overemotional, seeing things where they didn't exist. A soft sigh escaped her, frustrated and upset by his levity. He seemed to have realised his mistake or was at least willing to show that he took her seriously based on his new comment and she nodded in curt acknowledgement.

"If you're never a "gentleman" again, I wouldn't consider it a loss," she murmured, taking another sip of wine.

The man had never laid a finger on her and in that respect, she was lucky, but there were other ways to degrade a woman, to make her feel like a piece of meat. Maybe she had been oversensitive but her interactions with him had always left her feeling... unclean. The desire to scrub her skin, to remove the traces of his gaze as if it had been a physical thing that lingered there, something that she didn't think would ever come off. He'd always made her feel cheap and sullied so she supposed that it had been bad enough. Not as bad as he might think but bad enough to her, especially given that she didn't like men.

This man was different, he really was but it was difficult not to dwell on what he'd been like before, to recall those uncomfortable interactions when his body was so near at hand. It was difficult not to remember every time a man had made her feel that way, how many men had looked at her like she was their next meal and how often she'd allowed them to believe that that was a very real possibility. She'd done it with Anatole, perhaps not to the same degree as she had with those that she really wanted something from but she had still played on his proclivities. He obviously didn't remember that or he would understand the irony of this situation. Like her commenting on what Madden was doing with his daughter. The woman had learned exactly how to dress herself up and present herself to be appealing, how to prostitute herself without actually going through with the act itself so she could see it with Niamh. But the girl hadn't done it to herself. She was still better than Drezda in that regard, for her innocence and openness, her purity whereas the diplomat had always been tawdry.

Not that Anatole remembered. Even so, what she'd said was... more than she should have. His shock was almost palpable, rippling through the air between them but she couldn't take the words back, couldn't retract that thing that should not have been said. Gods, she really was losing control, wasn't she? And it wasn't the alcohol, not exactly, she'd just let everything slip. Laziness, apathy, whatever you wanted to call it, she'd always been bad at the emotional side of things but she'd been able to fool people, fool those that weren't her own people at least but she'd managed to keep her tongue in check, even here, in this gods awful political arena. But she'd fucked up now. She held her breath, expecting backlash, even if it was some little sign, some small indication that he was holding onto that tidbit of information for later. However, there was something strange in his face, something she couldn't comprehend.

The man was looking at Niamh but not as if he wanted her, not as if he was enjoying this little display. Instead, he seemed furious, his face scarlet as he cursed out his supposed pal and all but drained a fresh glass of port before her eyes. It was genuine, his ill feeling and it made her uneasy. It didn't matter how many times she tried to reconcile the fact that this Anatole wasn't the same one as before, she was still confused, still biased. Anatole wouldn't get angry about this, he wouldn't. So what was she meant to think? What the fuck was she meant to do? The Hoxian didn't know how to deal with this man, this stranger and so she could only drink and avoid looking at him, doing her best to keep her unfocused gaze from the girl.

She wasn't even interested in the child. She wasn't.

She's older than Rosmilda though. And galdori and you do find her oh so pretty... an inner voice whispered and she tried to drown it. She found the bottom of the wine glass but there was no comfort there so she sought another, polishing off half of it before she realised what she was doing.

You utter fool! What are you doing? What are you doing, tsutek mho?!

The diplomat was getting sloppy. Getting? Who did she think that she was kidding? His words weren't helping. Why couldn't he shut up? She didn't want to think about Niamh or what her father was doing with her, to her. She didn't want to acknowledge a fate of her own that ultimately seemed inevitable. The raven-haired woman couldn't run from duty forever, she couldn't and her parents didn't care about her preferences, they wanted her to marry a man, they wanted her to be useful.

What could they do? Go along with it, that was all they could do. Every woman had to make the best of things and it didn't matter what race they were or what education they had or how much money because they still had so little choice. Drezda had thought that she had the freedom to choose her own fate, she'd allowed herself to believe it but it was all nonsense.

"She knows she's a piece of meat, she wouldn't have grown up without knowing that although sometimes you forget. It's nice when you forget," the woman whispered, her gaze finding Niamh once more, a shudder going through her before she flagged down a servant, finding enough self-control and determination within her to part with her half-full glass.

No more alcohol for her.

Her hands clasped together, fingers tight together and the nails biting painfully into her own skin. She shouldn't have come. She should never have risked it. She should just have stayed at home in her own misery and loneliness and kept well out of everyone else's hair. Why didn't she just write home and tender her resignation? Why didn't she just give in and stop running? She could go home and go along with things, do what she was meant to do, provide her parents with the grandchildren that Rhozdr had thus far failed to provide. Not that she could ever hope to bear a child that could be heir. No, her brother would have children sooner or later and they would inherit everything. She'd just have children for no real reason because that was her purpose, to provide heirs for some stranger, probably older than her who would loathe her for having a mind, perhaps hate her if she passed on the curse of passivity. It was in her blood, if it had struck down her little sister then of course she was tainted, impure, unworthy.

She'd always been so unworthy.

The Hoxian had begun to tremble, her feelings betrayed in her field, the misery and despair colouring her aura and she took a few careful steps back from the Incumbent, retreating although he wasn't the cause this time; she just had to get away. There was a glitter in her gaze, tears all too ready to come as a lump glued itself to the inside of her throat, impossible to shift no matter how many times she tried to swallow it.

"I don't- Yes. I d-d-do want that. S-s-sometimes," she whispered, nodding her head, even as she backed away, unsteadier than before. How much had she drank? How fast had she drank it? Why had she mixed her alcohols? Oh Circle save her.

"S-s-sorry, I need air," she told him, turning on her heel and swaying to the side as the world kept turning around her. The young woman moved as swiftly as she dared in heels in her inebriated and unsteady state, holding her field tight, coming dangerously close to suppressing it utterly as she tried to stop her emotions bleeding out. It was a lot and it meant that she couldn't control everything - too much to juggle. Her vision was blurred and wet, downcast so that others wouldn't see as she moved through the crowd heading for the exit. Her voice certainly couldn't be trusted and so when she reached the doors and a servant was sent skittering to look for her cloak, she couldn't wait, couldn't say anything; she simply waved him off before stepping outside.

And after the overheated Madden Residence, the chill of Ophus was all the more shocking. She gasped, her breath stolen by the cold and she took an unsteady step backwards as the air enveloped her body, digging into bare flesh and biting cruelly through the material of her dress.

It was too cold. She wasn't wearing enough clothing for this. Was it any wonder that her body had begun to shake at once? She was shivering violently, her body trying to generate much needed heat and wrapping her arms around herself, hands cupping her elbows wasn't going to provide her with much cover. If she just stepped back inside, the servant probably had her cloak, holding it bemusedly in his arms, perhaps considering pursuing her but... she couldn't. It was stupid but she couldn't take those steps. She couldn't go back in there.

The chill had shocked the tears out of her pained gaze to trickle slowly down her cheeks. They felt ridiculously hot, the warmth quickly stolen so that she left feeling as if the briny fluid had solidified and affixed themselves to her skin. It was uncomfortable and frustrating but she couldn't go back because of it.

Yes, go right ahead, sob in front of everyone. Might as well complete your humiliation, the snide whisper came from within her. She shook her head, trying to free herself and took further steps forward.

The air sawing its way through her lungs burned, icy and metallic, making the act of breathing hurt. The pain was good. It was grounding, calming, and necessary. Drezda needed this pain.

Or freeze to death instead. Go stagger into the street and fall over and die, that'd be so much better.

The alcohol that had so warmed her while indoors was gone now and she was chillier because of it. She needed to go back, Circle save her, she did but she stepped forward instead, away from the doors, away from the warmth.

She was being unbelievably stupid and she knew it; she didn't care though.
.
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Mar 25, 2019 1:49 pm

THE MADDEN HOUSE
early evening on the 18th of ophus, 2718
Dully surprised at her stammering response, Tom tried to follow her retreating form through the blurry waltz of bodies. He caught glimpses of shimmering cloth between the black wool of an elbow or a stirring waterfall of frills; he leaned and stood on the tips of his toes, nearly stumbling. It looked like she was headed for the door, and he resigned himself to another evening of being a familiar face among strangers, wishing idly – unable to focus, distracted by the light and the soft hum of the strings and the hissing hems of dresses – that he could slip out himself. A moment later, though, he heard chortling from the direction of the door.

He squinted and covertly sidled over to a better vantage point, shouldering his way past a couple in blue. Drezda Ecks was nowhere to be seen, but a human servant stood by the door, flustered and weighed down by heavy black fur. Wasn’t that what the diplomat had come in wearing? If it were, though, why would she leave it behind? Shit. Gods damn it, I said all that. Out loud. This is my fault. Tom tried to puzzle it out, struggling against the press of weariness in his slow, foggy head.

A flock of ladies in fashionable, asymmetrical dresses stood clucking by the door. As he wove his way nearer, trying to keep his head low, one of them met his eye. She flushed, covering her smiling lips behind her pale, manicured hand. One of the other ladies, shooting him a glance, leaned up and whispered something in her ear; she broke into a fresh cascade of giggles.

If she’d gone out the door without getting her coat, why had no one gone after her? It was freezing, and the image of her bare shoulders came unbidden into his mind. It wasn’t his business, but— He looked at the servant, a tall, well-built human man. To Tom’s bleary, befuddled eye, it looked like he was struggling with the weight of some great, wooly cat.

Without warning, there came a shrill voice at his shoulder: “By the Circle! Anatole! It’s been ages!”

Tom turned, staring down at a red-haired woman of thirty-five or so. Everything about her seemed very red. Her soft, pale cheeks were subtly rouged, but deep in her cups in the sweltering Madden house, there was nothing subtle about the redness in her face. Her lips were painted a deep crimson, and her dress, surprisingly low-cut, was of a silky red material; the generous lighting gave it a sheen in all the right places, accentuating her curves. She offered him a coy smile. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

“Oh, how you stare at one, Tolly, it’s—”

Tolly. He blinked, then held up a hand roughly, nearly fumbling his glass in his other. “Not now,” he blurted out, turning and nearly shoving another man out of his way in his hurry to wade through the crowd. He shoved his empty glass into the hands of a passing servant, barely conscious of what he was doing. Something seemed to have his soul in its grip – something was pulling him toward the door, toward the servant with the fur coat. Something was knotting in his stomach.

He could hear her angry huff behind him – “always chasing after somebody” – quickly snatched away by the sounds of the party.

“What in the hell are you doing, just standing there?”

The tall human looked down at him, eyebrows raised; without thinking, he grabbed a fistful of black fur, yanking Drezda’s coat out of his hands and throwing it over his own shoulder. He wasn’t prepared for how heavy it would be. If it was unwieldy for the human, then it dwarfed him. He was unprepared, too, for how diminutive he felt standing there, fumbling with Drezda’s cloak, drunk off his erse, staring up at a human through the eyes of a—

My coat,” he snapped, gesturing sharply with one hand.

“S-Sir, ah – of course, sir, my apologies—” Blushing, the human dipped his head, darting off, leaving Tom standing dumbfounded near the door. As he came back with Anatole’s long, dark coat in his hands, Tom noticed how young he was.

Tom took the coat from him, briefly handing him Drezda’s while he struggled to get it around his shoulders. Clock the fucking Circle. The human’s dark eyes on him made him uncomfortable; without thinking too hard about it, he snatched Drezda’s coat back and muttered, “Uh, sorry,” before hitting the door at a fever-fast walk.

The cold hit him like a bucket of ice-cold water; he squinted against the damp, against the frost. It stung his cheeks, crept through his thick wool coat and his lined leather gloves and his boots, insinuated itself into his bones and joints in a way that it never had when he was alive. He took shuddering breaths, staring around the empty street, dark as a dungeon compared to Madden’s over-lit, over-heated house. His heart pounded, and his breath steamed white in the dark.

Somewhere, a dog barked. Under the street-lamps, the street was slick, white-mottled-brown in spots with dirty snow. A few paces away from the door, he slipped on a patch of ice and fell on his erse, hissing profanities under his breath. He scrambled to his feet.

The cold stung, but it didn’t sting him sober; behind him, fading, the sounds of the party seemed malevolent and strange. He remembered stories Marleigh had told him and the other urchins when he was just a lad. Strange, otherworldly creatures that threw balls to entice and trap humans, always heard distantly, just around a street-corner – lights, laughing voices, soft music, the smell of good food for an empty belly…

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, alien landscape of an Uptown street on a snowy night in Ophus, he saw a shape moving silently in and out of the lamplight. A flash of glistening silver in dull white and black and grey and watery orange, pale shoulders, the glint of a highlight on thick black hair. She was still walking in heels.

He didn’t want to shout for her, not here, not in hearing range of the house. Gods knew the toffin vultures had enough to talk about. Instead, he stumbled after her, careful not to slip on another patch of ice. When he was within hearing range, he called, “Ms. Ecks! Your cloak!” and sped up his pace, trying to make sense of the rigid set of her shoulders. Her stiff, tortured gait.

Then, as he came around, he saw her face. Again, he tried to suppress his surprise; again, he failed. His eyes widened as they alighted on her eyes, edged with tears that glistened in the dim, distant glow of the street-lamps. His mouth opened and then shut. Then his brows knit.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “It’s below freezing out here! You’ll— People die on the streets like this. I’ve seen it enough in my life.” Shit. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. But he was too drunk to care what was coming out of his mouth; his heart was pounding. “Unless that’s what you want, but I’m not in the habit of just letting people—”

He broke off, struggling with words, then thrust the fur cloak toward her, biting his lip. He was pricklingly conscious of the fact that he was alone with her – or rather, she was alone with Anatole on a dark street. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t know what to do. What the fuck was she doing, anyway? Hadn’t she gotten here by carriage? He had an ugly feeling he knew the answer, but he was too cold and drunk to focus.
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Mon Mar 25, 2019 9:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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