[M] Playing with Fire (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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Fri Jun 28, 2019 6:23 pm

Intas 18, 2719 | Mid-afternoon
Drez's Home
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The Hoxian considered her guest quietly. He said he hadn't meant to laugh at her, hadn't meant to cause offence and it was so... odd to see Anatole Vauquelin almost falling over himself to excuse his behaviour. Oh yes, he clearly had his own convictions and beliefs but he was far more personable and genuinely concerned than she remembered.

He's not the man you knew, Drezda, how many times...

The diplomat didn't know how many times she'd have to remind herself that the galdor in her parlour was a veritable stranger in spite of his all too familiar face. How long before she could see him as him without seeing him, the Anatole of before? Maybe if she closed her eyes... But no, the voice was still his even if it was changed, the way he spoke not quite as it had been. His choice of words was different and there was nothing like a snigger behind it.

The Incumbent had always been a smarmy bastard, saying all the right things but never meaning them, never really paying attention to them when there was a woman to be ogled. This one gave a damn and wanted to explain and justify.

If she kept thinking of pre-backlash Anatole and post-backlash Anatole as two different people than the young woman might very well tie her own mental processes in knots but how could she not? The differences were so vast, it was like... saying herself and Diaxio (that clocking bitch!) were the same person because they looked similar, their Hoxian similarities enough to make them identical. This was a new Anatole, a very different one and she almost wished that she had another name for him. Maybe the old one could be Incumbent Vauquelin and the new one Anatole. Yes, that might be easier. She'd never been familiar with him before so this first name basis thing was quite new.

She'd given Anatole plenty to think about and given herself plenty to dwell upon as well, mainly because she hadn't thought about some of these matters for some time. The Cycle and repercussions of choices, all manner of things that her mother had muttered to herself when she'd finally confronted her properly about Tsia. Originally, Ksjita had said that Tsia's "death" was her fault but so much more detail had come out of her when Drezda had finally gotten her to admit to her younger sibling's passivity. But even then so much of what she'd said hadn't made sense. So much said about not doing her duty, not being a vessel as she should have been and how it was her own selfishness that had done it. Hungry ghosts needed to be fed.

Her mother came out with some very odd things sometimes but then she was originally Hexxos and a poetess as well so it made sense that she was a mixture of morbid and weirdly dramatic. Still she'd rubbed off on her daughter in peculiar ways, not moulding her thinking in a large way but still having some influence as in this case. The ripple effect, the matter of Cyclic causality was something she'd gotten from Ksjta and it was oddly satisfying to watch Anatole place a finger in his cup, presumably creating a visual of it for himself. The woman gave a curt nod at his mention of the Six Kingdoms.

Yes, it was very strange to think that the action of one could ripple quite so far but in theory it was possible. Everything was connected. An odd series of events had brought them together in this moment after all so why was anything on a grander scale strange?

"We worship the Circle but we also believe in connectivity. We aren't... we aren't Vitanists but I suppose we look at things a bit different than most galdori," she explained, the mention of the other, largely human religion hushed and almost taboo from her mouth. She knew that there were similarities but... they weren't the same.

Lips pursed, brows furrowed, she listened to him speak so passionately about his desire for culpability. It made her uncomfortable, raven-haired woman fidgeting. She'd done some nasty things in her time, she wasn't innocent but she wouldn't want to do something that made others suffer, especially those who in no way deserved it.

The lower races didn't count. They were... well, they weren't innocent. Some were like children, some like beasts. In Anaxas, they were theoretically kept underfoot for their own good but in Hox their way was better; just keep them at arm's length. They didn't make them suffer, they weren't bad to them. It was more... galdori suffering that she was concerned about.

"Would you really want- Would you really want your descendants to suffer? I suppose you might never know them but..." she trailed off, watching him closely, onyx eyes fixated on him. They widened considerably at the mention of the phasmonia and the oddly... specific ghost.

Her brow rose, managing a dry almost deadpan tone in spite of her clear surprise as she asked, "Know one personally, do you?" She managed a smile, lips thin and twitching - nervous.

Quite specific.

It wasn't that she didn't believe in ghosts. She didn't necessarily believe them either though. It was an odd grey area that was a mixture of superstition and uncanny possibility. She squirmed a little more. "I'm... Well, I've not spent as much time with the dead as my mother. I'm not... well, I don't visit phasmonia often. I also don't have-"

She cut off abruptly, teeth catching her lip.

She'd almost said that she didn't have any family that had died. Officially, that wasn't true. Officially, Tsia was dead but in reality... well, Drezda knew that she was in Frecksat. She hadn't seen her while she was there but she knew she was there. She knew that her little sister wasn't dead.

Her gaze dropped, the barest wobble in her lip before she took a deep breath in and exhaled it. She laughed, a slightly bitter sound but self-deprecating as well.

"You don't know what you're talking about? Look at the path of conversation I've dragged us down and that's not exactly relevant to- Well, it doesn't seem pertinent, it's not. Circle strike me, I've invited you over for the most uncomfortable and morbid conversation ever, haven't I?"

The laugh came again, neatly trimmed nails picking at imaginary lint on the skirt of her dress as she looked down. "I don't know, Anatole. I don't know which it's meant to follow. It's the kind of thing that my mother could probably answer. I think she's written quite a lot of poetry about souls and death and that but I've only read a little, I don't really- It isn't really my thing and I can't read most of it anyway because it's in Deftung. She's good at it, I'll grant you that, I have a book of her poetry somewhere if you want an insight into Hoxian religion but matters of the soul? Those... aren't something I have answers for. I couldn't even begin..."

She trailed off with a sigh, shaking her head.

"Honestly, I don't want to talk about it either," Drezda explained, gaze flicking up, fixing on the Incumbent's face. "Your headache though, can I... is there anything I can do? Is it... is it because of..."

Don't presume it's a hangover, Drezda. You've seen him drink a little over eagerly but that was one time. He's not you. He isn't...

"I get headaches sometimes and... well, it's a bit strange but I find that... alcohol... sometimes helps. Sometimes. If you wanted to try that," she offered huskily, her own mouth suddenly seeming unbelievably parched at the mere mention of it, tongue seeking to wet newly dry lips, trying to find any moisture anywhere. Her face warmed but she didn't think the blush would show through, hoped it wouldn't.

"I know it's early yet but... it'd be medicinal."
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Tom Cooke
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Wed Jul 03, 2019 9:37 pm

Drezda’s Home Uptown Vienda
in the Afternoon of the 18th of Intas, 2719
Would you really want your descendants to suffer? Tom drained off the last of his tea, the porcelain clattering as the cup jarred slightly against the saucer. The question surprised him, and he couldn’t hide the subtle tremor in his hands. The dregs were stronger; the aftertaste clung, almost antiseptic. He hadn’t thought it was a question of wanting anybody to suffer. “I don’t,” he replied, studying her face. “Of course not. But they’d suffer anyway; it’d just be a question of who caused it. And if I knew I was to blame, and I could do something—”

He broke off, falling silent. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d’ve thought that twitch of her lip had been anxious. Through all this moony talk of ghosts and the Cycle, she’d been remarkably composed; still, there was more in that subtle expression, more in the way she bit her lip, than there was in her words. For a few seconds, there was something like concern – and then, subtler, maybe even hurt – written in the lines of Anatole’s face. Then he looked toward the crackling embers in the hearth, chewing the inside of his gum and turning over what she’d said in his head.

As she backpedaled gracefully, apologetically, he turned to her again. “Ah, hell. It’s my fault we went off on this moony train of thought,” he said, raising a thin hand, “all this – ghosts and – I don’t know why I brought it up. I don’t spend much time in ghost towns, myself, and I can’t say I know any ghosts, unless you count – well.” His smile was embarrassed. “Sometimes I feel a bit like a ghost. Maybe that’s the cause for all this morbid rubbish, or maybe I’m just going mad in my age. But I’d…”

The mention of her mother’s poetry brought a spark to his eyes; Tom scooted forward a little in his seat, restless, setting his empty teacup on the side table.

“…I’d love that.” His voice was eager. “Matters of the soul, or Hoxian religion, or – I don’t speak Deftung, and I can’t say I know much about poetry, but – I’d be grateful to read it. What there is of it I can read.” He inclined his head, coloring a little. She’d be oblivious to the particular double-meaning of his words, he knew. When even Estuan script was a struggle, Deftung’d be a lost cause. Still, he was getting better, and he couldn’t see the harm. He could read whatever was in translation.

When Drezda spoke again, his brow furrowed. Because of—? She was edging around something like you’d doetoe a porven field. He frowned slightly, wondering if she was referring to his infamous monic blunder. There was genuine concern in her voice, though, and he’d opened his mouth to reply, waving a hand as if to wave away her worries—

The faux-nonchalant look drained off his face; his eyes widened, and he stared at her, blinking. Then he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. You get headaches sometimes. Tom thought about it. He thought about her crying, drunk, outside Madden’s house. A strange, uncomfortable feeling tugged at him. It was the feeling of having a kindred spirit.

His first instinct was to play it off, to laugh and ask her if she was asking him if he wanted to get a drink. It’d’ve been easy, smooth as silk, and it was what he’d’ve done if he were himself. But he wasn’t himself; he was Anatole Vauquelin, and he had a history. More to the point, this was Drezda Ecks, and jokes never fell quite the way he wanted them to with her. What had always worked, though, was honesty.

“It’s twenty-three o’clock somewhere,” he said with a faint, sad smile. He knit his fingers in front of him, hesitating. “I’d – love to get a drink. If you’ve got any more of that Rodriguez, or – if you’d rather it be in public” – the words had weight; he didn’t have to explain why, given his host’s track record – “we could pay a visit to the Tiger.”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Wed Sep 04, 2019 6:37 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Drezda Ecks
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Wed Jul 10, 2019 12:05 pm

Intas 18, 2719 | Mid-afternoon
Drez's Home
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It really was a morbid line of conversation that they'd both found themselves in but perhaps that said a lot about the state of mind of both the galdori. Not for the first time, she found that feeling of connection, a tendril of kinship that ran so unexpectedly between them and she didn't know what to do with it. How readily they had trotted down this path together, grimly content in their mutual morbidity. It certainly hadn't been something done with delight - a wholly inappropriate description - but there had definitely been some eagerness there. What odd creatures they were. Drezda could understand it in herself. She had a dark turn of mind as it was, liable to dwell on the macabre in relation to herself and of course, her mother originally came from an order that dealt with death. She knew where she came from but... what about Anatole? What on Vita made him so keen to follow the torturous twists that her thoughts took?

And then he came out with it: he felt like a ghost.

The Hoxian's head tilted, onyx eyes regarding him impassively; the widening that gave away her true emotion was subtle. It was a very odd thing to say and yet... she could understand what he meant. To float through life, strangely detached from what was going on around you, largely unseen or unnoticed by others or failing to be seen in the ways that counted. She knew what it was like to have people fail to see you. Additionally, the young woman had received reproachful looks because she still existed. Why was she still around when Tsia wasn't? That was the way Ksjta had always seemed to look at her. Ghosts weren't meant to exist, they simply continued to linger where they honestly weren't wanted. She'd left Hox because of it and encountered something similar here; it was peculiar how her existence could cause so much resentment and distaste and sometimes even exasperation.

Did Anatole feel as if he wasn't supposed to be here?

She felt unsettled by the analogy and for her connection to it, her kinship with him. This really was the oddest of times. The idea that she could get along with Anatole Vauquelin was curious in itself but that she could consider him an ally or, even more extraordinary, that she could consider him a potential friend was beyond ludicrous.

You don't have friends, you idiot! You aren't someone who's meant to have friends. He isn't going to be your friend! she chided herself.

But if this wasn't the possible beginnings of friendship then what was it?

Why would anyone want to be friends with you?

A muscle twitched below her left eye as she struggled to keep herself composed while ignoring her own internal derision. The Hoxian needed to continue talking, needed to avoid dwelling in her own thoughts but it was so difficult; a few seconds in her mind was enough to shatter her inside and there was so many moments of quiet in an interaction.

There was that flow of understanding between them again though, looks exchanged that were full of knowing but neither held confidence; it was clear that each was awkward and perhaps ashamed about the talk of alcohol. The mention of the Paper Tiger made the young woman wince, an indicator which she failed to mask entirely.

"No, I don't think a public venue is necessary. It isn't worth it and uh... more people probably wouldn't help your headache," the diplomat interjected quickly, licking her lips as she tried to slow herself down to prevent unmistakable panic from arising on her features.

"But yes, I can call Cora, I'm sure that there's more... more... Rodriguez..." she stuttered out, words slowing to a veritable slur as her mind caught up with her mouth as she was in the act of rising. The single adjective that she'd chosen to parrot suddenly looming large in her head.

More.

Dark eyes flitted from side to side, unseeing as she ran through the implications internally. For moments, she stood still, paused in the act of going to summon her servant but she resumed movement again, slow as she headed for the cord that would ring the bell.

He knew that she had whisky and where there was some, there was likely to be more and if he'd seen the cup that Cora had given her... but he also knew the type. Admittedly, Rodriguez was a popular sort, considered a superior brand and it made sense that a woman of her class would have alcohol of such a calibre but he couldn't have seen the contents of her cup from where he sat. The tea things had been before her, she'd had the better view and yet-

Cora had been bloody quick to give her the beverage and then there had been that quick exchange between the housekeeper and the politician. What had Cora said? Something about adding something to cut the taste!

Sneaky bitch! She'd given him whisky in his tea too and she'd obviously anticipated that it'd go over as well with him as it had with Drezda. Had she known that Anatole needed it? How had she known and her mistress hadn't? Damn her and her knowing eyes!

She tugged the bell cord vehemently, certain to have set a bell ringing with greater violence than was strictly necessary although it was unheard here in the parlour. She moved to resume her seat, dropping into it with less grace than before.

"I can read and understand a bit more Deftung than I can speak but overall, I know little of it myself. I wouldn't attempt to read poetry in it; it can be tricky enough to grasp meanings in Estuan. But if you're truly interested..." she explained, eager to get away from the subject of alcohol so she wouldn't have to think about how her ageing human servant was more observant than she.

She arched her brows, only partially affecting intrigue in his apparently genuine interest. A poetic soul. Circle preserve her, she hoped that she wasn't going to have another adoring fan of her mother's with which to contend. That was one of the nice things about being in Anaxas: most people didn't have a notion who she was. It had been difficult to be a person in her own right in her home kingdom, Drezda had frequently been recognised because of who she was related to rather than due to her own merits.

"I only have her poetry in translation. She does the translations herself so they're as accurate as you can get them in Estuan and... well, she also sends me poetry in letters but those are- I mean, those aren't meant-" she broke off, biting her lip. Obviously, she wasn't going to hand over her private correspondence with her mother for him to peruse, even if all of those letters combined had more poetry in them than the book she knew was lying around somewhere. And most of that poetry had never been published; her mother wrote many poems that never fell under the eager eyes of her admirers. It was more than that though, she had simply written them, a casual thing that was as easy for her to do as signing her name at the end of her missives. It was Drezda's poetry and hers alone, not likely to be reproduced ever again. Perhaps that was why none of her mother's letters ever ended up in the fire at the height of its blaze like the other letters that went into it - entirely accidentally of course!

"If it's of interest to you, the book I give you then I... could have the other poems I have copied. I have... well, I have a few hundred unique ones I believe? She's quite prolific, I've known her to write several a day. She claims that the words come to her in dreams sometimes."

Cora entered the room, cleaner in appearance than before.

"You called, mistress?" she announced, moving to the table to gather the tea things without being bid to do so.

"Yes, Cora. We've decided that some more whisky would be appropriate. Rodriguez. We have some, don't we, Cora?" the diplomat inquired, a subtle edge to her voice, her gaze fixed on the face of the human. The housekeeper being in range, she allowed her field to flex, letting the monic aura ripple outwards to lap powerfully against the older woman.

The human gave the impression that she hadn't noticed, as if she didn't know that she'd been caught. She tilted her head to the side, gaze rolling up thoughtfully.

"Rodriguez, hm... Why... yes, I think we do have some, mistress," the woman proclaimed brightly, her expression one of honest remembrance. Drezda couldn't prevent the beginning of a scowl. "I'll fetch some presently."

The housekeeper balanced the tray, moving off to collect Anatole's cup.

"Oh and Cora?"

Even with her back to her mistress, she saw the subtle stiffening of the woman's frame before she turned, simple expectation on her features.

"See if you can find that book of poetry that my mother sent me... oh, it must be two years ago now. Maybe Rosmilda can dig it up while you attend to drinks."

"Oh certainly, mistress! I'd imagine that she'd know just where it is."

Before she had a chance to read more into that comment and ask for an explanation, the servant was gone.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Jul 13, 2019 5:09 pm

Drezda’s Home Uptown Vienda
in the Afternoon of the 18th of Intas, 2719
There was hurt there, and plenty of it. Drezda had a good handle on her expressions, but Tom’d never been a bad hand at reading people; with her, it was the little things, the way a nerve jumped below her eye, the way she bit her lip. He didn’t know much about Uptown respectability, but he knew well enough the shame that went with drinking too much and then regretting it, and then doing it all over again, and then regretting it again. The way it left imprints on places. Although it surprised him that she trusted him enough to drink with him in private, he had a feeling it had more to do with that shame than it did anything else.

So he inclined his head wordlessly, grateful for himself, too. The press of all those golly fields against his would’ve been hell, and he didn’t fancy a return to that place after his last visit in early Intas. An imprint of a different sort, but an imprint nonetheless.

As she went to ring the bell, she shifted the conversation back to her mother’s poetry, but it didn’t seem a more comfortable topic. At the mention of Ksjta’s private letters, he even raised a hand, opening his mouth to say something – something about how she didn’t have to share what wasn’t meant for a stranger’s eyes, something about how those were hers and not anybody else’s. He stayed silent as she went on, though, lowering his hand, caught off-guard. “In dreams?” he echoed softly.

Before he could say aught else, Cora – this time, he remembered her name – came back in. Tom sat quietly during the exchange, fingers knit over his knee, glance flicking demurely between mistress and servant. The edge in Drezda’s voice wasn’t lost on him; nor was the practiced nonchalance of all Cora’s responses, ignorant as you like, just short of whistling innocently. Damn him, but he’d run his mouth again, he thought. He hoped he hadn’t gotten Cora into any trouble, but based on her devil-may-care attitude, he wasn’t too concerned. As she collected his cup, he offered her a friendly smile.

When the door clicked shut behind her, he turned back to Drezda. “I’ve never heard of poetry coming to somebody in dreams. Most of mine wouldn’t be much good for poetry, but I suppose it’s all in the interpretation.” He studied Drezda as she sat across from him, a contemplative look on his face. He wasn’t sure what else to say; he wasn’t sure what he could say.

After awhile, Cora came back in, tray this time more lightly laden with a couple of tumblers and a handle of Rodriguez. “Here we are,” said Tom, brightening and sitting up a little in his seat. As she deposited her burden on the table between them, he caught another smile, and smiled in return. She poured a little to start them off, and Tom took his glass gratefully, swirling it and taking a slow sip.

Even after she left, he sat still and silent at the edge of his seat, shutting his eyes briefly and enjoying the faint woody smell – the dry, smoky aftertaste, the way it still tingled in his throat. Hadn’t been able to afford this shit very often in life, so it put him in mind of special times, the nights he’d gotten to spend at home with hama. He couldn’t’ve told you the difference between a red from last year and something that’d been bottled during the War of the Book, but he knew his whisky as well as a tallyboy from the Rose could. There were things you drank to get drunk, and then there was this. The line always blurred eventually, but he never forgot to savor that first drink.

Now he leaned back in his seat a little, nursing his glass in his lap. Even here, in what should’ve, by all rights, been enemy territory, the whisky was comforting. He took another drink for good measure, praying it’d start to ward off his headache soon. He couldn’t help that it was putting him in a better mood, but everything in his head was telling him to keep his wits about him; after all, this could’ve been part of her plan. Still, he reasoned that it wasn’t as if he’d get a bit squiffy and spill everything – he knew himself well enough to know that – and it was a pina manna late to get up and leave now. Might as well enjoy it.

The thought of making the most of the situation emboldened him. He swirled his glass idly. “What do you think of them? Personally, if it’s not too much to ask. I didn’t know you liked poetry.” He smiled wryly. “Then again, I didn’t know I liked poetry until recently. Full of surprises, aren’t we?”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Wed Sep 04, 2019 6:37 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Drezda Ecks
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Tue Jul 23, 2019 5:22 pm

Intas 18, 2719 | Mid-afternoon
Drez's Home
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With Cora gone, Drezda was left alone with her guest once more. Her nerves had a slight jittery quality to them as she anticipated the arrival of alcohol, viewing it as an impending relief as if the whisky was going to rescue her. In many ways, it would, the mere thought of it already making spending more time with Anatole a more tolerable prospect. Not that his company had been entirely disagreeable, even with the rather morbid subject matter. Admittedly, they'd gone somewhat off their objective, the idea of research and taking note of the Incumbent's condition hardly at the forefront of either of their thoughts. It came back to the diplomat's mind only because her eyes alighted on the page with her sparse note-taking. Well, she hadn't wanted to interrogate him and she certainly hadn't; they'd both mellowed out a bit in each other's presence and were liable to relax further with the aid of the contents of the bottle that Cora entered with.

Weren't they talking more than they'd ever talked? Wasn't she learning things even if she wasn't noting down every facet of his current mindset and categorising symptoms? Perhaps she would learn more that was of use to her if she wasn't too obvious about it. If they continued to converse on equal terms as they had been doing then who knew how much she could hope to gather from him? Of course, a conversation meant that she had to give rather than simply taking. The Hoxian wasn't sure how much she could give, wasn't sure how much she could offer given that there was no artifice here, no plays to be made on him or allusions to things that he might want. There was no space for advantageous angling here and while she was at somewhat of a loss, still directionless, the woman wasn't entirely uncomfortable with the situation.

Not entirely.

Not that she had much chance to dwell on unpleasantness or her irritation with her human servant. While her thoughts had turned to other matters, both old and new, her companion was obviously still thinking about the conversation, still concerned with that even as her mind turned elsewhere. As such, it took her a moment to grasp what was going on.

"Hm? Oh... yes! I- Well, she's tried to explain it before and I don't think it's the content that inspires per se although that does seem to be part of it," the diplomat conceded, fingers lacing together and coming to rest on a crossed knee. "You know how people sometimes talk to you in dreams or you come across words, not written down but just... those things that are just known to you? I think that's what she deals with. She seems to hear a lot of things in her dreams. I don't know but maybe it's because I don't pray so intently before going to bed."

Or pray that often, her mind quipped, as colour rose to her cheeks. Yes, she was a little guilty for being so negligent in her devotion but also felt embarrassed because she'd bloody well admitted it, even as she brought to light something that her mother did.

Had she been worried that she might not be able to offer up enough of interest to the man to keep his interest in the conversation?

It was while she was flushing like a schoolgirl with a crush that her housekeeper re-entered with the awaited alcohol, offering some to the other galdor in a tumbler before doing the same for her mistress. Thin brows rose as she took in the Hoxian's blush but she said nothing, simply did her duty and disappeared again' Drezda didn't have the presence of mind to ask if she'd mentioned the poetry book to Rosmilda before she left.

Lips pursed, onyx gaze fixed in displeasure on the wooden portal for a few moments before her expression smoothed and she turned her attention to Anatole - and the all important whisky of course. She found herself watching him, gauging how she should drink. She could drink it straight but knocking it back would hardly look good here. Besides, she didn't feel as if she needed to guzzle it; Drezda honestly wasn't feeling too bad today or most days now honestly. While she held the tumbler at a level below her chin, allowing the fumes to billow up, she watched her fellow politician revelling in his drink, seeming to silently appreciate its smell and taste.

For her, the whisky had happy associations. It was impossible not to connect Khymarah with the Rodriguez, not simply because it was the first drink they'd shared together when they met but also because the Bastian's family actually provided the supplies that produced it. As the liquor fumes tickled and burned the inside of her nostrils, she inhaled the scent deeply and appreciatively, thinking of other scents and other occasions. Fingers found the pin in her hair, tips tracing the delicate metal flowers and thought of the redhead. She finally took a sip, sighing softly, body relaxing.

There was nothing quite like the first sip, the initial licking of flame across her taste buds before scorching pleasantly down her throat. Delicious fire, well worth that burn that didn't actually hurt, not if you were used to it and knew what to expect. To think that that was pain... what sort of sheltered child would you have to be? Drezda could only wonder.

She rested her glass against her leg, a digit moving languidly around its rim, leaning back. The atmosphere seemed calmer now, the tension imagined or real dispersed by the simple introduction of spirits. The young woman was almost languid, her companion similarly laidback. This no longer felt like anything like business, not even of the casual sort.

A brow rose at his question, finger tapping on the rim, lips stretched in a crooked smile. "Can you really say that you know what I like, Anatole?" she questioned dryly, taking another delicate sip from her glass. Wry amusement glinted in her dark eyes over the top of it, the diplomat taking her time, lowering the tumbler slowly. She leaned over, setting it on the nearby table with a soft clink. The Hoxian leaned back in her chair, wiggling every so slightly as she made herself comfortable, crossing her legs.

"I know that Anaxi think us emotionless but we consider poetry an acceptable form of expression. Poetry, artwork, some styles of dance. I think... it's considered a good way to channel emotions that we aren't meant to show. I've... dabbled in writing it but... I'm nothing compared to my mother. What she produces..." the raven-haired woman shook her head, gaze fixing on a point on the floor midway between them, head tilting thoughtfully.

"I do like it but it's... not the same here," she admitted softly. Her words were certainly vague, the woman not really talking about Anaxas at all when her mind was on her mother and Ksjta's practical anonymity here; beyond their isolated kingdom, her mother was unknown.

Her attention returned to Anatole's face. "You didn't know until recently that you liked poetry? Was it just that you had a chance to consider it in a new light or did you not give it a proper chance before?"

She might not have asked directly but it was there implicitly, hovering less than subtly beneath the surface: had his recent change coincided with this new appreciation?
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Tom Cooke
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Fri Jul 26, 2019 7:17 pm

Drezda’s Home Uptown Vienda
in the Afternoon of the 18th of Intas, 2719
Seemed to Tom they were getting comfortable, fair comfortable, and he didn’t know how to feel about it. The feeling was mutual, or so Tom thought: he knew Drezda Ecks for a good liar, but he didn’t think she was this good. He hadn’t expected that tidbit about prayer and her mother to come out so readily, and he’d’ve bet birds that was a blush warming up her cheeks underneath her pale foundation. A blush?

He tried not to give any sign he’d noticed it. Instead, he let Cora come and go with his usual offhand friendliness, and by the time the door’d shut behind her and he’d taken his first blissful sip of whisky, Drezda seemed to’ve composed herself.

She seemed pleased with the Rodriguez as he was. He did watch her, now, curious. She settled back in her seat, and something like nostalgia must’ve swept across her face – it was subtle, but it was there; he could see it in the strange peace that came to her eyes. She raised her hand, and her fingers fluttered briefly over that hairpin again, glimmering blue in the dark swath of her hair. When she’d lowered her hand, he looked at it for a moment. He couldn’t help the curiosity in his glance, the slight twitch of his eyebrow, but he averted his gaze in good time.

After another drink, he smiled at her question. “I can’t say,” he replied slowly, in a tone of genuine surprise. He was being honest, too: he didn’t know how much he could say. He sat with the conundrum, tapping the rim of his glass with one nervous finger.

How honest could he be?

The most convincing of lies were those that ran closely alongside the truth. He knew that, and he knew he had enough advantages where lying was concerned. He had the advantage of physical proof, and he had the advantage of the truth being unbelievable. Despite himself, his eyes went to the notes she’d left on the table, lingered there for just a half-second. They were sparse, with only a few lines of ink. He couldn’t be sure from here, but he thought he saw the exasperated squiggles of multiple question marks, one after the other.

“I think I’d’ve told you I didn’t have time to appreciate poetry, back then,” Tom said carefully, after a pause. He looked back at Drezda, taking another sip, swirling the whisky in his glass. “I can’t remember how I felt about it. I think that’s because I didn’t want to give it a chance, but why, I couldn’t say.” He could say why: he could’ve given her a dozen whys. It was more complicated than that, a melting-pot of foolishness on his part and poverty on someone else’s, work, cynicism, shame.

Tom sighed, then finished off his glass. Already? It’d been awhile, though, and he hadn’t poured much. Shifting to the edge of his seat, he reached for the bottle again. “If you don’t mind,” he murmured, raising his brows. He couldn’t say he cared if she minded; wasn’t like she couldn’t afford more. As more whisky burbled into the tumbler, he went on, “It’s different, now, like a lot of things, if that’s what you’re really asking. I don’t mind. I don’t know about the gentleman I was” – he shot a wry glance up at her, as if to say, to use your words“but it feels new to me, and I happen to like it. One of the few things I really do like. When I can wrap my head around it.”

He sat back in his seat again, crossing his legs. There was a touch more in his glass than there’d been the first time. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. He took another drink, shutting his eyes for a moment, then regarded her with the same curiosity he’d regarded her hairclip – and a challenge, maybe.

“You’re right. I don’t know what you like.” He tilted his head, shifting in his seat. “You might be better than you think you are. Hell, you talk about death and the Cycle like a poet.” Another drink. Then he held the glass in his lap, tapping his fingertip against it. “What is it, then? Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you were a painter in your spare time. Maybe.”

He frowned suddenly.

“You don’t need to answer, if that’s too personal of a question. I apologize.”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Wed Sep 04, 2019 6:37 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Drezda Ecks
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Sat Aug 10, 2019 2:05 pm

Intas 18, 2719 | Mid-afternoon
Drez's Home
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She hadn't really been asking if his newfound poetic appreciation was a consequence of his change. Okay, she had but it hadn't been entirely for investigative purposes. The young woman was certainly trying to discover what she could about the transformation that had come over him but she also had a curious mind. Her curiosity was part of why she'd suggested helping him all those months ago when she'd encountered him in the Dives; the Hoxian diplomat found herself wondering a great deal about him and she couldn't resist the opportunity to puzzle him out. Furthermore, he was so changed, damn near unrecognisable from the man that she'd known - had thought she'd known - that she wanted to get to know him. It was strange but she actually had a chance to talk to someone who already knew some of her vulnerabilities. The walls were already partially down so she didn't have to take that step; she had the chance to be close to someone in the first time in years - an unlikely candidate at that.

When she asked about his interest, it wasn't merely to gain insight into what he was going through. It was a chance to know him and an opportunity to discuss poetry with someone who didn't know her mother or have very particular views on the art, which she'd encountered all too often at home. It was nice to talk easily on the subject with someone who was new to it and who had once borne feelings towards it that she understood.

"Anatole... what you tell me has some bearing on the research I'll conduct, it's true but... your thoughts on poetry interest me. Genuinely. I wasn't always appreciative of it myself and a change is not always a bad thing either. Ironically, I don't think I appreciated poetry myself until I came to Anaxas and I left a kingdom that held it in the highest esteem," she admitted softly, taking an appreciative drink from her glass. Fingers twisted thin strands of hair into a solid lock, curling it around to make a loose ringlet that fell out the moment she released it. She sighed softly, a slight pout pushing out her lips. Hoxian hair did have its disadvantages.

"Sometimes, a question is just a question without an ulterior motive. I'll admit that my question had one but... it should not have. I should simply have asked because I wanted to know. A politician's folly, maybe or the drawback of a mind that always wants to know," Drezda admitted with a soft smile, finishing off her drink as he had done. She tilted the tumbled towards her, peering at the dribble of liquid that remained, that small trace that would fail to drain if she tried it.

"I think that there are many things that can occur that can alter one's perspective. I think that it is only right that your perspective should change over time and seeing something as new is a valuable thing indeed. One can only hope not to become so set in one's ways as to be unable to regard matters in a fresh light."

Her lips twitched up, something sheepish and apologetic in her visage as she fixed her eyes on him. With a quiet sigh, she rose to refill her glass as well.

Her movements slowed, dark eyes flicking down briefly at his comment about her potential poetic skill. A blush crept into her face anew and the young woman licked her lips, focusing on the task at hand as she considered his words. The gurgle of whisky entering her tumbler punctuated the silence that stretched between them.

"You do not compose as I do, mho but that does not make your words lesser than my own."

Her mother had said that once. Well, it was a sentiment that she had tried to convey on more than one occasion. She'd always tried to encourage her daughter's efforts and there had been many such efforts, especially when she was younger. How much poetry had she written in her childish words and saved up for her mother's approval? Ksjta Tzacks had always considered it carefully, never brushing it aside as unimportant or praising it in that indulgent way that parents could. She would always find something of note in Drezda's limited compositions and end on a comment about her youth. Once she'd entered Frecksat and some distance had been established between them, Drezda had begun to doubt. What was she compared to this woman that people talked about, this woman who had birthed her and yet who hadn't passed on her considerable talents.

The final blow had come when she was about thirteen or fourteen, before Tsia had taken her test and failed it. She had put together a collection of poems, each composed with the greatest care and presented the bundle to her mother - while Rhozdr had been present. Her brother had been amused, laughing about what he saw as desperation to attain something that she lacked, something that she could never have on a par with their great poetess mother. It had broken Drezda's heart and she had never asked her mother for her opinion after that, no matter how much she asked. It had also been many years before she had stopped destroying the poems that came to her.

"Perhaps I do talk about such matters like a poet or I might have simply internalised some of what my mother has said," she explained softly, a wry smile playing upon her lips. She paused, biting the inside of her cheek, wondering if she should give him genuine insight into herself. Sharing could be difficult.

"I don't paint, no although that is also something Hox appreciates," the diplomat added, biting her lip so that she wouldn't smile hugely at the mention of painting because of course, it made her think of Khymarah. It was amusing to have him touch on her so nearly but obviously not know anything about the Bastian artist; it was like a private little joke for her.

She turned and headed back to her seat, sitting down comfortably before bringing the glass to her lips, and sipping at the amber liquid thoughtfully. "Are you hoping to do a study on me, Anatole?" Amusement dripped from each syllable, a quirk of a brow highlighting the tease, daring him to comment. She'd actually be quite interested to see what he had to say about that; his humour wasn't always disagreeable to her.

"I do write in my spare time. Poetry, I mean," she admitted softly. The young woman didn't look at him again. The Incumbent would only gain silence from her for many moments at least, the woman unwilling to say more for the time being and leaving that to him. At least until Rosmilda entered.

The redhead entered quietly, almost furtively, a slim volume clasped in her hand. She padded over to her mistress.

"I am sorry to interrupt you, Mistress, but Cora said that you wanted the book of your mother's poetry," the passive exlained, holding out the book to the Hoxian. It was a volume about half an inch thick with a soft, supple leather cover dyed the dark green of coniferous trees. Muted gold letters were placed discreetly on the front, shining dully on the surface as they spelled out a title: Web of Souls.

The woman shook her head and gestured in her guest's direction. The freckled girl looked startled, turning her gaze to the older man before bowing her head slightly and approaching him to hold it out to him instead.

"Please accept this. It's one of my mother's most celebrated collections. I believe that Rosmilda would add her own praise," she added dryly; the girl blushed, hovering beside Anatole even if he accepted the collection.

"Um... forgive me, Mistress. I don't... want to interrupt but Cora wanted to know... will the Incumbent be staying for the evening meal?" the girl glanced uncertainly between Drezda and Tom, evidently not sure who she should be addressing.

The dark-haired woman's eyebrows rose, head tilting as she considered. "Well... I believe that that depends on the Incumbent. Would you be interested, Anatole?"
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Aug 11, 2019 9:59 pm

Drezda’s Home Uptown Vienda
in the Afternoon of the 18th of Intas, 2719
Nobody’d ever said they wanted to hear Tom’s thoughts on poetry. Poetry, of all things. By now, as if she’d given him permission, he was bending to pour himself a third glass; he’d frozen with the bottle in his hand when she’d said Anatole, glancing up at her. As she went on, some of that brittle humor drained off his face. He didn’t want to be mung, didn’t want to be sentimental, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Didn’t know why. He felt his face heat up, and he wondered if he was blushing like she’d done. He glanced back down.

His mouth came open, then shut – like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. Finally, the whisky burbled out of the bottle. He focused on keeping a steady hand, turning the neck so it wouldn’t spill as he set it back down. Finally, he sat back with his tumbler a little fuller than it’d been the last two times. Then, he regarded her from across the table, raising his brows in a way that looked almost sad.

It was the damnedest thing, but he wanted to tell her everything. Not everything, exactly: wasn’t important she knew what he was, or who he was. He was lonely enough in this nightmare, oes, and he’d’ve died again for the chance that somebody’d believe him, but that was something he swallowed and kept inside every day, and he was fair good at it.

But he felt like he owed Drezda honesty, even golly as she was, and that was something he couldn’t give her. This wasn’t just an attempt at manipulation. He could try to rationalize it that way, try to fit it into the story his nerves were always telling him, but this time, he knew it wasn’t true. He had seen her drunk and embarrassed outside Madden’s, had slipped and fallen in the snow and laughed with her and cried with her. She was something like a friend, if you could call it that. If you could call somebody who knew you by a different name, who thought you were some moony old politician, who didn’t even know what your face looked like a friend.

What he wanted, right now, was for her to be asking Tom how he felt about poetry, not Anatole. It was a hard feeling to pin down. He felt half-seen, and when you couldn’t take the mask off, not even if you wanted to, that was harder than being completely hidden.

It was all mung sentimentality; it was all Tom getting soft. Or it was the drink, maybe. He glanced down again, running a finger round the rim of the glass, then glanced back up. He offered her a smile, but it wasn’t much less sad.

“Nothing wrong with a mind that wants to know.” He swirled it a little, idly, then took a sip. “It’s – it’s a funny thing. I won’t say it’s not. It’s one thing to change your mind, but we...” Scratching his head, he looked away, over toward the coals in the hearth. He tried to make it wry, but he couldn’t quite scratch the sincerity from his voice. “I don’t understand anything, but maybe that’s the point,” he went on. “I don’t know if you’re right. Maybe it’s a gift, seeing everything in a new light. Only the gods know, eh?”

He took another long drink.

He smiled wryly at her question, then a little less wryly at her admission she wrote poetry of her own. He opened his mouth to reply, but then he heard the door open.

It was that pina chip from earlier, the passive. He raised his brows at her when she came in, holding that book in front of her careful as you’d hold a nest of baby birds. She offered it to Drezda first, and then, at Drezda’s behest, moved over to Tom’s chair. When she held it out, he didn’t quite know what to do; tipsy and out of his element, he stared at the little volume with its deep, dark green cover.

Drezda’s words kicked him into motion, then. He set his glass aside on the nearby table and took the book, inclining his head and smiling gratefully up at the passive and then at Drezda. At the invitation, he raised his brows even higher.

“If you’ll have me,” he replied tentatively, a little reservedly, “I’d be – very grateful.”

He heard the door shut behind the passive, but he was already looking at the book. He ran a hand over the cover, first, fingertips tracing the embossed title – Web of Souls – so subtle, so dark, that he hadn’t seen it when it was in Rosmilda’s hands. Then, with a hesitant glance up at Drezda, he opened it, turning the first few pages.

His eyes flicked over Deftung he didn’t understand, and he skimmed through a little more, picking out a place toward the middle of the book. “I get dragged off to the opera every other week,” he said idly, after a moment. “Apparently, it’s something I used to enjoy. It doesn’t make me feel a thing. But I’ve found some poetry that I like, in dusty old books in his – in my study that I must’ve never read before. Some of them – the pages weren’t even cut. Some of it’s, uh, Mugrobi love poetry… I’d never read the al-Jenwa, but some of the poems are –”

Tom froze. His mouth’d shaped the word beautiful, but nothing was coming out.

“...reused, reformed, it flies again. It is not lost,
And what is not lost can never die…”


Swallowing thickly, he closed the book, then turned a wan smile on Drezda. “Thank you. For this.” He ran his hand over the cover again, then patted it as if it were a cat. After a moment, a little humor crept back into his expression, and he raised an eyebrow. “What sort of poetry do you write, then? It’s for the study. Of course.” Leaning over, he took up his glass again, taking another drink.
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Thu Sep 05, 2019 11:34 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Drezda Ecks
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Tue Sep 03, 2019 1:08 pm

Intas 18, 2719 | Mid-afternoon
Drez's Home
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“Nothing wrong with a mind that wants to know.”

Oh how wrong he was. There were so many potential problems with a curious mind, especially if it was an insatiable one. Curiosity could be a deadly thing, the amount of trouble it could get one into immeasurable; the possibilities for unfortunate predicaments were numerous. Curiosity as a child was to be expected and it was entirely excusable as they were simply trying to understand the world around them and they had much to learn. However, as you aged, you were meant to grow out of it or at least discover how to switch it off; there were a lot of things that you weren't meant to be inquisitive about if you knew what was good for you. Drezda knew better, of course she did, but she couldn't switch it off. The desire to know, that thirst for answers had certainly led her to do things that she wasn't proud of doing and placed her in situations that she would rather have avoided. Her prying nature had led to Anatole sitting in her parlour, which certainly wasn't the worse thing imaginable - not that she could have conceived of such a thing only a few months ago - but her inquisitiveness had also led her to pull unwilling words from her mother's lips about Tsia.

What sort of monster used magic to manipulate and interrogate her own mother?

In truth, there was plenty wrong with a mind that wanted to know, although her guest didn't seem to be aware of the many pitfalls of curiosity. Maybe he'd never had to deal with it in its extremes.

The Hoxian took a hearty swig of her drink, frowning when she realised that she'd practically drained the tumbler that she had all too recently filled. How many drinks in was she now? The whiskey hardly tickled the back of throat now, the burning sensation quelled now that she'd sloshed enough of the alcohol down her gullet. Oh dear... she certainly couldn't go filling the glass back up now, could she? The diplomat didn't want to look like a total lush - not that Anatole seemed to have any qualms with doing it himself.

Are you really in a position to judge? You should know better than to jump on a frozen lake when the ice is cracking, she berated herself, well aware that she was only just holding herself back from entirely emulating his behaviour. The young woman would have to pay close attention to what she was doing or else she'd simply drain the thing without thinking and be left awkwardly turning the vessel in her hands while waiting for a suitable interval to pass.

Rosmilda's entrance provided a welcome distraction but while she watched the passive hover uncertainly beside her guest, she was all too inclined to sip casually on her drink; it'd be too easy to finish it. The Incumbent gave her much to consider, watching for the little things that might slip out when he was distracted. That gratefulness towards the scrap for instance. She wouldn't be surprised if that was part of the reason for the girl's blush. Her mistress noticed her, yes, but other people didn't tend to unless it became necessary. It was more because she was a servant than a passive although her lack of field and galdori looks certainly made some people uneasy, some from guilt and others out of a sense of potential danger. But even if they looked at a servant, they didn't tend to smile at them and look grateful like that. It happened sometimes between galdori and their own help, a personal connection developing between them due to familiarity and proximity but even then, they usually kept a cool detachment for the servants of others.

Friendly with Cora, friendly with Rosmilda. It was almost as if the man considered them to be on the same level, an equal plane although that obviously wasn't the case. Drezda still didn't know what to make of that.

Still, she waited on Anatole's answer as much as her passive did, wondering as she did so what she'd like the response to be. Did she want him stay for dinner? It wasn't like she entertained like this all too often and she wasn't entirely accustomed to having to be social. It did get a bit lonely but that was nothing new, was it? She knew how to behave in formal meal situations but she didn't think that would suit here and she didn't know the man well either so if he stayed, how was she meant to react? His answer was a rather timid yes, agreeing but giving her an opening to refuse - not a particularly reasonable one though! She couldn't bloody well tell him that she didn't want him, could she?

"I'd be happy to have you," she responded, giving the passive a subtle nod before Rosmilda bowed her head and departed to inform Cora. One dinner guest who was a potentially reformed pervert, lovely.

He began talking about opera, the diplomat nodding along, only vaguely paying attention as she finally allowed herself a slow sip, savouring the Rodriguez as she watched him. Anatole might be talking about opera but his interest obviously wasn't in it, his gaze skimming the creamy pages with a preoccupation that she'd seen Rosmilda possess. The passive's veritable obsession with the collection was well known to her mistress and although Anatole wouldn't know it, it was the scrap who had carefully cut the pages, subtly discolouring the paper at the top corners and the sides with her eager fingers as she'd perused them time and time again. Some sections seemed ready to open of their own accord, the pages propped apart so often so the servant could read her favourite stanzas that the leaves turned to them as if remembering her place. It was something that the man was likely to discover rather quickly.

He was talking about poetry, found unopened in his library when he mentioned Mugrobi love poetry and the young woman's brows rose, a flush coming to her cheeks as she downed the last of her drink. Well! Yes, it wasn't all obscene but Mugrobi love poetry... it could certainly be- Well, it was a bit passionate at times! Scandalous even, not really Drezda's thing and it felt almost obscene to talk about it. Thankfully, he didn't notice her response or her near leap to her feet as she moved to refill her tumbler because damnit, she needed a drink, screw appearances, who was going to care here? Anatole?

He really didn't notice her though, she could see that something had struck him, some phrase of her mother's unexpectedly driven into his soul. She knew that look. The Hoxian imagined he'd appear less shocked if he'd been hit with lightning. Some people's connection to poetry could be very... personal so she shouldn't ask, shouldn't even comment on it; it was enough that it seemed to have reached him on the appropriate level.

Her pour was a hasty one, some of the amber liquid splashing on porcelain skin and dribbling down it; unconsciously, she sucked it from her fingers.

"You're welcome to it. It's a waste for me to have it given that I never read it. It doesn't go unappreciated but it's not me who does the appreciation. It's something that's meant to be shared though," she explained, back to him for a moment before she returned to her seat. "My poetry? It... it isn't for sharing with others, not like what my mother writes. Not like what other Hoxians write. It's quite private, personal. If by sort, you mean the style... I don't know that it conforms to any particular school. I suppose I've been influenced by different poets like my mother. Definitely Hoxian with that special... melancholy to it. Morbidity really. As for the subject matter..."

The diplomat considered, nibbling her lower lip while a finger tapped gently at the side of her tumbler. "Rather commonplace, everyday sorts of things, I suppose. I seem to take inspiration from the mundane. I'm terribly exciting," Drezda remarked dryly, mouth curving into a sardonic smile. Another sip of alcohol, a further deadening of her tastebuds' sensitivity. "Did you have further questions for the study? If I may slip in one of my own queries first... do you have any creative talents? And no, I don't mean lying."

A manicured finger tapped the side of her nose, a teasing sparkle in her gaze. She wasn't trying to cause offence though but whether he realised it...

"That's a politician's staple, lying so that doesn't really count."
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Last edited by Drezda Ecks on Thu Sep 19, 2019 11:24 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Sep 09, 2019 10:41 pm

Drezda’s Home Uptown Vienda
in the Afternoon of the 18th of Intas, 2719
Wasn’t Drezda who did the appreciating. With his hand still spread out on the cover – like it was a precious thing, like it might dissolve if he took that hand away for a second; protective-like, almost – he thought about that. He thought about the way it’d fallen open to specific poems, like it was just waiting to show him. Like it knew what he wanted to look at, or what somebody had. The way the leaves were just a pina discolored around the edges, the way you could almost see dents here and there, finger-shaped pock-marks.

Tom didn’t know when he’d started noticing shit like that. Maybe he always had, and maybe it was just books, now, maybe it was just that he had time to think about what he was seeing. Maybe it was just that he valued it, now. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was true that there was something special about books, when you were in the position to appreciate them.

That thought put another in his head, and he was careful not to let his surprise show on his face. He remembered something about that nanabo, soft-spoken passive – the way she’d held the book. The comment Drezda’d made, about Rosmilda adding her own praise.

He smiled. “I’ll be sure to get it back to you, when I’m done,” he replied. His tone was off-hand enough. “So if others’ve appreciated it, they can continue to.”

With that, Tom set the book on the table to one side. If she’d ever thought him a clumsy man – since his accident, at any rate – she wouldn’t’ve been wrong; he knew, ’course, that it’d taken him months to figure out how to turn a page without ripping it halfway out. It’d taken him weeks, even, to move, to walk, to speak anything other than slurred mumbles nobody could understand. Even now, he knocked over the odd inkwell, and his journals were covered in errant streaks.

Despite all that, or maybe because of it, he handled her mother’s poetry careful. Gentle, like he’d handle an injured bird. He set it down tender-like, almost, far enough from his whisky that he couldn’t possibly knock it over.

Funny, that, too. He’d got so swept up in all the godsdamn poetry that he’d almost forgot he’d been drinking. Since when did Tom ever forget his drink?

It was back in his hand, now, and he was settling back in his seat, getting comfortable again (leastways, comfortable as he ever was). He took another long sip, thinking about her words. Thinking about the way she’d said them, too. He noticed her lick a little whisky off her fingers. It was a strangely undignified motion, like something he’d’ve done in life. He’d never seen a golly in polite company do that, much less Drezda Ecks. It almost set him at ease.

Poetry you didn’t share, he thought: poetry just for you. He’d never heard of such a thing. It gave him an idea, and he tucked it away, precious.

“Morbid and mundane. I can drink to that,” he replied softly, raising his brows and taking another sip. “I won’t pretend I know much about – styles of poetry,” and he laughed, a little frayed, “but I – I think I know what you mean. It’s the little things. Maybe especially the ugly ones.” The room felt a hell of a lot fuzzier, with that cheery glow from the hearth, and he was having trouble holding onto thoughts.

At her first question, he smiled; he looked like he might’ve been about to say something, about to parry with another jest of his own. At her second, that smile froze. It grew thin – brittle, almost.

I could barely read, he thought. What kind of poetry would a mung like me write? What the fuck would I’ve drawn? He went back through his life, hoping to seize on something; he found nothing. There’d been beauty, maybe, in the way a thrown fist dislocated a jaw. That was the kind of art Tom Cooke made. Teeth and blood on the pavement.

Tom opened his mouth, then shut it. “I don’t think I do, Drezda. If I used to, I wouldn’t remember. I’m not sure I’m even much of a hand at lying, anymore. Or if I am, I don’t enjoy it.”

He couldn’t help it. The smile had drained off his face; his look was wistful, sour, and as he met her eye, there was more feeling in his than he’d intended to show. It was almost like an apology, if Tom had been one for apologizing.

It was the drink, now, making him stupid. He drank a little more, and then the smile he gave her was something like genuine.

“What do you think?” he asked suddenly, sitting up in his seat. “What makes a poet a poet? This isn’t for the study; this is for me.”
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