[M] Don't Throw Stones in Glass Houses

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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 Sep 10, 2019 5:58 pm

Loshis 30, 2719 | Morning
Drez's Home
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The impostor was coming to see her. It was a laughable state of affairs, the woman giggling in her parlour at the notion of the raen coming here, controlling the body of a dead man like an obscene puppet! Imagine him sitting in one of the armchairs and trying to pretend to be that slimy political fuck. But she knew better! Oh he wouldn't be able to fool her, didn't know that she knew his secret, that she knew what he was.

A liar! Such a horrible despicable liar. Sending her off to research backlash when he knew that he was some displaced soul that had displaced another one. Acting as if he didn't know why the mona around him had scattered, acting as if he didn't know what had happened to him and why there were gaps in his memory. Playing her for a fool when she had tried to be his friend and for what?

And even after that Hexxos acolyte explained what he was and extracted a promise from her lips about not causing him harm, she had tried to be his friend. It had been a small thing, just stepping into the midst of a bunch of conservative erseholes when they wanted Anatole's opinion on a matter that the real Anatole would have been vocal about. Of course she'd been eavesdropping, wasn't that an important part of politics? And while she didn't want to protect him exactly, she couldn't stand by while he made himself very suspicious and conspicuous indeed. So she'd inserted herself into the group, forced her presence upon them as she thought up a quick excuse to speak to one of them, remembering key facts so that she could subtly emasculate him while asking him a question. Of course the rest had scattered, none keen to fall foul of the stone faced bitch from Hox, unnatural, everyone knew that.

"Anatole" had tried to thank her later and she'd brushed him off, her demeanour towards him so cold, it was surprising that he'd walked away without frostbite. So of course he knew that something was amiss. If he'd had any wisdom in that thick skull of his then he'd have left her well enough alone but he wanted to see her so he'd get his wish. If he wanted to know what had changed and why her attitude had altered then he was going to find out. Oh he was going to have it explained in great detail.

There was an atmosphere of nervous apprehension in the air, hanging heavy even though none of the servants that surrounded her had monic fields to weigh down with their emotions. They breathed it, it oozed out of their very pores as they waited for the man to arrive and all hell to break loose. Luca had gone to hide somewhere, Jerome was in conference with Cora in one corner of the parlour, occasionally one or other trying to convince her to go upstairs for a quick bath before her guest arrived, and Rosmilda was sitting in an armchair making a show of embroidering with her trembling fingers as more tears threatened to course down her already blotchy face.

They were all frightened. They'd seen their mistress drink before. They'd seen how her moods could swing wildly when she was drunk but mainly they'd seen her miserable. Oh they'd seen her manic, riding a high that no one else could understand, seen her gain strength from a bottle that had helped to fortify her but they hadn't seen this before. The diplomat giggled to herself and muttered, a slur to words that were always strange and nonsensical, even if they were Common although she also used the mountain tongue of Deftung. She would smile and ask for something and her servants now knew better than to refuse.

Rosmilda had tried to refuse her more alcohol when she arose a house earlier with the night's inebriation still clinging to her system; the passive had become far more cooperative after the mona smacked her against the wall a few times. Oh, the particles had grown irate and departed altogether but what was Physical Conversation to the Hoxian? There were other ways to get people to do what you wanted that could leave just as many marks on their body - or none at all.

All of them were just waiting for the hammer to fall, certain that it must because that temper was just beneath the mask of manic joviality and none of the servants wanted to fall foul of it, not even the two who were hired rather than owned. Drezda didn't appear to be in her right mind, unlikely to make a distinction between who had real rights and who didn't.

When the bell chimed, everything became still as the household held its breath. The ticking of the clock on the mantel and the spit and crackle of the fire in the grate were the only sounds as the bell echoed through the house.

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap. Ding.

The sound of Drezda's manicured nail tapping her tumbler of whiskey, the last strike hitting the rim in such a way as to send a new chimed note striking through the room.

"Is someone getting the door?" she asked sweetly, head turning slowly, a smile stretching her lips in an unfriendly fashion. Cora swallowed, exchanging a quick look with her lover who squeezed her hand swiftly before she left his side and went out into the hall.

No one seemed to breathe as the door was opened, the human's greetings soft, too soft for her to overhear although she could hear a quick urgency in her voice. She couldn't hear the warning.

"Good morning, sir. I know that my mistress said that she could entertain you today but she... isn't well. You'd be better coming back another time. I'm sorry for the inconvenience but it'd be better if-"

The tumbler shattered on one side of the mantel, some of its remaining contents sloshing sideways into the flames which flickered wildly, briefly changing colour in the alcohol's presence as the tongues shot higher for a few moments. Rosmilda gave a terrified yelp, flinching back and stabbing herself with the needle that she'd been holding so unsteadily; fresh tears started to dribble down her cheeks. Jerome watched sombrely from the corner, a mahogany statue, solid and immobile.

"Oh Cora? Is that the Incumbent? Do show him in," Drezda trilled, listening to the shuffling steps in the hall, the mumbled apologies from the housekeeper.

"Go away, everyone. Shoo! My dear friend is here!" she cooed as they came into the room, rising unsteadily to her feet, swaying as she bent to pluck the near empty bottle of whiskey from the table. She brought it to her lips, gripping the neck as she upended it and swigged straight from the bottle. She hiccuped.

"I said go! she snarled at Cora, the joviality briefly displaced by a furious contortion of features. The human was the last to depart, leaving her alone in the room with the raen. "How good to see you, friend. Did you want a drink? Sure a new bottle can be fetched. You like a tipple, don't you, Anatole?" she questioned, the smile back now as she began to giggle a little manically.

"Oh but... you aren't him, are you? Well... the Lady's Grace to you, not-Anatole!" she flopped back into her chair and smacked her chin with the top of the bottle.
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Tom Cooke
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Wed Sep 11, 2019 12:14 am

Drezda's House Uptown Vienda
Morning on the 30th of Loshis, 2719
It was a break from the rain, at least. The morning sky was a funny, soft blue, fragile as the inside of an eggshell, and he felt like that was the color of his heart today. All numb with the clinging, balmy chill, all aching, with too damn much on his mind to make sense of anything. He felt dizzy; he felt like he was dream-walking. He’d had a little to drink, just to prepare himself. It burned in his throat, strong and pleasant. It held him still, held him fast, kept him from telling the driver to take him to the Dives instead.

All the way there, he’d held Web of Souls in his lap, running his hands over the cover and the spine. Tracing the gold-embossed letters with his fingertips.

As the cab rattled to a stop, as he clambered out to totter on his stiff knees, he told himself again that he didn’t have a damn clue what he was walking into. Dark windows peered down at him, gazes cold as the diplomat had been last they’d spoken; as he approached the stony-faced door, rhakor unyielding, he felt a lump of fear rise in his throat. Before he took hold of the knocker, he forced himself to swallow it. He had to know.

It was the natt that met him in the hall, pristine as ever with its sweeping staircase. He felt it when he stepped inside, thick in the air like a ward. Tension. It was quiet as the grave, save Cora’s hasty, hushed voice. Tom looked up at her, brow knit with concern, but the sound of Drezda’s voice tore his gaze in the direction of the parlor.

Soon as Tom heard the smash of broken glass, he was moving past Cora.

“Drezda –”

The name was on his lips, ragged in his throat, before he even saw her. A fire roared in the grate; he saw it, first. The flickering light, trickling over shards of glass like so many tiny diamonds scattered across the carpet. And the golly was swaying on her feet, snatching up a handle of Rodriguez from the table. There was something strange about her smile, like she’d come untethered from herself.

The way she said the word friend was sharp as a knife, and Tom knew with a jolt what had happened even before she said it. He felt a thrill of fear.

The nanabo scrap – the one that liked Ksjta’s poetry, Tom remembered – looked like she’d been embroidering, but she was getting up, too. Her face was blotchy, and her eyes were brimming; she wasn’t even trying to hide it. The other one, the Mugrobi, had been standing in the corner, still as a statue. Tom met his eye as he started for the door. They all scattered when Drezda Ecks snapped, face gone twisted with rage in an instant, teeth bared like a spinewolf.

Even Cora, at the last. Watching her go, Tom’s mouth set in a deep frown, brow furrowing. The door clicked behind her, and he turned on Drezda. He was suddenly keenly aware of being alone with her, and his mouth was painful dry.

She’d stumbled back sloppily in her seat, fingers curled round the neck of the near-empty bottle. Another giggle, a flash of white teeth, sent a flurry of chills creeping down his spine. Then she spoke again. A nerve jumped at his cheekbone; he felt the spasm twitch through his left eye, flutter the lid. He shut it, massaged it with two fingers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he started roughly, stepping into the room. His voice was unsteady, edged with panic. “What –”

The second he felt it, Tom broke off, flinching. He breathed a curse. The mona’d gone, leaving the room silent as a tomb; even his tsuter porven was thinning out, abandoning him, and that meant – hell! His face got slack, pale. He froze where he stood, going through his options in his head. She’d drunk Circle knew how much. She’d backlashed.

He was so tired. He couldn’t think what to do. Send for help? The incumbent’s golly heart – his heart, oes, his weak, busted-up heart – was hummingbird-fast, tearing the breath right out of him. With a flare of anger, he thought about shouting; he thought about trying to take the bottle from her. That was just as mung, and twice as useless. His heart sank. There was something horribly familiar about all this.

Web of Souls was still in one hand, hanging at his hip. He’d almost forgot. He took it in both his hands, pressing it close to his chest.

Tom winced, but he ignored the jab. It was fair, after all. He did like a tipple. He always had.

So he ignored all the questions but one. “Of course I’m not Anatole,” he said softly. “Anatole’s not your friend.” His voice wavered, nearly breaking on the word. He met her eyes and took another step closer. “Whatever you’ve got to say to me, say it.”
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Drezda Ecks
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Fri Sep 20, 2019 12:29 pm

Loshis 30, 2719 | Morning
Drez's Home
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Absentmindedly, the woman rubbed her chin where she’d smacked it, moving her jaw as she made a weak attempt to ease the ache that had vibrated through the bones. It was a minor thing really like a fly to swat, the fact of her own pain hardly important to her when the raen was here, the impostor. Even as she rubbed her chin, her gaze was fixed on him, an intensity in her black eyes that tried to bore through the skin he wore, to eyeball the real person behind the fleshy facade.

There was no facade for Drezda Ecks, the Hoxian’s every emotion raw and apparent, flitting so openly across her face, bleeding - gushing - into her demeanour, voice, behaviour. There was no control here, just complete and utter abandon. Maybe she was mad but if she was it was a madness born of grief and betrayal. Twice in one month, she’d lost the things that were important to her, found that the people she had come to care for, maybe even to lean on were gone, as insubstantial as smoke.

However, where Khymarah was in Bastia, out of sight but certainly not out of mind, Anatole - not Anatole - was here before her, his presence a far greater betrayal, a worse insult.

She knew that she was looking at a dead man, a face that she had gazed on time and time again over the last few months. She had cried before him, laughed with him, exchanged secrets and jokes and information. She’d had flashes of fear and discomfort for what he represented and it had all been lies!

Lies! Lies! Lies!

"No, you aren’t him. Anatole’s a dead man," she spat out before huffing, breath creating a hollow tone from the whiskey bottle as she brought it to her mouth again. It tipped up, liquid sloshing from the neck, most of it reaching its target but some of it running over her bottom lip to drip off the end of chin and onto her pale throat. A splutter as she pulled it away, hand dragged through the rivulets of alcohol, spreading it around more than wiping it up. Drezda jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction, left hand weaving from side to side, not able to keep it steady, the right fingers still clinging desperately to the whiskey bottle.

”You though… You! Did you enjoy sending me off to follow up on information that wouldn’t go anywhere? Laugh behind that ersehole’s face over a job well done, treating me like a fool?” she slurred out, shaking her head, bitterness flying from her as violently as the whiskey-tinged spittle.

”More of a fool for thinking you- anyone was my friend. I don’t have friends. I have people who have to put up with me -” she waved her right hand in a gesture that encompassed the house - her servants - while the remainder of the Rodriguez was dashed violently against the sides of its container, ” - and people who use me, like you, like Khymarah, like every clocking person I’ve ever let in. Stupid! I know everyone hates me so why-”

She broke off, shaking her head and successfully dropping the bottle. It slid from her fingers, slick from what she’d already managed to spill and thudded to the floor, bouncing rather than breaking as the thick glass hit wood, a high keen pitching through the transparent fragility. Given the puddle that was quickly forming beneath it, it had cracked.

“Fuck’s sake… fucking- Ugh, why?

The last was a wail, accompanying the onset of tears, further dampening the situation as they streamed quietly down her cheeks. It was like they’d escaped accidentally, the diplomat really seeming to notice them.

”What did you think I’d do? I know I’m a bitch but what did you think I’d do? Kill you again?” she laughed, mirthless and choked as the tears started to thicken her airways as they slid down the back of her throat.

Slumping back in her seat, she let her eyes shut, drained and trembling. She felt shit. She felt like she’d been on a poorly steered airship in the midst of a storm. The only thing that had brought her for a ride though was her emotions although they’d done a great job. The alcohol might have clouded her senses but it hadn’t managed to soften the edges. She’d worked up something of a tolerance but even then, it usually managed to make the edges go all fuzzy. Instead, everything seemed to have sharpened, the painful points of her grief jabbing her in the soul, finding somewhere soft and vulnerable to poke no matter how much cushioning she tried to layer around herself.

Drezda was too sober for this. Despite what she’d put away, she was still too sober for this, an edge of lucidity persisting in spite of her best efforts, poking above water now like the fin of a shark, a threat just under the surface but unmissable.

Sobs wracked her, her body shaking violently with them, the young woman leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees as she cradled her head in her hands, raven hair a curtain that didn’t fully obscure her misery. The upset, the lack of food in Circle knew how long, the alcohol that had been sloshed on top of alcohol brought up the acidic contents of her stomach, her gullet depositing the bitter mess in her lap, almost choking as she kept trying to sob. Her slim form continued to heave, pitiful sounds issuing from her so that it wasn’t clear if she was still weeping or merely vomiting.

Incoherency issued from her lips, a poor attempt at words spewing out in between whimpers and moans and a higher keening sound. The Hoxian had always had a terror of being sick and to do it on her own, to feel alone while it happened was one of the greatest horrors for her.

Drezda Ecks had been reduced to a miserable lump of a person and yet in spite of the state she was in, her emotions were unpredictable. A quake of anger might still go through her and endanger anyone nearby in the tsunami that it would produce.

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Sep 21, 2019 2:33 am

Drezda's House Uptown Vienda
Morning on the 30th of Loshis, 2719
Strange to see that rhakor gone, dissolved off her face like some flimsy paper mask in a downpour. Stranger, still, the absence all around them, though it was one Tom knew better than she ever had; still, with all the fury that flooded her pale face puce, he’d’ve expected – as he’d come to expect – some stirring of the mona in harmony with her, shifted red hot enough to brand. That was all gone, gone, and, as if they were both human, he had only the twist of her face, smeared with whisky. The bottle of Rodriguez hanging from her fingers.

The way she stared at him, oes. Tom’s mouth set into a thin, grim line. He’d wanted her to see him, hadn’t he? He’d wanted to be seen. He couldn’t think; this was all happening so godsdamn fast. He held Web of Souls to his chest, still, like poetry could be armor. More fool him, ’cause he reckoned it was the opposite.

His eyelids fluttered shut in that first spew of words, like she’d struck him. He rubbed his temple again. “Drezda –”

But she was still talking. Tom was quiet, meeting her eye, trying to follow. His face grew slacker and grimmer. She fell silent, shaking her head, shaking strands of black hair in her face. Tom saw the bottle slip from her fingers, but there wasn’t time; the thick glass struck the floor with a thud and a funny, melodic click, the kind glass made when it cracked. A little dark leached out from underneath it, spreading through the carpet.

Tom finally tore his eyes away from it, back up toward Drezda’s face. She spoke again, but it was thick and garbled, more like crying, Tom reckoned, than speaking proper-like. He saw her breath catch, saw her eyes glisten. That why rang through his bones.

“Not laughing,” he said at last, low and rough. His own throat was fair tight, and he swallowed a sore lump. Felt some kind of burning in his eyes. “Not laughing at you.” He couldn’t see her face, now, behind a sheaf of hair; her shoulders were shaking. “I didn’t know,” he said, taking a little step forward. “I didn’t know what I was, and if I’d told you, I didn’t know you’d believe me. I’m – I haven’t even been dead a year. Nobody’s laughing at you.”

Tom didn’t know, either, what to do. He didn’t know how much she’d drunk, but he reckoned it was plenty enough; now he was here, at least, she wouldn’t have any more – she’d have to scrag him in cold blood before he’d let any one of those servants bring out another bottle. Like hell.

Just now, he couldn’t think about much else. Drezda, rocking and sobbing, the bottle, the hearth crackling away cheerily like nothing was the matter. He didn’t know that name she’d said, Khymarah, but he got the gist. He didn’t know how much of it was the drink; he’d said some fair tsuter shit when he was deep in his cups.

He laid the book down on the end table and started taking off his coat, matter-of-fact enough, depositing it haphazardly over the back of the chair opposite her; he took off his jacket, too, though his fingers were trembling more than usual, and he fumbled with the buttons. He kept an eye on Drezda while he did it, slumped as she was, hunched over with sobs.

Then she gagged and retched, just about soiling her dress. Tom bit his lip, freezing. That smell of sick and whisky, suddenly overpowering. His fingertips dug into the chair’s upholstery. Godsawful-familiar, all this.

His lip twitched; he shook his head, forced himself to breathe, forced himself to remember where he was.

Drezda was rocking in her chair, now, keening, whimpering out garbled half-words, half-phrases. Covered in that mess. Tom moved to her side, swallowing another painful lump in his throat. He blinked; his eyes were brimming and hot. He felt something wet on his cheek, wiped it away roughly with the back of one hand.

“C’mon,” he grunted as he reached her chair. “Let’s get you cleaned up, all right? Get you comfortable, get you a cuppa.” Gruff as he was, there was a waver in his voice. He glanced up and across, some ways from the chair, at the little bell on the wall – but he didn’t think she’d like him to call in servants, even if there was a chance in hell that they would come. Didn’t think she wanted too much company, seeing her like this. Awkward and stiff, he offered to help her up.

He felt danger prickling at the back of his neck, oes, but he couldn’t think of it. She was alive, he was dead; she couldn’t do much worse to him than he’d done to himself, once. In that way, at least, she was right, and he knew that, now.
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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Sep 23, 2019 6:24 pm

Loshis 30, 2719 | Morning
Drez’s House
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The things he said, they filtered through to her dimly, passing through a fog of tears and self-pity and misery. His response, his defence... his justification. What could justify not only the lies but the way he'd used her? Her offer to help him, to do research... he needn't have accepted. If he'd refused, it wouldn't have been strange and then she wouldn't have found out more about him, wouldn't have snooped. Oh he'd been a person the first time but he'd been quickly forgotten about, an insignificant being that had happened across her path. Even after Toibin Madden's party, thoughts of him could have been discarded if he'd refused her offer. Circle, if he'd really been that frightened of what she might do then he could have just kept his bloody distance at that party! But he hadn't and they'd grown closer as a result.

So it couldn't have been fear. He'd thought it funny. It was always funny to play tricks on the Hoxian, wasn't it? To have little private jokes about her that made sparkling eyes turn her way, one or more gazes meeting as the mirth was exchanged. Always at her expense. Always at her fucking expense. Why even bother lying? Maybe he had inherited the Incumbent's lying tongue figuratively as well as literally!

His excuses flowed through her ears and mostly floated back out again, rejected but leaving quick, fleeting thoughts in their wake. That he'd been intentionally cruel and had lied to poke fun at her expense was something she felt in her soul, the whiskey affirming those emotions.

Alone, always alone.

He certainly wasn't forgotten when her stomach started to heave and rebel but he was pushed out of the foreground, her eyes not able to focus on him to keep him in mind. Instead, she was wrapped up in her own misery and fear and pain. Her insides were twisting agony, fire licking its way up her gullet. Her mouth and nose burned, her abdomen tensed and spasmed and as she had every time she threw up, the young diplomat felt certain that she'd die. How could she breathe? How could she survive her innards tearing themselves apart? It was an eternal moment for her, something that would never end. She would just be trapped like this, locked in this torturous state with no one to support her, no one to tell her that she'd be all right.

Purging her stomach helped to bring more sobriety to the fore, her anxiety spiking so that she had to contend with the risk of panicked breathing. As if she wasn't already restricted by her current state, her tears clogging everything. Her throat felt like it had narrowed, an invisible hand clasped around her neck tightening its hold.

Air...

How?

Clocking Circle, how?

She drew in a desperate rattling breath, heart sticking in her throat where it fluttered wildly. The panic of it all made her want to cry harder, a helpless moan escaping, and she made a feeble attempt to call for Rosmilda although it was more of a slurred intelligible susurrus than anything like words.

Slowly, the immediacy of it receded and she became aware of the chill against her skin, sweat that now turned icy, even with the heat from the hearth. There was an uncomfortable burn at the back of her throat, hotter and more persistent than any path blazed by whiskey. Her throat was raw and scratchy, mouth fouled with the most horrible taste and every time she breathed-

The panic waned, she now felt new emotions. Oh she felt clocking awful but feeling like you’d been dragged through a sewer wasn’t an emotion. No, she found herself disgusted, contemning herself for how she’d fouled herself and how utterly wretched she was. If any of her political colleagues were to see her now…

Except that there was one - sort of - in the room with her right now. So of course there was shame. Shame for what she had allowed someone to witness. Shame for how disappointed her parents would be to see her brought so low. Shame that she had allowed herself to sink to this sickening level. Over Khymarah, a potential love who had actually seemed worthy, who had held her heart and hadn’t been gentle when she thrust it back as she left. Over a dead man, a man whose face was familiar but whose soul was strange. And yet she knew that soul better than the one that had previously worn that face.

She thought she had known it better anyway but she hadn’t known what it truly was, the “new” Anatole.

Watery, red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes rose as he drew near, the galdor shrinking back a bit as her onyx gaze dropped to her lap. Hands turned so that her palms faced her torso, ready to sweep the contents of her lap away somewhere but she paused, uncertain. She didn’t want to touch any of it and in any case, what would such a stupid action achieve? The Hoxian would make a greater mess of her surroundings, a vile creature that apparently lived to make everything around her as shit as what resided inside.

Circle save her, she was too sober to cope with this and yet too drunk still. She existed and hence, everything was already too much. Being alive… it hurt so much.

The diplomat tried to lean out of the raen’s reach, her ruined dress moving and spreading greater ruination to the floor. She groaned.

"No, Ana- whoever you are. Get away! D-d-don’t touch me, d-don’t come near me. I’m disgusting!"

The distinction was clear. It wasn’t his condition that repulsed her, his state of unliving, but the idea that he might be tainted by her.

”You can’t- You shouldn’t- Just g-g-get Rosmilda o-o-or Cora. They’ll sort me. It wouldn’t be the f-f-first time. Never been this p-path-pathetic before though,” she explained, sniffling loudly, visage twisting in ugly distaste.

”I’m so sorry. S-s-so sorry,” Drezda wailed, no idea who she was apologising to here. Still trying to avoid his grasp, she attempted to get up of her own accord. The room moved too much and the bones in her legs seem to have softened, too malleable now, fragile and unstable, wobbling like mad so that she felt ready to pitch forward at any moment. Fingers tried to find purchase on her chair, seeking some solid support but finding that the digits seemed to have changed in the same way as her legs. The raven-haired woman attempted to move towards the bell by the wall but instead succeeded in half-collapsing, half-dragging herself over one arm of her chair having pitched that way. Still, she endeavoured to regain her balance, her standing, even though she was basically ready to fall over the arm and onto the floor.
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Last edited by Drezda Ecks on Thu Oct 03, 2019 5:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Wed Sep 25, 2019 2:35 pm

Drezda’s House Uptown Vienda
Morning on the 30th of Loshis, 2719
Drezda twisted out of his reach in the chair, shying away from his touch. More sick pattered onto the benny carpet; she groaned, and Tom saw her face was white as paper. He felt a pang, a tightening in his chest, a sinking in his gut. Anatole’s hands hovered in front of him for a moment, hesitant, with their slight tremor. She didn’t want a dead man to touch her, he thought, even in the state she was in. He wouldn’t press the point; he’d fetch the servants before he’d give her even more grief.

At her next words, his lips pressed to a thin line. His brow furrowed. He’d taken a step back, but he hovered little more than a foot from the chair. Chewing the inside of his gum, he grappled for some kind of reasoning – some thought that made sense, in the maelstrom.

The smell of whisky and laoso was hitting him in waves. Drezda didn’t look too good. Even if she hadn’t been sick as a kenser, he could see her thin chest swelling and deflating with shallow breaths, could see her sucking them in through her nose like she was being drowned. That was when she could breathe: he saw her lose her breath, too, her dark eyes all glassy with panic and glimmering with tears. She was guttered, she’d lost her yats, she’d backlashed Circle knew how long ago and how hard. She was mad as hell, mad as fire, with not a thought to rhakor, and she was apologizing.

Drezda was trying to get up out of her chair. He hovered, feeling useless. First time, she stumbled like the floor’d turned into the deck of a ship; Tom knew that feeling well enough, and he knew she wouldn’t make it more than a few steps, if that. Sure enough, she pitched starboard, clinging to the arm of the chair with clumsy clay fingers.

Tom shook off his hesitation, kicked himself back into motion. There was a reason why he’d left his coat and his jacket over the back of the chair, and now, matter-of-fact as he could with his shaky hands, he rolled up his sleeves.

“Don’t apologize,” he muttered. He moved back into her space, deliberate-like, offered his shoulder to take some of her weight and balance her out; he was shaky enough at the best of times, but he reckoned he’d do. She relented, at least, this time. “You’re not disgusting” – he guided her a wobbly step away from the chair, then two, then three – “or pathetic. Understand? You’re Drezda fucking Ecks, and you can walk a mile on ice barefoot, and I respect you. And I’m not leaving you like this.”

Godsdamn, but what the hell was wrong with him? There was a threadbare sort of rasp at the edge of his voice, and he could feel his eyes getting hot again; he blinked once, twice, found the room grown bleary, the glow of the hearth smeared. Felt something wet on his cheek, again – wiped it away, again, this time even more irritated. Blinked ’til his eyes felt dry again. There was a pit in his stomach and a lump in his throat that he couldn’t quite swallow.

Together, they carved a meandering, slow little path over to the bell on the wall. He gave it a quick tug, then took a deep breath, bracing his feet against the ground. His lower back was flooding killing him, and that hip of Anatole’s – Circle clock it, but he felt like somebody’d sucked his soul out. Given how those servants’d dusted when Drezda’d snapped, he didn’t know if anybody was on their way; if not, it was just him. He’d’ve given all the Low Tide in the harbor for just one extra pair of hands.

Rallying himself, pushing all his foreboding and all that sick-smell out of his head, he took another breath. “It’s Thomas,” he murmured, very quiet. Least he could do, he thought, now the cat was out of the bag anyway. “I’ll answer to whoever you are and ersehole both, but I prefer Tom.” He tried a wry smile, but it came out a pina wan. He swallowed tightly, staring down at the carpet.

He was just about to start moving again when the door clicked open, admitting a worn-looking Cora. To Tom, right about now, she was the most benny thing this side of the Arova. He took in her posture, the look in her eye, the grim downward tug of her lips. All the tired lines on her face. Wasn’t the first time she’d seen this, he reckoned.

“Thank the Circle. Lend me a hand, would you?” Tom led Drezda another half-step toward the nattle, but he was just an unsteady little golly taking the weight of another unsteady little golly, and they were both fair wobbly by now.
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Drezda Ecks
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Fri Oct 04, 2019 7:11 pm

Loshis 30, 2719 | Morning
Drez's Home
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He came to her aid again, undeterred by the state she was in or her pleas. It was a surprise actually. There were plenty of people who wouldn't automatically move to help someone. There were definitely situations where people had been trained by society to react that way but those were acceptable situations that involved helping the right sort. Despite being a galdor, she didn't meet those criteria given her current condition; she was someone to be shunned as readily as a drunk on the street or a beggar. Yet he'd gone to do it automatically in the first place and now he persisted. That someone could have any natural instincts for this sort of thing seemed too strange. No one was this nice. No galdor was this nice, they couldn't be, not to have gotten ahead the way that Ana-

But he wasn't Anatole. He hadn't had to be heartless to get here, just lifeless. But surely before this, he must have been- He'd have learned- By Alioe's Grace, Drezda had no idea who he'd been before he became the galdor who now offered her assistance in her time of need. But no, it wasn't impossible for a galdor. She'd helped people before after all. Hadn't she aided Rhys when she found him broken and bloodied in that Viendan alley? He could still be galdor.

Still when he offered his shoulder, she accepted more out of surprise than anything else. She was grateful, that was certain but it wasn't something she'd expected, not in the least. It was a surprisingly passive action on her part, simply allowing herself to wilt against him. Conscious of the mess, she did her best not to let any soiled part of her clothing rub against him; she wasn't sure that she succeeded. The diplomat's grasp was a weak one but she leaned against him heavily. If they had ended up out of sync even a little bit then she would have fallen at once, unable to grasp him to stop herself. Thankfully, he also had a whole on her and neither of them was moving very fast. The man didn't feel very stable though.

They could both have collapsed, he might have toppled over just from the way she leaned on him, relied on him. However, despite the instability of the situation, the young woman was exhausted enough to lean her head against his shoulder, which was ridiculous of course; he was only a little taller than she was and it was humiliating that she might lean on a man like that as if for comfort. In this moment, the Hoxian was in sore need of comfort.

Tears started dribbling down her cheeks anew, pitiful sniffles emanating from her. Aside from the miserable sounds she made and the pants of effort coming from them both, there was no sounds between them, no conversation; talking would have taken up breath and energy that they didn't have. Their steps were a quiet shuffle, the woman's feet dragging a bit more than his, until they reached the bell at last and he pulled it for her. She heard the chime of the bell in another room and strained her ears for the sound of anything else beyond. Drezda had told her staff to get lost but she hoped that they hadn't taken it to heart; she needed them now. The raen had set himself in place but he was hardly stable. The man was like a tree caught in a tempest but he was no sapling; he'd break rather than bending.

Drezda should thank him all the same. He didn't have to be struggling like this for her sake. She couldn't find the words though, couldn't find the vocabulary to describe the depths of her feelings. Because she was grateful, unbelievably grateful. He owed her nothing and yet here he was caring enough to do this, to offer assistance when she was at her lowest point. The servants had seen her this bad, yes. Well... maybe not quite as bad as this, which was definitely saying something. Right now, she was in pieces, her very soul bared and it was all his fault. Despite everything, despite the lack of knowledge between them, he seemed to be a true friend.

She really didn't deserve that.

She didn't deserve to know his name here, his true one, but she was offered it like an olive branch. He shouldn't have been the one to try to make amends. She was the one who'd started hurling accusations at him but he'd actually had reason to be scared, hadn't he? Of everyone. Ezre had wanted him protected so he obviously didn't consider him beyond harm. Just because he was technically dead didn't mean that he couldn't die; his body could still be killed and she imagined that it would be just as painful as it would be for anyone else if not more so because he'd actually remember it.

"You may respond to ersehole... but I won't... respond to 'fucking' anywhere... in my name," she remarked wryly, a ghost of a smile as she dredged up humour from somewhere. "It's Drez, Tom, only Drez. Didn't walk a mile barefoot either." she added, swaying a little.

She shouldn't have opened her mouth. It had made the nausea resurface, bile sliding its way up her throat. She tried to take in deep breaths, tried not to panic.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," Drezda moaned, raising a hand to her lips, pressing it against them so that her speech was stilled. She could feel the clammy prickle of sweat breaking out on her brow. It was at that moment that Cora came in, stern-faced and tired eyed. The human was more than a little fed up with this, that was clear, a soft sigh escaping her as she took in the state of her dress - thankfully not an overly fancy one although a good scrub could do wonders sometimes. There was a quick, uncertain and mildly puzzled look shot in Tom's direction before she moved in, slinging one of Drez's arms around her neck and throwing her own arm around the little galdor's waist. She transferred the weight to herself, something that would be immediately apparent to Tom as she turned to scrutinise him further.

"Might as well help me with her upstairs. Easier with two. For balance," Cora pointed out, giving him a curt nod before attempting to trot her mistress out the door. Drezda groaned and made a retching sound in her throat, leading the housekeeper to slow her step.

"Shouldn't've drank on an empty stomach," the golly mumbled.

"No, shame no one suggested it," the housekeeper returned dryly, rolling her eyes quickly heavenward. "You're bang guttered, even for you. Maybe less now," she added, her focus briefly on the dress.

"Roz!" the servant roared, eliciting a jolt from the diplomat. There was no response, no answering call or timid stir. She roared again and the red-rimmed eyes of the passive peered around the door leading to the kitchen. They grew larger as she took in the condition of her mistress.

"Make yourself useful and sort a bath. On with ya!" the housekeeper barked as the youth hesitated; Rosmilda scampered up the stairs ahead of them. "Scrap clock-stopper," she muttered. "Clocking toffins."

With careful steps and the odd moan and groan from the Hoxian as a backing, the trio reached the bottom of the stairs. Making sure she had a good grip on the unsteady woman, Cora used one hand to hold Drez's arm in place and used the other to half-lift, half guide her onto the bottom step. Being on the left, she set her shoulder against the wall, the galdor's hand moved to her neck so it wouldn't be squashed and used it as extra support. She didn't expect much help from the other galdor although she threw him more than one thoughtful look as they preceded. Cora had made sure that he was on the right so that he had the bannisters for support; last thing she needed was for him to take a tumble down the stairs and bring them down with him.

Reaching the top of the stairs was a relief, the human sighing and leaning against the wall for a moment as she caught her breath. "Clocking hell. You can be heavy for a wee jent," she panted, pushing her mistress forward a little as she swayed backwards. "Steady now, almost there." She nodded her head towards the woman's bedroom, moving a little faster now so they could get across the threshold.

The room was certainly opulent and befitting of someone used to luxury: hardwood floors with thick, luxurious fur rugs; large four poster bed with beautiful bedding and drapes; heavy curtains over the windows with similar material to the bed; sturdy hardwood furniture and fancy lamps. However, for all its fanciness, it was strangely vacant. It wasn't that the woman lacked belongings but rather that the room held little of her personality. The only things that looked as if they were truly Drezda's were the cosmetics and accessories that were neatly arrayed at her vanity and the books placed on a bedside locker. It was a surprisingly sad space and wasn't that different from the rooms that she moved through below.

"You can sit there while we get her cleaned up, shouldn't take long," Cora remarked, a jerked chin indicating the bed.

"I can clean myself up, Cora. I'm not a child," Drezda protested, attempting to move away of her own accord towards the en suite where Rosmilda eyed them worriedly. Cora caught her before she could lose her balance, the set of her brows highlighting her scepticism while the passive hurried forward and hovered.

"Not sure you can manage. Can't have you sliding under the water if you uh... take tired. C'mon now. Take her other side there, Roz."

The pair guided her into the bathroom, the human's foot kicking back to shut the door behind them. From inside, the raen would hear a low exchange followed by a bang and the distinct sound of swearing from the housekeeper. A minute later, there was the sound of splashing and a dull thump. A feeble protest from the galdor and then nothing beyond the trickle and splash of water and the odd mutter or whimper.

True to her word, Cora didn't take long. She led Drezda out some ten minutes later, the Hoxian clad in a red and black silk bathrobe that seemed to accentuate how petite she was, a cotton towel draped over her shoulders. Rosmilda hovered at her mistress' side but she was steadier now, looking a bit fresher now although still pale, contrasting sharply with the glistening wetness of her hair. She was guided to her vanity table and seated before it, the passive stepping forward to lift a hairbrush, holding it almost reverently as she poised it above Drezda's head. The diplomat gazed at her own reflection, still and unhappy, not content with what she saw and didn't appear to notice the Anaxi girl's expectant pose for a moment. Once she did, she gestured reluctant permission and the servant began to brush her hair.

"I'll get you something to soak up that alcohol. And maybe some good sweetened tea of the Anaxi sort. Think your sort is too bitter, too like to upset you more," Cora commented. Since she'd gotten her mistress in place, she'd stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her gaze fixed on Tom. As she spoke, she didn't switch her focus and she didn't ask him if he wanted anything. Instead, provided that he didn't say anything, she waited a beat before turning on her heel and departing.

"Well.... welcome to my boudoir, I suppose. Can't say that I've had any men in here before. It's not the usual place to bring guests," Drezda joked weakly, feeling the slight pause in Rosmilda's strokes and a little too aware of the girl's presence, here and now, with a witness. Her field had returned, the location not one where the mona had fled and it was regrettable really because it buzzed with agitation and embarrassment and guilt.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. "I um... I'm quite sorry about the display downstairs. I'm... better now. Quite." A trembling hand reached out to her cosmetics, fingers brushing the lids of containers and bottles. Licking chapped lips, she considered the white powder and hesitated, unsure about donning it in front of him.
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Last edited by Drezda Ecks on Mon Oct 07, 2019 8:05 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Oct 05, 2019 6:11 pm

Drezda’s House Uptown Vienda
Morning on the 30th of Loshis, 2719
That’s the spirit,” growled Tom under his breath, shooting Drezda a frail grin. He felt her head settle on his shoulder. Drez, he thought, still not quite knowing what to do with it. When he saw her push down another gag, it faltered, replaced with a look of worry. He didn’t flinch, ’course: it wasn’t as if he didn’t have the money to replace any of those benny clothes he hated, anyway. Besides, he’d gotten enough sick all over himself since he’d died; it hardly mattered if it was his or someone else’s. He just shifted his weight, making sure her arm was steady round him, and thanked the Circle when she didn’t throw up again.

Still, the lines of his face were tight with strain, and his thin shoulders’d started to shake a little. When Cora came in, all stern with her tired eyes, stern and solid, he could’ve melted with relief, despite himself. The nattle took most of Drezda’s weight, easy as you like, and Tom gritted his teeth as he felt a spasm flicker up through his back when the muscles relaxed. Nothing was ever easy.

Saved some of his pride, leastways, when Cora asked him to help. He met her curt nod with one of his own, and then they were hobbling into the foyer, staring down (or up) what seemed like the clocking Northern Tors. Tom suppressed a groan, pressing his lips thin, and he didn’t have it in him to feel insulted when Cora gave him the side with the banister.

All the same, as they started struggling up after Rosmilda, the cheek Cora gave her mistress wasn’t lost on him. He cast her a few amused looks sidelong; at clocking toffins, he even let out a bark of a laugh, breathless and oddly delighted.

He let out a sigh of relief at the top of the stairs, and it wasn’t far to the bedroom. He swayed on his feet when the nattle and the scrap took Drezda off his hands, taking a second to find his balance again, to make sense of his surroundings. It was benny, just as benny as any golly bedchamber he’d ever been in, benny at least as Anatole’s. All the same, something about the room made him sad. He stood looking at the vanity, with its neat little pots of lip color and kohl. He looked for the blue hairclip, but he couldn’t seem to find it.

At Cora’s gesture, he tottered over to the bed, too tired to argue, and sank gratefully onto the mattress.

The servants helped Drezda into the bathroom, and the door shut behind them. There was a thump, then, a scattering of low voices, the burble and splash of water. All he could do for a few moments was cradle his face in his hands and breathe.

Up here, in the quiet, his thoughts were starting to catch up to him, tumbling one after the other back into the space necessity’d given him; he tried to force them away, one by one, but they kept creeping back. He’d pushed down the lion’s share of his own panic, but now its chilly fingers’d wound their way round his heart again, and he could feel it beating, skittering against his ribcage. He thought his breath was getting away from him; he grabbed for it with deep lungfuls, half-gasping into his palms. He curled his fingers into the skin of his face, squeezed his eyes shut against his fists.

Flood it, he kept thinking, so he wouldn’t have to think anything else. He heard a splash, another thump, some muttering in what sounded like Drezda’s voice.

Tom wasn’t ready when he heard the door open behind him, but he reckoned he had to be. He raised his head, blinked, took a steady breath just to prove he could. By the time he turned to Cora and Rosmilda, he was breathing more evenly, but his face was white as a sheet underneath its freckles. His gaze lingered briefly on the little golly in-between them, face bare of makeup, seeming to shrink in the folds of that dark robe – but they didn’t linger for long, flicking up and away, offering Cora a tight, grim smile.

He thought, maybe, he could hear some of the Rose in her accent. Good Anaxi tea, none of that bitter kind. That and the way she stared a challenge at him brought some warmth back to his smile. She turned to leave without addressing him; when the door was shut behind her, he let out a sigh.

Alone, now, with Drezda and the little redheaded nanabo who liked Hexxos poetry. He caught the way Drezda looked at herself in the mirror, and his faint smile drained away; he looked down and away, thinking it was all he could do to give her the privacy of that moment. In the awkward silence, Rosmilda started brushing her mistress’ hair, and the tenderness of it made something in him ache.

The mona were back, tentative. At the edges of his porven, he could feel her field, shifted with embarrassment and agitation. Wasn’t as frazzled as his, but he didn’t think he’d ever felt it like this before.

Thank the Circle, Drezda spoke again, and Tom offered her a tired smile. If her joke surprised him, he thought it best not to let on. Wasn’t like he hadn’t known, anyway – between the rumors and Rosmilda and that name she’d let out downstairs, that Khymarah. The way she’d looked at Niamh at the party.

“Don’t worry about it.” He gestured with a thin hand. “I’ve seen worse; I’ve been in worse states myself.” Clearing his throat as awkwardly as she had, he shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and smoothing his trousers.

He looked at Rosmilda, then, long and hard, seeming to deliberate. She was fond of Ksjta, he knew, and he reckoned Drezda trusted her implicitly; he reckoned Rosmilda wouldn’t’ve been in the room, if she hadn’t.

With a slight twitch of his shoulders that might’ve been a shrug, he looked back at Drezda. “Besides, for what it’s worth, I’m, uh – I’m grateful, Drez. I can’t apologize for protecting myself, but I wish I’d told you sooner.” He frowned. “I don’t know if you can imagine what it’s like. The last few months have been hell, but you were good to me. I could’ve repaid you with a little more trust.”

He folded his hands in his lap. He saw her look for the powder, then pause.

“Can’t say I’ve been in the boudoirs of many women,” he offered after a moment, hesitant, with a quirk of one red eyebrow. “If you need some time – tell me to go, and I’ll go. But if you have any questions, I think I owe you some answers.”
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Drezda Ecks
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Mon Oct 07, 2019 11:03 am

Loshis 30, 2719 | Morning
Drez's Home
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The diplomat was trying to make light of this. Well, make it smaller at the very least. She'd just been a particularly humiliating incident and while he'd been the only one to witness, it didn't diminish her sense of mortification. It was difficult to find humour in this situation although it seemed to be a fallback for him, a sort of defence and in this moment, she could appreciate it somewhat.

She did regret joking about the lack of men in her bedchambers. It felt like outing herself as if no men automatically meant that she was a lesbian. She could have been a spinster for all Tom knew, for all anyone knew but she suspected that he knew. At the very least, he would have heard the gossip about her and it wouldn't be difficult to jump to a homosexual conclusion. What was more, it would be all too easy to connect the rumours with some sort of reality given how tenderly Rosmilda's ministered to her needs, stroking the shiny strands as she brushed.

Circle save her! She could stomach him realising that she liked women but that she- That herself and her passive were-

Just the thought made her skin prickle with warmth and she wasn't sure if she had actually started sweating considering her continuing dampness. The notion of discovery was unnerving and it seemed to make her headache worse, a pulsing within her skull that had become apparent en route to the bath and had grown quite acute once she'd had a deluge of water poured over her head. Her head was splitting, the throbbing feeling as if it might break her skull apart. Perhaps some food and (non-alcoholic) liquids would help and she'd be able to have a proper conversation. It was just a good thing that neither was particularly talkative because her focus definitely waned around the edges when that headache ebbed.

Cora's return was something she looked forward to and yet also dreaded. What she'd bring would probably help her to feel better but her stomach also felt delicate. Fluttery, that was the exact feeling. hardly substantial as it moved in her belly. It was like it was a flimsy thing and trying to put anything in would only result in it coming straight back up again. The unsteady flutter of it infected everything around it and while it felt like everything in her abdomen was vibrating, she also felt the tremble in her limbs. She was a dead leaf ready to be shaken off in the wind and she certainly felt as if she was going to lose purchase on... well, everything at any moment.

And yet here was Tom admitting that he'd seen worse and been in worse states. She couldn't imagine worse than this, couldn't clocking dream of such a possibility existing. Maybe if he was in her shoes, if he could feel what she was feeling, then he'd change his tune. Drezda turned her head with care, a brow raising skeptically, a gesture that she immediately regretted as her forehead creased and the pounding somehow worsened. There was the slight squint in reflex at the increase in pain before she succeeded in smoothing her features.

With her head turned towards him, she was able to see him scrutinising Rosmilda and she felt a worried flip in her stomach. Unbeknownst to her, her growing blush mirrored the passive's own, the servant unused to men gazing at her like that. Hell, she wasn't used to most people looking at her like that. Given what Drezda had so recently inferred, they were actually both thinking that he'd made a relationship connection between them.

The diplomat was ready to look away to avoid inadvertently catching his eye as it was already too late to hide her response. The pink in her cheeks was particularly stark given that her pale skin had somehow grown more wan and a little grey-tinged. But his words caught her, onyx eyes widening as they fixed on his face in spite of her embarrassment.

Grateful? What did he have to be grateful for? She hadn't done anything worthy of it. No doubt, her face illustrated her bewilderment quite well, the woman hardly having the energy to hide her emotions. Even her field buzzed with the shock, rippling as if struck.

Good to him.

Bash strengthen her.

She'd already bawled her eyes out and so that weakness was there, the tears all too ready to spring forth again and she felt it now as she blinked rapidly, turning her head away, leaning forward to pick up her powder so she'd have something to do with her hands, some sort of focus; there was no indecision anymore. However, he was sure to see the shimmer in her gaze via her reflection.

The container was opened, a puffed brush of soft hair - Lady knew what animal it came from - picked up to accompany it. She dipped it into the powder, lifting it slightly before twisting it, shaking it lightly so that the particles coated the bristles as evenly as possible. She tapped it lightly against the container's lip so that the excess would be shaken off. It was a good thing that she'd been taking her time or she might have fumbled it at his next comment as she darted a furtive glance in his direction.

Honestly, she'd considered a number of things since she'd discovered that he was a raen but until this moment, she hadn't thought about the way he looked at her and other women. Or rather how he didn't look at them. Anatole had been a disgusting lecher and had been less than subtle in his appraisals but that didn't mean that other men employed his methods. Many of them could be quite discreet but there was always that spark of interest, that almost hungry trawl over their forms no matter how brief it was. Tom had certainly admired her but... not like that. There had been no hunger there. In fact, he seemed to succeed in actually seeing her when he looked her way, managing to see her as a person before seeing her as a body. When his gaze skimmed over her figure, she got the impression of being measured but... it was the way she'd seen women do it, judging taste and style choices, whether a colour or cut actually suited.

Drezda had been known to do it although her glances weren't always lacking in lusty assessment.

Was he- Did he not- Could he be the same as her? Now that she knew he wasn't actually Anatole, she was far more inclined to think that he wasn't well... inclined towards women.

"I'm... all right with you staying," she responded slowly, raising her brush so that it hovered before her face. "That's enough, Rosmilda. Thank you, you may go."

The passive froze, shoulders slumping slightly as her gaze bowed.

"Yes, Mistress. Of course. If there's anything else you need...?" the servant responded, a hopeful uplift at the end.

"No, that'll be all. I'll call you if I need you but I doubt it; I have Cora."

There was a momentary flash of hurt shock on her face as her eyes snapped up to catch sight of Drezda in the mirror. Belatedly, she remembered Tom's presence, a flash of panicked green turned his way before the brush was hastily set down and the girl moved swiftly out of the room.

The Hoxian's eyelids shut, a soft sigh escaping her. She covered the act of weariness by bringing the brush to her face, flitting it slightly over her features. It flicked over her forehead, down one side and then along the top of a cheekbone. Bristles lapped against the side of her nose up to the ridge like waves lapping the seashore. She continued, only opening her eyes once the top part of her face had been completed, tilting her head so that the light and shadow dappled her features changed their patterns so she could see into the shady nooks and crannies and not miss a spot.

There was a soothing familiarity to the application, her hand brushing in long even streaks almost automatically. There were few things that she could do with cosmetics without trouble, some things requiring many painstaking attempts before she could get them halfway decent or gave up altogether and passed the responsibility to Rosmilda. The powdering though, that was something she'd begun young.

It had started towards the end of her years in Frecksat, the awkward onset of teenage years bringing that self-conscious awareness of her appearance. The fear that her skin wasn't quite as pale as it should be for someone of her class, the creeping anxiety about the little freckles that dusted her skin so delicately under her eyes. Every time she looked in the mirror, she'd been reminded of her father's roots, seeing his swarthy skin peeking out at her. It wasn't even as if he was that much darker than her mother but still, she was certain everyone would see. It had only gotten more obsessive in Brunnhold, the application serving as a different sort of mask, especially when she had sobbed quietly into her pillow or had tossed and turned restlessly until her eyes grew bags.

Despite her trembling and the splitting headache, she found her spine strengthening, pseudo-confidence gained from a simple bit of white powder.

"You shouldn't be grateful to me, you know. I didn't get into all this out of kindness. You have to know that. It did change though. Well... I did," she murmured, pursing her lips together as she scrutinised her face.

"I didn't really do anything good for you. I... empathised because I thought you'd backlashed. I'd... I'd backlashed and it made me think of you differently," the diplomat admitted, setting her powder brush down. She wet her thumb on her tongue and used it to wipe the stray bits of powder off her lips. She allowed her fingers to dance over little colour pots, each filled with paint for her lips.

"I... should ask you things but I don't know where to begin and I feel like... I feel as if I've jumped down your throat a bit prematurely. I... shouldn't have jumped to conclusions and maybe I don't have a right to ask you anything but..." Pale lips tilted into a slight smile before she continued. "I am curious."

She plucked up another brush, this one flat and perhaps an inch wide. She also picked up a pot of dark red like blood.

"How long have you been um... Anatole? And how long have you been- When did you... die?" the Hoxian asked hesitantly, holding her cosmetics but paused.
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Last edited by Drezda Ecks on Tue Oct 08, 2019 9:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Oct 07, 2019 9:46 pm

Drezda’s House Uptown Vienda
Morning on the 30th of Loshis, 2719
Drezda turned her head away, but the low light caught the glisten of her eyes in the mirror, and Tom tried not to look too close. Tried to give her privacy.

He didn’t know if he should’ve said it; he didn’t think it was something she heard often. It was funny, thinking he’d said that to her, said she’d been good to him, and it’d been Tom, not Anatole, saying that to Drezda. Funny. It took a weight off his shoulders, somehow, and then put another one on. When she’d looked at him, she’d been looking at him – what of him she could see, leastways, in Anatole sitting meekly on her bed. There was a fluttering in his stomach.

She bid him stay, even with that twitching wince that told him she was getting a hatcher of a headache. He pushed himself up a little, settled back so he wasn’t just perched on the edge anymore. Smoothed the coverlet under his hand and tried to look more comfortable.

Tom couldn’t’ve said it didn’t take a load off his shoulders when she dismissed the passive, though he saw that hurt look she threw over her shoulder. Tom couldn’t imagine what it was like, and maybe he didn’t want to. It wasn’t his business, he told himself, anyway. All the same, when he caught those wide green eyes on the way out, he tried to offer her all the warmth he could muster up. It was a pale, confused shadow of a reassuring smile, but he didn’t have long to regret it; Rosmilda was gone, and the door was shut, then, and it was just him and Drezda.

Drezda, powdering her face in the mirror. Tom’d worried, at first, she’d get powder all over herself, the way her hands were shaking; if Tom knew one thing, it was shaky hands. But it was like the task of powdering her face’d let her draw iron from somewhere deep inside herself, and he watched that hand get just a pina manna steadier. She’d given herself a job, he reckoned.

He heaved a sigh. “I can’t say I had the best intentions, either,” he replied. He paused, sucking on a tooth, thinking. “I suppose we both changed.”

She didn’t know where to begin. He could’ve laughed, ’cause he didn’t, either. When she finally did ask her question, he looked up. There was a quirk to her lips in the mirror, a sliver of a smile, and he smiled back.

“Starting out with the tough ones, eh?” he laughed. He crossed his legs, thinking about it, as she reached for the lip color. First, he glanced up toward the ceiling, mouth moving silently – one, two, three… five, seven – counting off on his fingers. He frowned. “Ten months, that’s how long ago it was. I don’t remember how I died. I don’t remember much of anything, except, uh…”

The laughing edge’d gone from his voice, despite his best efforts, and his throat tightened with a little strain. She was hesitating with the lip color, and he found himself looking down at Anatole’s hands in his lap. He remembered the way she’d paused to examine her face, once she’d got the powder on all even-like. He thought he’d seen her hold her back a little straighter, like the face in the mirror was one she recognized.

He wished he had something like that, something to make him feel more like – he didn’t know. He didn’t think powder’d be enough to cover it all up.

He didn’t know if she could see, but he couldn’t help the revulsion that skittered across his face, looking down at those hands. His lip curled, and a little shiver went through him, and he had to shut his eyes. “I think it was Yaris,” he said suddenly. His brow creased. “When I – started being Anatole. I didn’t know what I was. I remember being alive, being myself, and then – then I remember being – cold as the winter,” his voice shuddered. “I, ah, I don’t know that Anatole would’ve been my first choice. In case you’re judging me for taste.”

Some of the strain in his voice broke; he laughed again, opening his eyes, smiling at the Drezda in the mirror tiredly. He was glad he couldn’t see himself there at this angle. “You don’t want to hear about that. You asked when… Well, it’s been me since Yaris, at least. Anything before that was him.” He sighed again. “I’ve never backlashed, and I can’t pretend I know what it’s like. I was hoping – if I learned more, if we learned more together – but by Intas, I thought, clocking hell, what do I say? I died, I think, and I don’t know why, but now I’m in the body of a fifty-something incumbent with –”

Tom broke off again, groaning gently.

“I brought back Web of Souls,” he said, more softly, after a moment. “Is that how you knew? That poetry meant something to me. It was something to hold onto.”
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