[HEARTH DAY] Walking the Crowded City Streets [PRIVATE]
May 13, 2023 20:05:26 GMT -5
Post by Veliky on May 13, 2023 20:05:26 GMT -5
Skin like a grassy field beneath the summer sun, with sparkling rainwater clinging like dew; a veil of hair like a willow's somber leaves, gliding delicately along her shoulders; eyes like fireflies in a moonlit glade, and lashes that trap light into a mesmerizing glimmer; and a voice like a lonely Autumn breeze, running through and leaving its ghost in Veliky's...
'What the hell am I thinking?!' It takes far too much of Veliky's will to break free from the hypnotic prose that she'd slipped into without even realizing. Poetry? Veliky was aware of her own (for lack of a better word) weakness for this sort of thing. But this, for her, was a new low.
'This woman...' Veliky finally regains control over her face. She'd wilfully pray to a god, that Sylva didn't see the utterly stupefied expression that she'd been stunned into. Everything about her, from her forest-green lips to that faint hint of abashedness as she expresses her doubt... '...is seriously too hot!'
She has to look away, just to focus. And even still, like the heat of the Summer sun, the sheer presence of Sylva's beauty is absolutely smothering -- especially when she's this close. And yet here's Sylva, calling herself a 'sapling?' Ridiculous.
"...You don't look like a sapling to me."
Veliky keeps her shoulders shrugged and her expression serious. But she's slightly surprised when the elegant, verdant mistress' eyes widen in-- well, surprise, before her voice comes forth with a sheepish hesitance that sounds so strange when worn on that portentous tune.
"You don't think so?"
Why is this such a shock to her? Veliky swears, this woman is a constant mystery. "Of course not. You're-..."
Wait. A realization strikes Veliky with visceral precision, twinging her expression into a shock that virtually mirrors Sylva's own. 'That's not what I meant! I just meant that she looks fine- no, no, that she's doing fine -- fuck!' The panic rises within her. Things have gone terribly awry, and Veliky has only herself to blame. This was supposed to be an ordinary, platonic meal between business associates, and yet Veliky's done nothing but act like a complete moron! Cleaning Sylva's cheek with a handkerchief, and then inadvertently complimenting her appearance? Veliky doesn't know how she allowed herself to act so thoughtlessly. She has to do something to fix this; she has to say something to clear all this up, and then get back in her damn seat and give Sylva some personal space! But she has to be quick, before something happens that'll worsen the situation even fur-
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Veliky!”
This is the worst case scenario.
Veliky doesn't want to look. She doesn't want to acknowledge the presence of one of the last people whose voice she'd want to hear in this circumstance. It's far easier, and far less taxing on her mental state, to rely on the faint and frankly futile hope that the sound was nothing more than a manifestation of paranoid delusion. But fate is one of few things that Veliky can't simply order around; among the others, one of them now casts a looming shadow over the table. Veliky's own spine resists her as she turns to see the dreadful visage of Astrid Stormstone -- as well as another of those things: the Witch of Moonglade, Kamille.
One would think that this is an unexpected development, but that wouldn't be entirely true. This -- or, at least, the vague skeleton of this complication -- is something that Veliky carefully accounted for as she was planning out this day. The odds of someone she knows showing up and seeing them were about 0.116% per minute (a nominal gamble, by her standards). But the odds of someone important appearing at a moment as truly inopportune as this? Well there's unlikely, and then there's improbable, and there's just cruel. It's utter spite from luck itself, and Veliky responds to it -- and to these encroaching harbingers of smugness -- with an indignant glare, back at them as she still stands on the table beside the arboreal maiden. She knows what they'll try to do; they'll know that that isn't what's going on, but hell if they won't play it up until any given onlooker would think that it is.
This, now, is a battle.
“Fancy seein’ ya here, aun- new boss! We were just at the BlixtTM cafe!” What was that? Some sort of freudian slip, only caught once it was half out? 'Aun-'? Veliky wonders if it was some sort of jeer that Astrid thought better of. Wise choice, if so. But if Astrid's intent is to avoid pissing Veliky off (which, to be fair, is definitely not the case), then what she says next is a dire mistake. “I’d ask if we’re interruptin’ an important business meetin’, but I don’t think we are.”
Veliky recoils as if she'd just let out a tremendous sneeze, the sort which leaves a lingering pain in the lungs. Her face goes virtually red with fury. "What are you implying, Astri-" But she's stopped; not by any ulterior interruption, but by yet another set of realizations of her own utter stupidity. For one, she's still shoeless. And for two, she's still holding the handkerchief by Sylva's face. In fact, she hasn't even quite wiped away all of the cream yet. And she certainly won't be doing that now. With a rapid huff, she quickly hides the handkerchief behind herself, looking away with a vexed expression and awkwardly stiffened posture. The redness in her face lasts longer than the anger does.
The diversion of Astrid's attention to Sylva is one that Veliky readily welcomes, even though she knows that it's extremely temporary. Veliky's able to cool down for the briefest of respites, looking to one of the sunlit windows across the street (the where is ultimately irrelevant; it's the where-not that matters). She takes this time to finally return to her seat, plopping herself down and seeking minimal cover in the armchairs. But it doesn't last long before Kamille strides forward as well, countenance as boldly condescending as a Sol City socialite on a shopping spree (which, come to think of it, is exactly what Kamille is).
Veliky flashes a cold glare that says 'Leave it alone.' Unfortunately, Kamille's smug, lipstick-painted grin responds with something more along the lines of 'Make me.' Alas, this rollercoaster of emotions shows no sign of stopping.
"Good morning, beautiful ladies... Fancy seeing you around, Veliky! Did you receive the Talking Head I sent you?"
Beautiful?! Veliky had been prepared to be angry, but this attack is from an entirely different front! Beautiful!? Veliky's completely stunlocked. Sure, this isn't the first time that Kamille's indirectly complimented Veliky's appearance; in fact, last time, Veliky had even been inclined to believe her. This is the Witch of Moonglade, after all, denier of a hundred suitors; if there's an expert on beauty, it's her. But grouping Veliky in the same beauty-category as Sylva?! Veliky glances at the elegant, emerald lady that still sits across from her, and a glance is all it takes to know that there is a distinct difference in their levels of hotness! It's absurd!
'No -- no! This is exactly what Kamille wants.' Veliky steels herself, crossing her arms in a huff. 'She's just trying to get under your skin, Veliky!'
With some of that indignance being reclaimed, she looks to Kamille again... and her chest tightens as she sees Kamille patting the Velidoll's head. An arrow in the foot, after Veliky'd already been shot twice in the heart. She knew -- she *knew* that these two would do this!
She should've seen this coming. She should've prepared better.
Too dejected to retort in the way she'd been meaning, Veliky's only sound choice is to answer Kamille's question. At least, then, she can hopefully lead the conversation away from... this.
"'Talking head?' If you mean the skull that's small enough to warrant extra charges in court, then yes."
She vents some of her frustration with a sigh. Perhaps she should be the one to introduce Sylva, if following basic etiquette, but etiquette is not the first thing on Veliky's mind at the moment. She'd just be happy to be out of the spotlight, if for just a moment. Besides, what harm could Sylva possibly do by just introducing herself?
...
Oh no.
'What the hell am I thinking?!' It takes far too much of Veliky's will to break free from the hypnotic prose that she'd slipped into without even realizing. Poetry? Veliky was aware of her own (for lack of a better word) weakness for this sort of thing. But this, for her, was a new low.
'This woman...' Veliky finally regains control over her face. She'd wilfully pray to a god, that Sylva didn't see the utterly stupefied expression that she'd been stunned into. Everything about her, from her forest-green lips to that faint hint of abashedness as she expresses her doubt... '...is seriously too hot!'
She has to look away, just to focus. And even still, like the heat of the Summer sun, the sheer presence of Sylva's beauty is absolutely smothering -- especially when she's this close. And yet here's Sylva, calling herself a 'sapling?' Ridiculous.
"...You don't look like a sapling to me."
Veliky keeps her shoulders shrugged and her expression serious. But she's slightly surprised when the elegant, verdant mistress' eyes widen in-- well, surprise, before her voice comes forth with a sheepish hesitance that sounds so strange when worn on that portentous tune.
"You don't think so?"
Why is this such a shock to her? Veliky swears, this woman is a constant mystery. "Of course not. You're-..."
Wait. A realization strikes Veliky with visceral precision, twinging her expression into a shock that virtually mirrors Sylva's own. 'That's not what I meant! I just meant that she looks fine- no, no, that she's doing fine -- fuck!' The panic rises within her. Things have gone terribly awry, and Veliky has only herself to blame. This was supposed to be an ordinary, platonic meal between business associates, and yet Veliky's done nothing but act like a complete moron! Cleaning Sylva's cheek with a handkerchief, and then inadvertently complimenting her appearance? Veliky doesn't know how she allowed herself to act so thoughtlessly. She has to do something to fix this; she has to say something to clear all this up, and then get back in her damn seat and give Sylva some personal space! But she has to be quick, before something happens that'll worsen the situation even fur-
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Veliky!”
This is the worst case scenario.
Veliky doesn't want to look. She doesn't want to acknowledge the presence of one of the last people whose voice she'd want to hear in this circumstance. It's far easier, and far less taxing on her mental state, to rely on the faint and frankly futile hope that the sound was nothing more than a manifestation of paranoid delusion. But fate is one of few things that Veliky can't simply order around; among the others, one of them now casts a looming shadow over the table. Veliky's own spine resists her as she turns to see the dreadful visage of Astrid Stormstone -- as well as another of those things: the Witch of Moonglade, Kamille.
One would think that this is an unexpected development, but that wouldn't be entirely true. This -- or, at least, the vague skeleton of this complication -- is something that Veliky carefully accounted for as she was planning out this day. The odds of someone she knows showing up and seeing them were about 0.116% per minute (a nominal gamble, by her standards). But the odds of someone important appearing at a moment as truly inopportune as this? Well there's unlikely, and then there's improbable, and there's just cruel. It's utter spite from luck itself, and Veliky responds to it -- and to these encroaching harbingers of smugness -- with an indignant glare, back at them as she still stands on the table beside the arboreal maiden. She knows what they'll try to do; they'll know that that isn't what's going on, but hell if they won't play it up until any given onlooker would think that it is.
This, now, is a battle.
“Fancy seein’ ya here, aun- new boss! We were just at the BlixtTM cafe!” What was that? Some sort of freudian slip, only caught once it was half out? 'Aun-'? Veliky wonders if it was some sort of jeer that Astrid thought better of. Wise choice, if so. But if Astrid's intent is to avoid pissing Veliky off (which, to be fair, is definitely not the case), then what she says next is a dire mistake. “I’d ask if we’re interruptin’ an important business meetin’, but I don’t think we are.”
Veliky recoils as if she'd just let out a tremendous sneeze, the sort which leaves a lingering pain in the lungs. Her face goes virtually red with fury. "What are you implying, Astri-" But she's stopped; not by any ulterior interruption, but by yet another set of realizations of her own utter stupidity. For one, she's still shoeless. And for two, she's still holding the handkerchief by Sylva's face. In fact, she hasn't even quite wiped away all of the cream yet. And she certainly won't be doing that now. With a rapid huff, she quickly hides the handkerchief behind herself, looking away with a vexed expression and awkwardly stiffened posture. The redness in her face lasts longer than the anger does.
The diversion of Astrid's attention to Sylva is one that Veliky readily welcomes, even though she knows that it's extremely temporary. Veliky's able to cool down for the briefest of respites, looking to one of the sunlit windows across the street (the where is ultimately irrelevant; it's the where-not that matters). She takes this time to finally return to her seat, plopping herself down and seeking minimal cover in the armchairs. But it doesn't last long before Kamille strides forward as well, countenance as boldly condescending as a Sol City socialite on a shopping spree (which, come to think of it, is exactly what Kamille is).
Veliky flashes a cold glare that says 'Leave it alone.' Unfortunately, Kamille's smug, lipstick-painted grin responds with something more along the lines of 'Make me.' Alas, this rollercoaster of emotions shows no sign of stopping.
"Good morning, beautiful ladies... Fancy seeing you around, Veliky! Did you receive the Talking Head I sent you?"
Beautiful?! Veliky had been prepared to be angry, but this attack is from an entirely different front! Beautiful!? Veliky's completely stunlocked. Sure, this isn't the first time that Kamille's indirectly complimented Veliky's appearance; in fact, last time, Veliky had even been inclined to believe her. This is the Witch of Moonglade, after all, denier of a hundred suitors; if there's an expert on beauty, it's her. But grouping Veliky in the same beauty-category as Sylva?! Veliky glances at the elegant, emerald lady that still sits across from her, and a glance is all it takes to know that there is a distinct difference in their levels of hotness! It's absurd!
'No -- no! This is exactly what Kamille wants.' Veliky steels herself, crossing her arms in a huff. 'She's just trying to get under your skin, Veliky!'
With some of that indignance being reclaimed, she looks to Kamille again... and her chest tightens as she sees Kamille patting the Velidoll's head. An arrow in the foot, after Veliky'd already been shot twice in the heart. She knew -- she *knew* that these two would do this!
She should've seen this coming. She should've prepared better.
Too dejected to retort in the way she'd been meaning, Veliky's only sound choice is to answer Kamille's question. At least, then, she can hopefully lead the conversation away from... this.
"'Talking head?' If you mean the skull that's small enough to warrant extra charges in court, then yes."
She vents some of her frustration with a sigh. Perhaps she should be the one to introduce Sylva, if following basic etiquette, but etiquette is not the first thing on Veliky's mind at the moment. She'd just be happy to be out of the spotlight, if for just a moment. Besides, what harm could Sylva possibly do by just introducing herself?
...
Oh no.