stepping into the cool air of the evening is a relief. she's been trapped in a room with some of the most insufferable souls this side of the river for what feels like ten years. good sense tells her it hasn't even been two hours. but she'd been disarmed at the door by 'constituents' and well-meaning hangers-on who want to take the chance to get to know the zaunite councilor, who want something of her. she's meant to have 'staff' who help deal with this sort of shit, an assistant who can field questions and tell her the names of all these fuckers, the history of their houses, what she should know them for... but knowing them doesn't make them any more bearable. her patience has already been pinched between two fingers and twisted like a nerve. a headache blooms at the base of her neck, thunderous and unavoidable like a storm you can see coming, or one of jinx's smoke grenades rolling down an alleyway.
she just needs to catch her breath — she's getting too old for this shit. that's what she tells herself. just a minute — ten minutes — maybe an hour. she can't see the jut of zaun's outline from here to comfort her, keep her head on straight. it's just the endless rows of other cream-colored, glossy buildings, accented in gold and teals. her mouth draws into a severe frown, and her hand tightens around the glass of whiskey she's taken two sips from since she plucked it off a passing tray. she shuffles to the balcony's railing, wrapped in ivy. nothing about this place is familiar. she's danced this dance more than once, now, and none of it strikes her in the way it should: close to six months she's been councilor sevika, outnumbered and outmanned by topsiders, and it still fits her like a poorly-tailored glove. a sharp, hot-white pain zips from the base of her neck to the back of her skull, a reminder. she swallows a mouthful of her drink. it goes down easy. she braces herself to go back inside, so she can at least make for the exit.
it's here that she meets a familiar face, one she's been pointedly avoiding for as long as she took on the mantle of councilor. before, under silco, she didn't have the excuse of any title to get out of a conversation she wasn't interested in having, but now she can wave her hand and send most flocking away from her, like birds. (it's never quite clear if it's because they're frightened, because they're eager to get away, or if they were never really interested in the pursuit of change to start.) she's pinned between the balcony rail and alcina, the doorway back to the ongoing party blocked by a severe woman, tall enough that sevika finds herself in the unusual position of needing to look up. but this is a familiar face, and a familiar name. no simpering assistant to whisper a title in her ear necessary. ❛ lady dimitrescu. it's been a while. ❜ she grimaces, and doesn't quite manage to hide it behind the rim of her glass. gravelly, and dripping in wry amusement, like there's some sick silco-shaped punchline around the corner. ❛ you come out here to take in the sights? enjoy the open air? ❜ / @dimitresca.
