It had been calculated that it would take a solid three days to get where they were headed.
That was a total of seventy two hours of sailing morning and night. They had nearly seven hours left to sail before they would reach their destination. So far they had sailed through two storms and a bought of three hours which no winds were mustered by the oceans. For those three hours they the ship and it's inhabitants had been left stranded beneath a night sky.
Barely had the Madam gotten her sleep in, she'd spent every moment since stepping foot on this ship buried in the logistics to make this plan of Emily's a success, and subsequently prepare for the thorough search to launch upon landing.
She was always working on something. Desperate to keep her hands moving and mind focused on a task. Even now the brunette had found a way to busy herself.
Against her better judgement she had taken to the cargo hold of the ship with the intention to find the belly of the sizeable vessel. It was here that a group of gryphons are currently stalled, their heads covered in leather hoods to calm the beasts in enclosed spaces. She had remembered Emillie's answer as to which gryphon would be Susan's in this assault, a well bred retired war gryphon dubbed Static for her brindle pattern along her feline body. A mutation in the beast's genes had seen it born with this unusual pattern, but little did it affect her loyalty and bomb proof persona.
"I was told you'd been through quite abit, seen enough wars to justify never being ridden again. A well seasoned bird like that ought' to be able to handle this--," in one deft movement the Madam loosens the hood and releases the head of the gryphon. At once she herself is perceived with bright eyes, the beast observing Susan with the tray of cut up pieces of bloody meats before blinking around at her compatriots. The other gryphons had not stirred with this rustling going on nearby, nor do they seem to stir at the smell of fresh food.
The gryphon targeted by Susan in this exchange fixates the woman with another stare, this one seemingly patient in nature. As such Susan would collect bits of the gore, hand held out for the beast to make the next move.
"I figured what better way to establish ourselves to one another than over a meal?"
The calm timber to the woman's voice had settled any rising nerves in the gryphon. It tilts it's head, a clicking noise emitted from it's beak before this very mouth starts to nudge and nip at the meat in the woman's hand. The treat is scooped up before just as suddenly the beast is thrusting it's head back to make swallowing an easier effort.
For the next few moments they share in each other's company doing just this. Susan scoops another collection of meat for the gryphon to delicately gobble down. It was a mindless gesture, something Susan was able to lose herself in for a moment. Inevitably the weight of the choices leading to this moment in time would come baring down. Susan casts a wary glance around to ensure no aid or hands had entered the space before turning her full attention to the gryphon she continues to feed.
"You and I will be riding into an unknowable situation tomorrow. I figured it would be best I introduce myself before the day of," Susan almost starts to condemn herself for rambling aloud to the beast, but ultimately she continues. "I have unintentionally brought you and your kind into a war that none of you were responsible for. Alas... Your contributions are invaluable. Without it, I would be steps further from saving my daughter. Gods willing that is what we will be doing, with this amount of effort."
A silence fills the air between them as the beast eats eagerly, careful to not nip the woman's skin. Though the creature would
"I hope you wont judge me when I say I am... Nervous," she confesses. The words are spoken with a bitter undertone to them, as if remorseful to feel this way. She would pause in her feeing to eye the gryphon closely. There was an intensity to Susan's stare that stills the beast, it's eyes blinking in response to her. "As such I have only one request of you when the plan launches. Put your heart into it. Fly true, and do not falter no matter how the tides may churn."
Before Susan could admit to anything further, a disturbance to their peace and quiet in the form of Oakley Oswan occurs, this would startle the Madam and gryphon. The creaking of wood beneath his weight causes both heads to snap to attention, the charming golden irises of the Madam and the haughty blazing orange of the gryphon nearly shock him to the core when first noticing them.
He comes to a screeching halt with a bag of feed in his arms, eyes blown wide with the realization of seeing the gryphon not only staring back at him, but doing so with a calm expression to her eyes. At once the teen's blue eyes shoot over to meet Susan's indifferent golden stare. He frowns, but not out of displeasure for the Madam's presumably sullen mood...
More so, the indication that he had trampled into something bothered him. He was all too aware of the currency that Susan traded in and didn't want to be misunderstood as an eavesdropper.
"Apologies," he clears his throat. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything-?"
"Not at all," Susan quips in response, her tone matter of fact as she starts to feed the gryphon another handful of the bloody treat. "Just familiarizing myself with the gryphons your mother has collected for the assault."
Oakley hums in acknowledgement, but otherwise has resumed with his original reason for being in the cargo area with the birds of prey. Choring. The feed bag would be sliced open with his pocket knife before it's contents are measured and divided out amongst the collection of gryphon in the room.
With her personal bird of prey fed, she'd clean her hand before reapplying the hood to the gryphon's head, later offering to help Oakley in his chores only to be politely shutdown. This leaves her with only the work of cleaning the tray she carried the raw meat on, as well as wash her hands. As expected afternoon continues in this familiar silence for Susan. With only the sights of the open sea on all sides of their ship to pass her time with, Susan would be allowed the time needed to reflect and come to terms with what awaited her extraction team.
What if this was another dead end? A failed endeavor before it's even begun?
The only saving grace to being in her lonesome was the unfettered front row seat to the changing of the sky. From afternoon into evening, the sunlight would begin to wane the further it sank. The many colorful changes to the sky bring her to sigh in appreciation. The swath of purples and pinks bleeding into dark blues would cast against the deep blue waters. A perfect reflection would bestow itself unto it's viewer, the remaining sunlight glittering in bright sheen against the very top of the water's surface, leaving a lasting memory to all who'd look upon it.
"Better to have tried and failed than to live with never knowing what could have happened if you had only tried," Susan speaks out into the air, resigning herself to this mantra for the remainder of the boat ride.
You were the assistant to a well-known magnate in Tokyo. You've seen the man on magazines, both as a big-shot business lord and as the wet dream of women all over Japan. When you decided to study business and finance, you never thought you would land an important job in a prestigious company. Sure, you had dreams and what no, but never actually thought you would be accepted as anything more than just another 9-5 office employee. But despite the great salary and the luxuries that surrounded you, the heir to the Gojo clan made it impossible to like your job. He represented everything you loathe in a man; Satoru Gojo is condescending, self-centered, a playboy, and is not ashamed to flaunt his money. He makes sure to annoy you whenever the opportunity present itself, like complaining when you bring him a coffee from his favorite café claiming that “you don’t know how to order it” knowing you use the exact words he gave you. To your experience, he’s insufferable, it’s why you don’t understand why your heart fires up when he looks at you with those majestic eyes for more than a few seconds, or why your hands get clammy at the thought of being stuck in his family private jet when you have to accompany him in a business trip. Even when you went to sleep, flashes of the white-haired man invaded your nights, dreaming about his fingers caressing your body, getting on his knees like you are a goddess worthy of being worshiped, gawking at you like he might get punished for not taking in your essence. And when you wake up at deadly hours of the morning, you might even wish it wasn’t a dream.
“The immediate transition was so subtle and effective they simply didn’t see it happening. If they looked behind their backs, it wasn’t as though there would be a harsh line between what it had been and what it then was. They knew somewhere inside of them that the morning hadn’t just risen up with the sun and lit the world up in sparkling white light. No. The truth is they’d walked so much and so far that they came to meet the morning where it resided. They’d walked so much and so far they ended up in its home and saw that its home was eternal and inseparable from the world itself. A place of perpetuity from which it never departs. After all, why would it? It was fed, content, and warm. There, it would never die. There, Day held its Kingdom and it never had to compete with Night.
With all the warmth in the air and the smell of sweet fresh water and blooming flowers, they had no choice but to let their guards down. Nothing bad could happen to them in such a beautiful place. See for yourself—take a moment and listen. Can’t you hear the birds singing? The bees buzzing? Life is becoming itself, waking up to this glorious dawn all around you. Can’t you see the way the faint morning light filters through the luxurious flowering canopies all above you to form kaleidosopic shapes on the ground and on the bark? Can’t you hear the soft whisper of the wind through the leaves or the sound of the gentle gurgling stream? The toads and the frogs chattering and laughing? The butterflies flapping about? If you can’t hear it, focus a little bit. Use your imagination if you have to.”
I am surrounded by
plastic oceans of
blue and white.
Drapes, gowns and masks,
create my tide.
The blues enchant me
to preserve its integrity
with all my might.
Sterility, a necessity,
to save this life.
If hands wander afar,
beyond imaginary lines,
don’t return to contaminate
the blue you left behind.
- Aleta Jay
.
Note: Today was the first day of my surgery rotation. It was an amazing day! However, I just wanted to write this quick piece to share my obsessive fear of contaminating the sterile field!
We lived in the countryside and I saw my brothers dying.
The doctors told us they had 24h to live and then they sent us home. We just stood there crying, crying, crying. I remember not being able to breathe, I remember feeling my heart, heavy, like it was working twice as hard to keep me alive. We wondered hopelessly what to do with the unfair timeline, and realized there’s nothing to do but cry about it.
In what seemed like a miracle, my brothers didn’t die by hour 24, but then I thought, “this isn’t a miracle it’s a curse. A sick joke.” We didn’t know when the worst would happen; we didn’t sleep or take breaks because any second, between blinks, between sobs, they could be gone.
I remember my younger brother screaming in pain, and my oldest crying silent tears.
And just when they were about to pass away, I woke up.
It felt as though the dark ages were upon them once more.
There was this impending sense of doom, it was as though dread had taken shape of the sky and eclipsed it's threatening presence over the valley... Washing the lands in black shadows which danced and flickered with life, mocking... Taunting.
The demons within these shadows sapped the warmth and hope from the very soils, drapping the woods in their essence... Leaving a tainted stench of evil in what once originally was a calm landscape with beautiful horizons and equally entrancing experiences all around.
Lysandra's eyes hardened whilst her visage otherwise lacked emotion, her gaze hot enough to burn holes into the glass window separating her bedroom from the world beyond.
While she didn't show it right away, there wasn't a doubt to be had that she was angry. Of course she was angry. Truthfully, she was volatile with emotion, inwardly she was tearing herself apart with the sheer notion that the reason her forests were awash in the vile ichor was because she hesitated for too long.
It was entirely her fault that the opposing cult which currently reined over her homeland had managed to even get into the position of power. These were her forests. And they snuck on her land and bred like cockroachs right under her nose.
"Damn Heartsbane," Lysandra hissed, turning away from the window in an attempt to put the horrors of her neglience in the far recess of her mind.
She atleast knew that lingering and kicking herself in the ass would go well into the night. It would kick up old habits of insomnia, the anxiety and self-loathing wasn't good to simmer in. Thus, the Lady Vanburen would address the tray of letters accumulated throughout the day. It was her night habit to read and absorb the general testimonies and personal letters before putting an end to her day.
But there was one particular letter which immediately caught her attention. Of course, the area was rather simply lit, and for a moment Lysandra considered the idea that her mind was playing tricks. Long, elegant, manicured fingers would ensnare the dark colored letterlocked paper, lofting the lightweight item into the light of her desks oil for illumination to confirm her theory.
"Varick?" She'd remark outloud, her confusion plain and blatant whilst prying her brothers wax seal apart to free his letter from the folded paper meant to protect the contents from prying eyes.
Her brows would remain furrowed as Lysandra lowered herself into her seat, muttering to herself all the while, "Now why... Would you write me a letter and not just visit?"
Though she'd not doddle on the issues of her brother's lacking desire to be more involved, perhaps his answer lay within the folds of the paper currently clasped in her hands. Thus, with the face of the letter angled in the light for easier reading, Lysandra would begin to read, her lips moving silently along.
The further she read into the swiftly written word the quicker her features went through an array of expressions, on a scale of confused to appalled. It wasnt long before she finished the letter, only to read it a second time closely to ensure what Varicks words were written as so.
After a moment of consideration the woman snatched up the oil lamp and the letter, lifting from her desk chair and bustling straight from her bed chambers to her study -- in her wake had she stirred Olaf and Duchess, both hounds whimpering in acknowledgement to the distressed woman. Though Lysandra paid neither dog mind whilst pushing open the door to her study, instantly met with the cold night air and stale scent of moth balls. Setting her paper and oil lamp down atop the coffee table stationed near the hearth of her study, the woman quickly bent on her knee to grab the souvenir, collected after handling the Heartsbane witch, from a cabinet nearer the heart of the study.
Within the bag were the papers and journals which she gathered from the cave of the witch, papers and journals which would instantly be dumped onto the coffee table after she set flame to the fireplace for better lighting.
Instantly the room was banished of darkness and cold, awash in the light and warmth of hope, such which gave Lysandra the courage to begin shuffling through and throughly reading one of the three journals which had been in the possession of the Heartsbane witch. The journal which her brother had deliberately described in his letter, such a journal which contained sensitive information and details which no other being should have ever documented regarding not only Lysandra but her entire family.
Her mother, her father, her brothers and even Maria... There were pages detailing her neices, including Venreena and her family, as well as her nephews... All the way down to the bastard of Adaires. To Lysandras relief... Silas's bastard was not among those written.
But for those that were written? They each had lages of information. What they did for careers, for the witches of the family it include vague descriptions of their power, their influence, their contacts - and even some details of those contacts were written in the jorunal...
However, for Lysandra and her children the information was a little more in-depth. It included their schedules, their preferences in beverage, food, their animals... Such sensitive information that only someone in constant contact would know about like their personal maids and private guards...
What chilled Lysandra about her children's pages were the ending statements of their individual details: "Mission Fulfilled by, and as requested, Julia Jovner".
What sort of mission would a Heaertsbane have with her kids? Was the witch referencing attacking them? If so... Was her intent to kill them?
Lysandra paled with that thought, lowering herself back into the seat of the couch before the coffee table, her eyes staring toward the orange and yellow flames within the hearth. Did they intend to kill her Charlette and Albert? If so, who else might they try to target?
Instantly, Lysandra returned to reading, shifting through many names of the Vanburen in her family. There was a mass of details surrounding the witches of the Vanburen coven, even, which only further made Lysandra uncomfortable.
But one name carried an extra piece of information which floored Lysandra.
'Loralei Vanburen, wife of Silas Vanburen: Next mission.'
"For fucks sake," Lysandra cussed, bringing a hand tk her eyes thus to rub the exhaustion from them. In the next instant she'd sigh and murmur, "Varick was right... There's someone in the Melstone Barony working for the Heartsbane."
Such a revelation called for a large glass of whiskey before trying to comprehend how to address the issue.
The following story was
written from a roleplay
between @the-cleaner-wra and I!
Mentiones: @braxtonhudson @piercetheliving
Music
“I’ve learned two bitter lessons tonight, Mister Worthshire...”
It seemed as though her heavy thoughts of grief dragging down her mood was terribly noticeable. She could feel the eyes upon her, the eyes of the man which had initially offered the cigarette -- which Rickie currently stuck between her sneering teeth.
She couldn’t will herself to hold his gaze, knowing very well if she did he’d see the broken soul within through her sad eyes. That alone made her absolutely disgusted with herself. Rickie loathed this feeling of regret, of guilt. It was a crushing weight that hung off her slumped shoulders and coiled around her throat, suffocating her in the same instance as breaking her spine.
It was disruptive.
Perhaps that was what lead Connor to beckon Rickie to the Hudson Clinic, how suddenly her lack of attention had become. Perhaps that was why she could feel a heartfelt conversation was just around the corner, now that both adults had found a comfortable seat within the vacant, quiet clinic.
Connor, upon sitting down, would unbutton his suit jacket, hesitating as he’d begun reaching. Pointedly the Cleaned held open the flack of his jacket, showing Rickie his hand.
"I'm setting my pistol on the dresser, as I'm certain I won't need it,” he stated simply, before reaching in and doing exactly that.
Upon relaxing in that comfortable chair, two fluffy Gilnean cats peaked out from under it, mewling quietly. Next, Connor addresses her, "Now, Miss Devron, I must admit I'm quite intrigued... What lessons did you learn that has you so distraught?"
Slowly the woman brought one of her legs up onto the table with her, fixing the groove of the heel of her boot against the edge of the table. The gesture brought her some delight, stretching the joints momentarily distracting her. She'd curl her arm around her thigh and calf, pressing her cheek atop the knee before taking a deep mouthful of smoke from the half-destroyed cigarette.
With that exhale of smoke would her silence be broken after: "The first I learned is that if a man -- let alone a woman -- can't respect your career or your choices, they're definitely not the one."
The words were stressed and strained, carried from a heartbroken woman’s lips.
He listened intently, hands folded on his lap, with his legs crossed. Nodding slowly, he offered a small smile, "That is quite true, Miss Devron, an amicable partnership requires understanding, and respect, for both parties," he dipped his head low, "Did they judge you for something?"
Calmly Rickie lifted her head from her knee. For a moment she simply stared at the burning end of her midnight cigarette, a storm rolling through her eyes as she recounted the conversation that had her so mixed up. "He judged me for choosing my suit over him.”
She’d flick her cigarette, Connor remaining silent as she continued.
“He said I was letting myself live in chains or something like that... All cause I broke up with him -- I never explained -why- I was breaking up with him, though... Just that..," she'd hesitate, beginning to roll her eyes before huffing out, "I just told him I wanted to focus on work."
"Truth of the matter was," she expresses, "Desmond got me thinking about some shit he said a while back-- that it's not good to be a suit and date someone, or something like that. Because then that person's life gets put in danger, and they become your weakness. And I believed him--," she shrugs, flicking her cigarette's ash away, "It made sense. Not that I could tell Damon that shit, though.."
"In chains... That's quite a tall claim," Connor said with a hum, leaning his head back against the cushion of the chair, thoughtful for a moment, "Many people find that when they can not control the livelihood of their partners, they grow jealous, envious even, over it."
He smiled lightly, regarding her for a moment, "And what Desmond said... It's true, as I am sure you've seen," he motioned to himself. "However-," holding up a finger, he dipped his head forth and stated, "Holding a relationship whilst in the position that we are requires discipline, discretion, and a tremendous amount of care. And, while you may show that discretion and discipline as to keep the relationship clandestine, others may grow frustrated with it. I agree with Mister Pierce mostly on that statement- but it's not just because it becomes -your- weakness." He'd reach into his suit jacket to procure the tin of cigarillos, plucking one for himself and lighting it. "Let us use a hypothetical situation."
Watchful brown eyes kept their hold upon Connor, eager to hear his advice -- Already Rickie could feel the stress beginning to melt from her muscles. She no longer felt terribly overwhelmed with the idea that the break up was entirely her fault.
Connor took a few puffs idly, humming in thought, "Let us say we are on business, and you were injured, killed, or taken captive. Many in the company may know what happened, however, I'm sure you notice we keep much of our information in-house, so to speak. Let us say for hypothetical reasons your lover is outside the company, doesn't understand, gets angry that we aren't discussing what happens. They begin to make a scene. It draws attention- unwanted attention." He waved his hand lightly.
Rickie’s lips pulled into a firm line, grimacing at the thought of such a hysteria. She could see it herself-- A man screaming into the face of Braxton Hudson himself that he endangered the life of Rickie. She could also foresee the punishment that would follow if she were ever to return home after such a shit show.
"It puts your co-workers and the company in danger of investigation and brings about unnecessary suspicion," Connor regarded quietly, "It is very difficult, this life we lead, Miss Devron. For some, more difficult than others. However, if I must say, despite your faults,” Rickie’s eyes narrow for a moment, though Connor continues as he wasn’t affected by such a look, “With what you said if it's the truth... You did the right thing. Mister Hudson isn't a slave driver, he is a businessman. Quite frankly the best that I've worked for, and I don't say that for simple flattery."
Dragging her tongue across her bottom lip, the foot atop the table's edge would begin to tap idly at the air, lifting her free palm to her hand only to lick the flesh before fizzling out the burning end of her cigar, snuffing it out now that all the tobacco had been smoked.
"All around, I know for damn sure this decision was the best I've made in some ten years. I'm saying so in case you're wondering if I regret it--," she'd purse her lips and shake her head, "The only thing I regret about tonight is he wasn't able to see my end of things, didn't wanna be friends and try to work this shit out slowly, rebuild on a foundation of trust. He wanted to pull his mask back on and get to fucking work-- Some shit about bodyguards and assassin's not mixing well together," she snorts.
He looked to her and smiled, nodding lightly. "Good." He said with a deep nod. "As for him not understanding your end of things, it always happens. There will be disagreements where you both dig your heels in the sand and not give way- however...,” He frowned, furrowing his brows lightly. "You said that he was arguing about your job? What points was he trying to make against it?"
"Stupid shit really. I was trying to help him, you know? He wanted to get outta a specific line of business, and I was offering him advice regarding how I last saw him act in a fucking interview... You remember him, I'm certain-- He seemed to really push your buttons. Damon, that--," she hesitates before sighing, "'Master assassin, among other things'?” Connor blinked, a grim expression overcoming his features, and instantly Rickie would begin to nod, “Yeah, I was trying to get him to... Dial it down and be a little more mundane -- He got real uppity, started blaming everyone else that they all point fingers at him and assume.”
“My telling him to try wearing more mundane clothes like a suit or some shit turned into Mister Hudson's a fool for letting us walk around unprotected and without armor-- Just..," she shook her head, "He got real mouthy--... Now that i think back on it, I dunno what I saw in him."
Connor rose his brows and clicked his teeth, tugging a clay ashtray over and tapping the cigarillo idly. "Oh, I do remember him. I was quite appalled that he was so upfront and forthcoming about what he did... and expected to get a job with a Shipping Company advertising like that." He blinked and shook his head. "I introduced myself as a tailor, handed Mister Hudson a portfolio of my work, and well-" he waggled his hands lightly with a chuckle. "Here I am... As for unprotected, I'd think all of our skills do twice over what armor could." He smiled lightly. "We are not a mercenary band, after all." He offered her a friendly smile. "I've always found, however, that those who make excuses for their behavior are always the ones that don't improve. It is why I make no excuses. If I blunder, I assure my employer that I will do better, and then prove such by acting." He dipped his head.
With a small bob of the head, Rickie would begin to smile. It was clearly a more genuine gesture as the duo fell into a comfortable silence, one that was ultimately disturbed by a quirky browed Connor who motioned toward Rickie.
“However I must admit I'm concerned with the one statement you quoted him for... Assassins and Bodyguards don't mix well..." He furrowed his brows, thinning his lips. "Had his behavior against Mister Hudson begun when he was spurned?"
Slowly she'd straighten her posture, mouth going dry as she remarks, "I think so. He did say that, uh... Our paths were at a fork, or something like that. That where we left it was the last time we should ever meet. I dunno how promising that sounds, but I don't picture him to be a fool, going after Mister Hudson."
He nodded slowly. "I certainly hope not. I've always found that those who have to brag they're master assassins-" he leaned in to whisper loudly. "Usually aren't master assassins." He nodded sagely, giving her the 'ok' symbol with his hand. "My second most concern, however, is also this- was he angry enough to come after you?" He asked, tilting his head, sitting up. "I know many do not like me, Miss Devron, I am prudish, shrewd, strictly business much of my time- however... You are a co-worker, and part of the company I am loyal to. Which means that regardless of either of our opinions, I will do what I must to ensure your safety."
Swallowing heavily, Rickie's eyes drop down to her hands. She was quiet for a moment, though when she would speak her voice was far less shaky, more conviction and confidence to her tone whilst stating firmly: "He wouldn't come after me. I don't think so, at least. If he felt an ounce of what I did for him, he'd be in too much pain just with the thought of me, so... Gods forbid there come a day where suddenly he loses his humanity and does come after me. That'll be the day I resolve my heartbreak and gun him down without a second thought."
He eyed the woman gently, before offering a smirk. "Good." He nodded curtly, adjusting his suit idly- it was a tick of his, it seemed. "No woman or man should have to live in fear of a former lover, so long as you don't think that he will do you harm, I will be content. However, if you notice he is following you, or you feel threatened, or are confronted by him, I want you to tell me immediately."
He regarded her for a moment, sighing lightly. "You said you learned a second lesson, however?"
With a single nod she'd remark, "My second lesson this evening, I think, is that... What isn't meant to be will never last, and it's recognizing that it wasn't meant to be that lessens the heartache. Do you think that makes sense?" Her eyes move to inspect Connor now, "I may have read into this entire evening all wrong, of course. But in a sense... I did learn things can't last forever."
"No, that is a valuable lesson to learn as well, Miss Devron. The moment we begin to cling to things that we know isn't meant to be is the moment we compromise ourselves and do ourselves an injustice. Life is fleeting, for some it ages. However we humans are met with a life far shorter than some. When we cling to things that tear us apart we waste valuable time for what we could be devoting to more meaningful connections and companions." He dipped his head lightly. "Were you fighting often, before you finally decided to part ways?"
Her mind was a buzz with thoughts and his remarks, digesting it all as best as she could and as quickly. Alas, rather than delve and hesitate too long, she'd bring her attention back to Connor. With risen brows and parted lips she sighs, shaking her head,
"Not at all. It was the honeymoon phase, we barely made it a full week, if I'm honest. I went in purely out of excitement-- We clicked so damned well, I thought we coulda really been something. But the more I think about it the more I wonder if that was just me being eager to settle down.”
Oh how foolish she felt...
With a pitiful laugh the woman pushes herself up from the table, fingers combing through her hair, shoulders raising up in a shrug, "Gods, I sound like a love-struck teenager-- This is all over a guy I knew for, under a fucking month, that's pathetic as shit."
Connor smirked.
"I understand that," he mumbled under his breath, before he took a deep inhale and let it out slowly. "Did he ask you to be involved with him, or did you ask him? And Miss Devron, affection has an uncanny way of making us irrational. It happens to the best of us. Especially when the attachment is strong. Do not blame yourself or put yourself down for being human. You are not me, after all." He smiled, tilting his head lightly- a jest about himself, “Afterall... I judge myself too harshly for putting too much sugar in my tea."
Quirking a corner of her mouth upward, Rickie would manage a slight chuckle in response to the jesting, though she'd promptly bring herself to straighten up and regather her composure, staring toward the ceiling now. "Hm..," she smirks, seeming to reminisce, "If I recall correctly... I initiated it all. I asked him out on our first date-- Got the ball rolling."
Connor nodded, "Then you learned something else, as well- in all of this." He smirked small, "Don't move so quickly, and always rationalize your feelings."
And suddenly it felt as though all the breath had been knocked from her lungs, all of the pressure upon her shoulders lifted in an instant. It overwhelmed the woman, how she didn’t feel so strained and struggling-- she could actually breathe now.
It was with a shaky breath that she'd turn toward Connor, her lips pressing into a firm line before admitting, "I think... I think I'm ready to retire, for tonight, Mister Worthshire. I don't mean to be abrupt about it."
"You are quite fine, Miss Devron, it is rather late." He stood up, leaving the pistol on the dresser as he moved to the door. "Do be careful, and remember, if he starts to follow or harass you, do let me know. I don't much like those who intimidate their former lovers. It's bad form.“
Quietly she'd gather the paper wrapped sandwich into her hands, offering Connor a small smile in her approach for the door, "Thanks for hearing me out, by the by. Not often I get to rant or vent my feelings to someone-- This was a good therapy session--, Evenin’, Mister Worthshire."
A smile was shared between the polar opposites, Rickie the first to turn away by prying open the door to the clinic and closing it behind her. Long, purposeful strides carried her to the Cathedral district, her head held high and shoulders squared once again.
