the nearest famous city middle / trystane martell / sept. 12
Sterile walls, modern art: she sees her reflection in every purely decorative chrome corner and thinks she'll go mad if she spends another minute in that apartment. It's nice, of course--nice in that corner-of-the-mouth coo, nice like an upscale hotel with too-stiff sheets--but home, well, home is sunny estate full of black-haired children and fountain gardens and Doran's call to supper. Home is a memory.
"Melodramatic," she mutters to the empty dining room, and before the word has a chance to echo, she's digging through her closet for her latest pair of Saint Laurents. Her outfit choices for the gala dominate the spare surfaces of her bedroom: it's only just occurred to her that her relatives might not be so inclined to preparation. Not that Obara would take her fashion advice. She had given up on that front years ago, albeit reluctantly and with much ado. Trystane, however? Color her shocked if her little cousin had so much as looked at a tie in the past six months. And he actually might appreciate her efforts, if only because Doran had made more of an effort to instill manners in his children than Oberyn had ever cared to.
The doorman hails her a cab outside of the apartment building. She feels a palpable relief upon exiting into the murky city air, reminding her for the thousandth time that while taking an apartment after university may have been the adult thing to do, she is not--and will never be--a creature of solitude.
And so when she arrives, her impatience leads her not to knock so much as crash through the door, although she tempers the graceless entrance with a dramatic curtsy. "You." It's a little breathless from the charge. "You need something to wear to the gala. It's in three days!"
The last bit comes out as something more of a wail than intended, but she figures the occasion merits the drama. Nothing impassions Tyene Sand quite like a fashion emergency.
