ofelia zhou deals in secrets. (consultancy) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-27 11:21:00 |
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It occurred to her only belatedly that taverns were technically a place to meet people. Ofelia had camped out at a table in the back, a very picture of solitude in the midst of a public space, sitting by herself and looking through some papers. (Not as many as usual; the mountain of paperwork had finally been conquered, it seemed.) Every few lines, the gambler would pause to steal another bite from what looked like the remains of a shepherd’s pie. She still had her head tilted over the paper, happily installed at this makeshift pseudo-office, when she felt the disturbance of cold air rippling across the tables. Ofelia glanced up automatically, a kneejerk response, a flicker of the eyes to take in the new arrival as she always did (it wouldn’t do to grow quiet and complacent and unobservant, even here). Each time tonight, it had been another unknown face, another blur to add to the nondescript tables and bar—but this time, she recognised the blonde. Were she another woman entirely, she might have given a wave of the hand and a trilled yoo-hoo! to summon the mercenary over. Instead, Ofelia settled for meeting Gillian’s eyes, steadily and unwavering, with a slight quirk of the eyebrow and an even slighter smile. Gillian’s own reaction hardly offered much more in return—a brief pause of recognition as she scanned the room, a shrug of her shoulders as she moved toward the bar. By that first moment, one might’ve wagered that to be the end of the encounter. Just like a wolf catching a familiar scent, however, Gillian glanced over her shoulder and once again toward that same direction. A simple, cursory observation, instinct, or ingrained habit. Whatever it was, the mercenary loped toward the groups at the bar (not to say firstly, for that would already signify a certain amount of intent) and nudged herself a spot to order a drink. She eased her way out of her longcoat as one shirks aside their professional skin after a long day, draping the item over her arm (not on the chair nearest) and shaking out the melting snow from her hair. There was not a sword to be seen this time, if one were to look it—no doubt relinquished to the confines of a car parked not far outside, and replaced instead by another indication of her day’s work instead: bandages along the knuckles, a reddened scrape snaking along the forearm to hide under a sleeve that was folded up halfway. A tavern was a place to meet with people and Gillian seemed at ease in doing so here, exchanging words with those beside her while waiting, leaning an arm against the bar with the natural ease that a leader might. On another night, she might’ve stayed fixed there as well, for whatever purposes she saw fit to entertain, but on this particular night it was, evidently, not fated to be. Argument was presented for the sake of it—that well-served and oft-practiced code of conduct that one employs in her business, one that had, already, been set aside before. Good rarely came out of making exceptions to one’s principles (continuously), she knew, but Gillian moved with drink now in hand, purposeful as ever and over toward the solitary island Ofelia Zhou had constructed. “Work never ceases,” she said with a nod, observing casually the papers spread out on the table’s surface (and containing something of a knowing grin). “Even at this hour.” “Never,” the other woman acknowledged, her voice mock-grave. Somewhere during the course of Gillian’s conversation and ordering at the bar, Ofelia had already rustled together and moved some of the papers and her bag, clearing off space for any unanticipated dinner guests who happened to join. The empty chair sat quirked at an angle, ready to be pulled loose from the rest of the table. “Whereas you must be decompressing from the day, if I assume correctly,” Ofelia said. Her eyes had already caught on the bandaged arm, swiftly noting and filing away the details for posterity. Fighters wore the evidence and detritus of their work like thieves didn’t; the physical signs were stamped on their very skin at the end of each day, whereas Ofelia bled gil invisibly. “Did it go well?” Her question was the usual polite curiosity she usually exhibited, but there was a thread of warmth woven through the words, and perhaps a small ringing note of concern. She’d caught glimpses of her occasional-bodyguard around the city, a fixture in the background (she knew how good Gillian was at fading when she wanted to), bustling around on her own business, their paths crossing when they needed to—and, perhaps, increasingly, a bit more often than they strictly needed to. Curiosity had dragged Fee back, along with the chance for another rummy rematch. She nodded to the chair. “Quick afternoon stroll,” Gillian said, dismissing the day’s collection of wounds with a shrug. “Nothing too hazardous.” She had mostly forgotten them, lost conveniently somewhere amidst her long list of appointments and other tasks—business as usual, or something like it. But she gave a quick glimpse now, setting down her drink on the cleared space on the table (a confident decision, where another might linger in thought of interrupting another party yet to arrive; claimed staked then, as she nudged the chair wider with her foot), she wondered if it would have suited better to find a healer and clean up first. “But this,” she said, giving a casual gesture toward the paperwork, “couldn’t help but make sure you weren’t in too far over your head.” Attempting to decompress as she was (an easy deduction), Gillian now found herself attempting to seem casual while trying to navigate between two different faces: the professional and the personal. Their former relationship (client and contractor) tugged them towards one end of the pole; other considerations, including the informal environment, nudged them towards the other end. “Habit of the work maybe.” Taking up the seat beside Ofelia, she was however pleased with the ease at which she was able to continue to keep watch over the rest of the tavern--as at least one action presented could genuinely be chalked up as such. “Well. Though I might be in over my head—my assistant’s been a bit busy lately—thankfully it’s not as dire as most. At the moment, the worst I risk here is a papercut.” Ofelia ran a thumb across the edge of one of the files for demonstration, creating a mere hair-thin line of red. (To the keen-eyed, her fingertips and pads of her hands were already nicked with an assortment of curious scars: as if she’d already handled razor-sharp paper too many times, layering cut upon cut until her fingerprints were mottled with them.) The gambler set down her fork into the shepherd’s pie, disarming her chosen weapon for the evening. “Glad you’re so concerned for my well-being, however. I’ll have to recommend the Lions to all of my friends: they offer a truly conscientious commander.” Ofelia’s smile was small but brilliant regardless, betraying the good mood that had came strolling in with this new dining companion. (She couldn’t have chosen better, really, when it came to whiling away this hour alone versus with company.) A similar thought might have been shared. However, as Gillian raised her glass to take her first sip and to mask whatever brief expression might have crossed her features, there was certainly no good way of telling. “Can’t say that wouldn’t suit my interests,” she said, eyebrow raised, building up the foundations from an improvised pretext, an indefinite blueprint. “Good word of mouth can be nearly invaluable.” Slowly but surely, the mercenary felt the tension of the day begin to drain away, set aside for now along with weapon and worries. A simple sensation worth little note, Gillian set down the drink and moved her gaze along the course of the table and up to meet the eyes of her sometimes-client, now (for the moment) casual companion. She eased back in her chair, resting her weight on one elbow as she spoke, affording no lesser amount of attention now that she wasn’t being paid to offer protection. “Didn’t mean to edge into your territories tonight,” she explained of herself, having inadvertently wandered into a seemingly shared part of these particular woods. "But now that I have, I’d wager it’s only polite of me to ask how you’ve been, Ms. Zhou.” “Oh, it’s nothing. Do you see my nameplate on the door?” Ofelia gave a fluttering (bird-like) gesture of the hand, indicating the swinging entrance to the tavern. “I might get my dinners of convenience here, but this isn’t my territory. Not the same way the office is, or even one of the guild performing spaces. But I’m doing well. Wrapping cases as best I can, and accepting when I can’t. What’s that Pharist saying, about the serenity to accept the things I cannot change? The courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Trite. But true.” When not on assignment, Ofelia Zhou was a slightly different creature: less stiff, more fluid and talkative, the inner socialite brimming up through the cracks in her facade like a leaf of grass nosing through concrete. Years of social training had not gone amiss. “And you? How’s the company, the shop?” She exchanged a look with the fellow businesswoman. Gillian sat at the heart of a larger empire—and a less lonely one by far—but one professional beast still recognised another, knowing they spoke a shared language of practicalities, numbers, contingencies. “Busy as ever,” she said, a study in contrasts to the woman across from her—Gillian moved with a calm deliberacy, only moving a hand up to rub at a sore shoulder (hardly even realizing she was doing so, too distracted by keeping up with Ofelia’s varied movements and inflections as she spoke). “And enough so to take up much of my time, at that.” A wry smile inched its way across her features. “Nothing new there to offer. Speaking of gracious defeats, however…” She shifted and reached out for her drink but did not drink, her fingers steepled carefully over the rim instead, contemplative. A commander was meant to be decisive and unwavering, but that particular persona had been flung across her chair like her discarded coat, left for a time and place far more suitable than this. Instead, she raised her eyebrow in a curious look, humor and warmth flickering into sight in similar form to the light of the small candle sitting in the center of their shared table. “Habit of fighters, do you think? Hard-headed, wanting to conquer everything in our path, regardless of the risk?” “Oh, absolutely.” Ofelia’s answer was offered without hesitation, amused. “Whereas bards, we find workarounds, shortcuts, and adjust on the fly.” She noted all the little array of injuries that kept peeling subtly to view. Gillian was like a marble statue chipping away and missing small pieces; Ofelia catalogued them, and continued. “Some of your guild comrades seem the valorous ‘give me victory or give me death’ type. But did you know one of the earliest skills they teach bards is how to flee? Run off and live to fight another day. Different habit.” Gillian couldn’t help herself, and it was good, at least, that she hadn’t been trying so hard to—lest the brief laughter that bubbled its way up feel less than welcomed. Bards indeed, she thought to herself. Dangerously clever people they were and not anyone to underestimate. Now that, the mercenary knew, was no longer something she could try to contest. Not with this one at least, who had already beaten her soundly on other fields of battle (she wasn’t about to forget her losses at rummy any time soon). There was only room to recognize the threat instead, and find a good way to counter-strategize. “Good to know that—” what? “—bards adhere so well to the tenets of sense and reason.” Right. She picked up her drink and knocked the rest back, clinking the ice against the edges of the glass in a gesture of assumed contemplation. “How’s that old philosophy go? That sometimes even to live is an act of courage?” Too many were there in the world, charging headlong into dangers and looking for a valiant and heroic way to die (she knew well enough about that, much more than her share). “Shineca,” Ofelia said instantly, warmly, pinpointing the reference as if she’d literally nailed it to a board. It seemed she still wore the skin of an orator as well, memorising quotations and parroting lines. The words of a dead man / Are modified in the guts of the living. “It’s a good one. Sometimes I suspect that some of the best things our guilds should teach us is, well, persistence. Perseverance.” And Ofelia Zhou knew some of that, as well. Her foot jittered against the floor, her leg stiff by her side. A corner of her mind flitted away, thinking of another fighter also piecing themselves back together, his weight leaning on a cane, rebuilding. “The philosophy beneath is more important than simply how to swing a sword, strum a lute.” “Can’t build properly from a weak foundation,” Gillian shrugged in seemingly much agreeance. “Or forge anything that’ll last.” After all, she supposed, who was she if not one who strove to build great things, to create her own path from her own philosophy? A legacy that would, she hoped, last long after the mercenary departed from the world of mortal things. As oft it was with the will of any leader, it was certainly so here, and the thought did not fail to resonate soundly. “Taking into account old wisdoms,” she said with a half-teasing smile, and in that ever-slightly cocksure way that fighters were often in the habit of, even after years and years of hammering out a presentable facade of stoic self-discipline (and who was here to call her on such a thing now, save for one?), “I ought to find someone to remind me of the importance of these things from time to time. What with Emillion besieged as it is, I can only imagine what to face down next.” And there was another thing, she thought, that could use a reflection on perseverance—the city itself. What with fate smashing down on it again and again, it was still a wonder that so many had the strength of character to stand and keep rebuilding. “Another sensible bard on retainer maybe,” Gillian suggested after a beat, “to balance out the rest of the lot.” Ofelia’s reaction was fleeting surprise, sharp like electricity rippling its way through her—and Ofelia was not often a woman caught by surprise. It was the road not travelled: a brief glimpse of how things might have been in another life. She suddenly pictured camaraderie, a tight-knit group rather than varied allegiances and a solitary creature in a murmuration of starlings. It sang through her bones, rattling her foundation. “Funny,” she said, “I was under the impression I kept a fighter on retainer. Alas, the house has turned the tables on me.” A sphinxlike smile. “But certain occupational injuries keep me out of the field. A certain sensible bard could, however, be persuaded to play advisor and keep you all honest. Consigliere to the boss, so to speak.” It was a joke, or only half a joke (and even Fee couldn’t quite tell the difference anymore). The underworld terminology rolled easily off her tongue; it took her half a heartbeat to remember that perhaps it was more specialised language than she thought. “A certain bard,” Gillian began to say (as if to extend this joke, or proposition, or whatever it might’ve revealed itself to be underneath its many veiled layers), but the thought was left half-formed and quietly receded—a culmination of possibilities, a tide rising higher, higher, if only to fall back gently into arms of the sea, giving away none of its secrets. Gillian let the phrase on her tongue die off and the smile she offered instead was no less enigmatic than the other’s, a glance that might’ve meant anything. Such a precarious venture this was turning out to be, she thought, and her gaze wandered over again to the table, its collection of paperstacks, a dinner left unfinished and a small and solitary space at the tavern she had wandered into—as if the bold wolf now looked back on its trail, realizing how far the distance it had allowed itself to travel, if not for what. “Persuasion’s usually easier on a full stomach,” she noted lightly, tipping her empty glass in a gesture toward Ofelia’s discarded fork. A careful fold disguised itself beneath consideration, a hand not overplayed. “Might be better of me to allow you to finish your dinner for now. Or that paperwork.” No one was more surprised than Ofelia Zhou herself at the emotion which welled up then: disappointment, cloying as always. The idea of whiling away the rest of this meal and paperwork by herself suddenly seemed lonely, when it had been perfectly tolerable—even preferable—an hour earlier. No, stay. But she didn’t know how to squeeze out those particular words, how to ask for company. Instead, the gambler gave a nod. “A decidedly less enjoyable prospect,” she said lightly, “but I suppose I should be productive.” The pen spun between her hands, an instinctive habit. Much like how she cut and shuffled decks when nervous, a tic that spoke to control. A pause, then: “I’ll see you around, Gillian.” (An ‘until next time’ not entirely contingent on gil exchanging hands or a contract signed. The difference was noted.) The acts of standing, removing her coat from where it rested against the back of her chair and unmooring herself from this island of solace, now to be once again only inhabited by one, no longer trespassed by those who knew not for why they did such (a mysterious impetus to go against herself, to seek out), were all more difficult than Gillian expected. Something in the other woman’s tone roped around her, a final tug of hesitation, with a hand that sought to rest softly against Ofelia Zhou’s arm in tentative, unvoiced response. A memory struck her, brief like a gust of wind rising up from the water, of the beginning of a job not so terribly long ago. “Have a good evening, Ms. Zhou,” Gillian said, as if to don former mantle of respect and professionality—and wavering, ever slightly. “I’d wager you will.” “Call me Fee, if you like.” The permission slipped out before she even knew she was planning on doing it. Then she added, “Or Ofelia, at the very least.” One last exchanged smile (a little startled, a little surprised), and then they parted, two distant planets drifting back to their own separate orbits. |