gillian. (chiburui) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-22 21:10:00 |
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The gambler drifted towards the archery competition with no particular intent in mind (or not a conscious one, at least), content only to see what she could see—which eventually paid off once she noted a familiar head of blonde hair standing regal amongst the line of archers, back straight, posture perfect, fingers loosely draped over the string of the bow. Textbook form, Ofelia thought. She watched the rest of the competition quietly (no gil placed on this match at least; it wasn’t exactly the place), thoughtful attention paid to each twang of the bow, the wooden thunk of arrows hitting their mark and driving into the target, small splinters scattering into the air. Afterwards, she drifted to the side of the exhibition field, watching as workers scurried across to disassemble the targets and heft the haystacks away. Ofelia planted herself precisely where she might be spotted by departing fighters, perched on a stray abandoned haystack while she waited (still not entirely sure why she did so, but waiting nonetheless). The effort seemed to have paid off admirably, as Gillian had barely stepped beyond the boundaries of the exhibition field before her eyes trailed over to the observer in question. Her movement along with the rest of the participants ceased, a pause for what could only be reasoned as a need to readjust the bow and quiver slung over one shoulder—a moment made to reassess and, inevitably, to redirect. Gillian walked toward the other woman with her usual amount of purpose however (surprise proving no great deterrent), and maneuvering through the rest of her fellow fighters allowed her enough time to redesign her method of greeting. She’d not forgotten their last words exchanged, nor the request. Some personal efforts, however, were more difficult to hammer out and reforge than others. Caught off guard as she was, there wasn’t room at all to inspect the apparent wisdom of these actions, or so perhaps she might decide much later. “Ofelia,” she called out, testing the name and measuring out its weight as one does a new blade. “Caught sight of anything interesting yet?” Gillian looked over her shoulder for the briefest of moments then, considering belatedly that she might have been waiting for someone in particular—and planting herself like a boulder against the sea of departing fighters regardless. It had been like diverting water in a river, sending it merrily roiling in Ofelia’s direction instead: a well-executed maneuver. She slipped off the haystack as the samurai approached, brushing loose strands off her tights. (When she wasn’t delving into a job or the tenements, Ofelia looked coiffed and ready for society, as if the ghost of her mother still haunted her mirror and demanded she try harder, delivering a pretty package of femininity.) “Well, I liked what I saw of the competition,” she said, “Will you be attending the next one, with the monks?” Whiling away the hours with Gillian on a ship crawling its way up the coast had taught her some things about the other woman, and instilled a creeping suspicion (curiosity) whether she had any experience with that fairly spiritual class. I’ve found the technology displays and races very interesting— The thought was on the tip of Fee’s tongue. An unexpected urge to share thoughts and opinions, to compare notes on this festival, to hear what the other woman had to say. “Haven’t participated there in a long while,” Gillian said. A vague admission, as though, perhaps, it was only a sliver of the story, a piece of some larger puzzle whose shape and content could only be imagined. “My plans for the rest of the day were more of the personal sort.” Amidst the many sales and bargains to be had along the span of the festival, Goodwin’s Outfitting did not fail to participate as well. Promises were always made to make some appearance, and she suspected she might fit the task in eventually. “Planning to linger around here?” “Not precisely.” Ofelia’s reason for lingering had, after all, arrived. She fell into step beside the bodyguard, a faithful shadow to the taller woman, without another word of explanation. “Was thinking of heading over to the market stalls and scoping out these mythical discounts I’ve heard so much about. Which are, of course, like manna to a gambler’s ears.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth; she held it in reserve, like an ace up her sleeve. Gillian had, meanwhile, found enough reason to allow herself a wolfish grin at the coincidence, as if she herself had won some imaginary gamble. Walking along through the crowds had become natural for the two, a habit built steadily around the nature of the mercenary’s employ—and even now, instincts fell into place as she forged the pathway ahead and kept Ofelia within easy sight (the difference noted as her principal was, now, not quite that, or at least not for today). “Headed around that way myself in fact,” she said casually, and as the crowds sifted apart, dispersing toward other festival events soon to be held, a certain familiar hovercar came into view. She gave the other woman a glance over her shoulder. Gillian realized the ease at which she could dislodge herself from Ofelia’s company now, to leave the entire affair as a simple, unexpected crossing-of-paths (or so at least it seemed to her, realizing not how well she had been out-strategised). But it was, inevitably, doomed to become another lost opportunity at carefully maintaining her distance—her ruleboard rudely wiped clean and left for redivising. “If you’re looking for a ride.” Fee’s gaze drifted towards the car, recognising its silhouette even amongst the other vehicles crowding the kerbs, parked fender-to-fender in the press of the festival. Terror of terrors: she’d actually started to become accustomed to that passenger seat, having found the exact length to adjust it for her legs, her elbow draped over the window, hand loosely dangling into the fresh breeze as the city thawed and warmed into spring. It sounded like a very good idea indeed. “A ride wouldn’t go amiss,” she said, by which of course she meant yes, please—and so, agreement reached, off they went, a commander and a consultant on a sortie. |