they keep her sane, the (bellsandneedles) wrote in theunboundic, @ 2018-01-25 21:00:00 |
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It was too cold. The outdoor Market had been moved under some shelter to stop the bit of the wind and frigid rain, but emerging from it was always startling. Not enough to stop her from going out to get food of course, though she was certainly bundled up. The air seemed to cut straight through her, and she had wound a scarf tightly around her neck with her long hair wound up in a bun on the top of her head to keep it from whipping around.
Truthfully, Rhiannon didn't have to buy as much food as one might think with how much she cooked. Though the city officials were against it, every now and then she still took payment the old fashioned way. A family of farmers who traded her eggs to help keep their growing boys in fitting clothes without having to sell the farm to do it. That sort of thing. But it was discreet, as silly as that sounded. As if it were drugs rather than eggs and produce.
Her steps faltered abruptly, the bags swaying in her hand when she stopped. The posters on the lamp post stood out so much in her mind's eye that it was hard to imagine how she had missed it on her way in. Faidoux Positivity posters. Propaganda. The spot in her arm from her most recent injection seemed to pulse, but she resisted the urge to grab at it as if it were a physical wound. A phantom pain that was echoed by a curdling in her stomach. Were these all over Castyll too? Was the damnable stuff flowing through her blood not enough, they had to see a reminder of their control around town? It was almost enough to make her do something. Except. Except. Not really. She swept her eyes down and turned to resume her walk back to her home.
And, as she did, she nearly ran into someone standing still in the street, watching the nearest Faidoux poster with a very neutral expression. Inwardly, Fiona's blood was boiling, but she had long since learned to keep her anger from her face.
She started at the unexpected near contact, lost in her own thoughts - and feelings - as she had been, but instinctively reached out to Rhiannon, to steady both of them. "Her peace," she told the other woman simply, wondering what she might think of this latest propaganda. She had helped the Resistance before, after all.
"Her peace." Rhiannon replied automatically, the greeting a reflex just as what followed after, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be standing in the middle of the path." Head and eyes averting downwards in apology. The woman was familiar, though she couldn't place her name right away, and her mind reached to wherever she had seen her before anxiously.
One of the estates, when she was there for a fitting appointment. Something else too. Oh. A sudden flash of the woman's face contorted in anger as she dropped off a child at Rhiannon's door to stay because her parents were presumed taken by Clovennian authorities. What a small world. Her eyes darted back to the poster and for just a beat she let the disgust she felt at it fill her features before it disappeared, feeling relieved at sharing it all the same.
"I was the one standing idle," Fiona replied, her tone no-nonsense. She had no interest in debating the point, however, but did catch the brief look on the tailor's face.
"Glum morning, isn't it?" Not saying why, but it would be obvious.
"Yes. But things have to get worse before they get better." The old adage was from her cousin, one of the ones who died in the war. Perhaps that should have been a sign to them about what he was going to do. A warning. Hindsight. He had certainly taken worse farther than they expected.
Rhiannon turned her back to the poster back towards her shop to start the slow walk back towards it, "I have not spoken to you recently. How are things?"
"Worse before they get better, apparently," Fiona replied with her own brand of dry humor. She punctuated the answer with a small, brief smile to soften it. "We have a new guest at the Manor. Has she been to see you yet?" "Apparently." Rhiannon agreed, not put off by the tone and and let her lips twitch upwards in a mirror of the other woman's. She nodded and tried not to grimace, "Just this morning. Thought I would take a walk to shake it off." The comment was said quietly, her normal demure voice that didn't reveal how Blair's condescension had crept under her skin. "She has that effect a lot," Fiona stated evenly, although she was no more at ease around Blair Adler than most people. By comparison, being January Lyon's maid was perfectly acceptable work. "Did you know she's going to be at the clinic tomorrow?" Rhiannon rubbed her arms, ostensibly because of the cold but truly to try and shake the revulsion she felt at the thought of the woman seeing her tomorrow. "So I have heard," Fiona confirmed, keeping her face neutral despite the scorn that wanted to tug her lips down. A sudden intrusive thought came into her mind and wouldn't leave, fought it's way past her lips, "You don't think they could be preparing to change the formula do you, make it stronger?" She was unstable enough as it was. Her body wanted to use her gifts, like her lungs wanted to breathe and her eyes wanted to blink. It was unsurprising that the Fade didn't just repress abilities but also caused them to go sideways. Rhiannon couldn't imagine what would be worse, suddenly losing gifts altogether or having them be more unstable. Fiona frowned slightly in confusion, wondering where that idea might have come from. "I wouldn't put it past them." If they found a way to neutralize their gifts altogether, she was sure that they would. "For peace, of course." As the posters stated. It did seem silly now that she said it out loud. The expression on the other woman's face brought that idea home. But the thought still lingered, "This just seems like such a small arena for someone like her. She must be here for a reason." How else would they decide on how to improve the Fade other than observing how it worked first hand? Fiona said nothing for a few seconds, mulling things over and making sure that no one was within earshot before she asked, conversationally, "Does she have ties to something other than the Adler press empire, then?" "The Belmonts." Which was repetitive. The family was publicly in charge of the Faidoux implementation, and Blair was related to them. Then again, "What better way to rally support for something harsher on us?" But she shook her head as if to rid herself of the thoughts that would do her no good. Fiona set thoughts of Blair Adler aside for later inspection when Rhiannon moved the conversation away from such subjects - and towards the sort Fiona would prefer not to have in the street. Not that there was much to answer to it, right then, other than a simple, "I won't forget." They had reached the tailor's shop, and she pressed a friendly hand on Rhiannon's arm. "I must get back to the Manor. Thank you for the conversation." Thank you, for your pledge. "Her peace, Rhiannon."
Her face didn't change, so it looked like they were still discussing a frivolous topic from a distance, "As if my gift acting up wasn't humiliating enough." It didn't happen severely , but the high emotions, the crowd, the stranger holding her arm and feeling like a farm animal being corralled had her body projecting erratically while she waited in line. Often times she hid it, but Blair seemed like she didn't miss much.
"Curiosity about our people, I figure," she added on a tone matching her expression. Curiosity about the savages, and how they took to their yoke, really. The propaganda posters only added insult to injury; something would need to be done about them. The people had to know that all was not lost.
"What do you think Blair Adler might have to do with that?"
"Yes. For peace." But they weren't the problem when it came to peace.
If she did, Fiona had no idea about it. But she really should
"Regardless, I want you to know. You can," There was an odd sort of deja vu that lurked in her minds eye back to just after the war and saying these same sorts of words to someone in Castyll. Deaths in the family to a cause either meant familial support would be doubled or lost completely, historically. "You can still call on me if you need. Funding or shelter, or some such."
No one watching would think it odd that the Tailor dipped her head, a history in town of becoming demure to stronger persons. No one would assume she was stopping her lips from being read, or trying to ensure her habits of overworking herself and being a spendthrift ways were useful to someone.