Crow

[Máiréad Vrána]

Máiréad nodded in concession, somewhat disappointed that she had lost the little contest but consoled by Abigail's admission that she was "close". She continued to maintain her confidence, unaffected by the trivial defeat while spectating her opposite's moment of victory. She had enjoyed the game enough. This time was more a form of entertainment than a gamble with the fates. She had lost more important things before. And as the muffled clapping of the wheat grasses swept across the eternal plain, it confirmed that life was a lot simpler here and now.

She shook her head as a knowing smile fleetingly graced her lips. "I'm afraid you'd learn more about me than I'd learn about you if I attempted any more theories," Máiréad countered, reaching carefully for a slice. She fluidly brought it to her cup, dipping a fraction of the piece of bread into her wine before taking a perfectly sized bite, her teeth mulching the hardy crust with a satisfying crunch. The older woman's dark eyes nearly glistened in the candlelight and the corners of her lips rose in a subtle way, a coy simper, like she knew a secret and was beckoning Abigail to come hear it. Ansion's wines had not particularly impressed her upon her arrival to this agrarian world, but wheat was the planet's gift to the galaxy, and the natives had undeniably perfected the art of baking because of it.

She drank her poison in following to wash down the bread before gently prodding the other woman to make good on her promise. "Tell me." She pursed her lips and her eyes beamed almost deviously as she added: "Then you can guess mine." It was literally right under her nose.

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Taking a final moment to relish this personal victory, Abigail cut off the beginnings of a girlish giggle as she leaned back into the center of her chair. While the woman across from her still maintained an undeniable air of superiority, some of the luster had definitely begun to wear off. She was feeling less and less on display with each passing moment, and the wine sloshing around in her empty belly was not to blame. Not entirely, anyway.

Reaching for her own, previously snatched piece, Abigail stopped herself when she realized she had outright copied Máiréad's manner of eating. In a possibly misplaced effort to save face, the slicer crammed the entire half-soaked slice into her mouth, her faintly reddening cheeks swelling like a wintered rodent as she began to chew her food. "Dah may sehs..." Her head slumped the tiniest bit downward as she decided to finish the massive bite before she spoke again, critically aware of that unreadable gaze drilling into her again.

It took the remaining contents of her wineglass to clear her mouth, reaching out to pour herself some more before addressing the older woman's not-question. "Well you never would've guessed it. Naboo." Dexterous fingers came up to give her hair an exaggerated toss, the name of her birth planet leaving her lips with a pronounced, overly feminine lilt. The brief display of forced culture pulled another round of laughter from her lips, knowing she could never pull off that stereotypical Naboo quality. "Now let's see..."

Squinting her eyes, Abigail leaned in again to look her target up and down. Her gaze alternated between the jet black hair and the equally dark clothes, before focusing on those steady eyes with their disconcerting, confident steel. She took in the easy, yet dignified posture, as well as the perfected, effortless manner in which she seemed to do everything. She swirled the wine in her glass as she looked for some clue in the chosen drink, and thought back to anything she might have said before to give her a hint.

...She had no idea where the hell this woman came from.

"Well, you come from mon-" She stopped short, biting her lower lip for a contemplative moment before continuing, "No... maybe not money, but definitely some kinda prestige." She took a sip from her glass, licking the acquired flavor from her lips as her eyes drifted closed. For all she knew, this lady was some kind of politician, or maybe even a freaking Jedi. The very thought made her laugh at how ridiculous it was, and for just a moment she pondered how she might get a secret scan off from under the table. Eyes still loosely shut, another mouthful was imbibed before she spoke again, "...and you're a badass. I can tell that just sitting here."

With a final sigh, Abigail opened her eyes, locking them once more with those of the woman across from her. "As for where you came from, though... I dunno... Coruscant?" The fugitive knew she was reaching in the dark, but she could not for the life of her think of anything else.

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[Máiréad Vrána]

Her eyes followed the offworlder's process of picking up the bread slice and ushering it to her mouth, more or less shoving the entire portion in like a snake devoured a rat. Máiréad did nothing, retaining an entirely straight face as Abigail consumed her bread in a slightly revolting display. The woman was right. She never would have guessed Naboo...

Money, prestige--those were accurate assumptions, and Máiréad offered a gentle nod to each. A gust of air rushed from her nose before a short chuckle wrested itself from her throat, betraying her entertainment at hearing a personal descriptor the likes of "badass". Flattery was something she had always been wary of, and even more so while enveloped in her more political forays. But there was no denying that being referred to in such a way massaged even the most hidden patches of narcissism. And so Máiréad reset her front to defend against potentially manipulative follow-ups, even as she was aware that there was hardly anything to fear by now. Old habits die hard, she supposed.

The raven woman's head rose to take in the cool night air, her expression broadcasting a prideful acceptance of Abigail's guess. Coruscant wasn't far from the mark. "Very warm..." she admitted. Though she almost didn't tell the truth, and a more prudent individual in her exiled state probably wouldn't have. But a deal was a deal, even if Abigail wouldn't be able to prove if she lied. What could this woman from Naboo possibly do to her?

"Chandrila." For a few seconds that was all she could think to say. Maybe it was just because she grew up there, but her homeworld always seemed to be at least marginally noteworthy when discussing the Core Worlds and all their storied glory. It had been host to numerous political headquarters and the birthplace of influential persons throughout its history. Yes, that prestige. "It's a beautiful place." Máiréad winced at her words. They were so whimsical, and dare she admit it, cheesy. But maybe that was how one genuinely thinks of home.

She glanced at the bottles standing on the table. "...And we have good wine."

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The slicer shrugged, her features softening once more to a smile that was just shy of predatory, "Guess it makes sense." Setting her wine down next to the bottle, the woman leaned slowly across the table to make another pass at that bread before it cooled. With a measured, surprisingly delicate pinch of her slender fingers, Abigail yoinked her prize towards her face. "Was a hell of a lot warmer than Kessel, though." Lift her brows as if to convey a silent dare, she punctuated her remark with a satisfying crunch as she bit off the end of her bread.

Abigail knew that she had gotten lucky in that last match, choosing to remember herself as the victor of their little guessing game. Technically, neither of the two women had hit the mark, but a little tidbit like that couldn't quite turn a Kessel into a Naboo. It was a good thing she had stolen such a loud coat before disembarking, as her slightly out there appearance had managed to distract the other woman's inquisitive eye. No doubt if the two of them had spoken further prior to their guessing game, she would have given something more intimate about herself away.

As it happened, that inquisitive eye of Máiréad's had added to the picture in Abigail's head. She was definitely a sharp one, both her posture and manner of speech giving the impression of high standing and merit. Unfortunately, the offworlder's preconceived notions and biases had gotten in the way of a more informed guess, images of stuck up Coruscanti plebs deciding the shape of her practically thrown out answer. She had always used technology to assert herself on the greater galaxy, and force when that didn't work. An ability to innately read people was the purview of those meditating Jedi.

Demurely chewing the bread in her mouth, Abigail placed the rest of it on top of the forgotten menu in front of her. While the raven woman had not shown any reaction, she had still decided not to repeat her earlier display. Her rather defensive style of reading others was sufficient to realize that this wasn't the place for scarfing food, and she absolutely had time to kill for now. Swallowing the pulped remains, she washed it down with some more of that, apparently Chandrillan wine. "That you do." Lifting her nearly empty glass for a moment, she gave the woman across from her an appreciative grin. "The galaxy thanks you!" Her tone was only slightly mocking, her shoulders rising in a brief fit of giggles as she lightly bit the tip of her tongue.

It really is good, though...

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[Máiréad Vrána]

Máiréad responded to the other woman's commentary with another intentionally indifferent "Mm," not one to willingly allow her opponents to believe in their victory even if they were victorious. Her mind scuttled about to provide a reason to act in such a way now, however, seeing how nothing important was on the line. It was just an innocent game in a casual conversation. Why did she feel so determined to exude authority in everything? Maybe it was her desire to separate herself from being grouped in with whatever this woman's class was. She kept it to herself, but she assumed this Abigail to be of a rougher and less educated variety of Naboo's residents--say, a farm girl. That wasn't to say she showed any lacking in savvy, much to her credit. She was smart. But blaringly uncultured.

Abigail's near-sarcastic declaration prompted a myriad of retorts to spawn within Máiréad's brain. They damn well should. After every drop of iron and plasma she had sacrificed... Ultimately, she let the snide remark slide and decided perhaps they had lasted long enough to loosen up a bit. The girl from Naboo had consumed a fair amount of wine at this point. Maybe a little nudge would do.

Máiréad quickly downed the small pool of ruby liquid still lingering in her glass and set the empty cup on the table. She was signaling encouragement of a swifter drinking process. It might be worth it to get places... "Where are you staying tonight, Miss Abigail?" she questioned, looking out across the glossy canal, its tranquil swishing barely loud enough to announce to anyone who was unaware of its existence. She credited the Naboo native with her discovery of the best spot in the town. At least she had good taste in spite of her unflattering manners. And what little had been spoken between them so far was intriguing enough. "You did say you were touring."

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Absently following the older woman's lead, it only took Abigail a couple of quick gulps to finish off her wine, her hands already in motion for a prompt refill. She gave her newly filled glass an appraising look, sloshing the rich liquid around before placing it back down on the edge of the table. She had not really been keeping tabs on her intake, and the slicer briefly entertained the possibility of cutting herself off then and there. On the other hand, though, the circumstances certainly seemed to merit a few more drinks of some some fashion, even if they were ultimately less than celebratory. As if by some universal joke, however, Máiréad opened up again to ask her where she was spending the night.

Hesitation instantly forgotten, the brunette immediately threw back the royal portion of her glass. It had been a relatively harmless question. In fact, it was an absolutely logical line of inquiry for even the mildly concerned. It was well after dark, and this glaring fish out of water had done little to imply she had any sort of grounding planet side since her arrival. A brief sense of panic quaked in her chest, and she hoped beyond hope it hadn't made the journey from her heart to her face. She had always done a poor job of hiding her emotions, and that small, creeping voice in the back of her mind was not doing her any favors.

...When did it get so fething dark?

Blinking herself back to some form of focus, she felt the fingers in her empty left hand twitching against the surface of the table. It was just about all she could do not to hastily pull those goggles back over her eyes, and maybe check her pocket to see if that old flashlight was still with her. This was not the time to lose face. She had won the guessing game, hadn't she? "Did I say that?" She had, hadn't she? "Not sure yet, where's a girl go to sleep around here, anyway?" Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

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[Máiréad Vrána]

A sly smirk traced up the very edge of the older woman's cheek as she mentally tallied the third and soon-to-be fourth glass drained by her counterpart. On her part, she returned to her more graceful and gentle pouring of wine into her glass, her dark eyes almost looking a little brighter as she counted. Of course, she had no way of knowing whether she was dealing with a heavyweight drinker, but she liked to think that Abigail's inebriation would be sooner than her own. It would make for a more interesting night indeed...

"You did say that," she affirmed with what could only be a tauntingly delighted expression beaming from her face. Máiréad was genuinely humored by this supposed "tourist" and her apparent forgetfulness as she blundered nearer to her controlling grasp of the conversation. How strangely cruel that an evening talk had transformed into a psychological battlefield. She felt a tad guilty about it too, but no sense in stopping yet. It was fine if the Naboo woman had won her little battle as long as Máiréad won the war. If you can't trust someone initially, grind them down and mold them until you create someone you can trust.

Clutching the stem of her glass with just three fingers in the most precise points of contact, Máiréad lifted the glass to her lips and shook her head somberly. Her eyebrows raised and her eyes arced in an exaggeratedly pitying gaze, lips practically pouting after finishing her dainty sip. "Oh, I don't know..." It was uttered with almost a mocking tone. Oh, what a horrible person she could be. "There are only a few hotels in this town. Seems like someone didn't prepare."

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For a single moment Abigail faltered in her position, a defensive slump tugging down on her shoulders as her grip tightened on the glass in her hand. She thought for a moment that the delicate vessel might shatter between her quaking fingers, a slight tremor causing the remaining liquid to dance and flirt with the rim. Noticing this, the woman quickly downed the last of her chosen poison, a heady, wine-soaked sigh escaping her parted lips as she deposited the glass back onto the table just a bit too hard. It didn't break, but a nervous part of her perception could swear she had heard a glassy crack.

Just my imagination! She didn't hear...

Releasing her unconscious grip on the tables edge, her left hand came up to hastily brush her hair back behind her ear, some of her dark tresses having cascaded forward to obscure her features. In the very same motion, her middle finger twitched at the side of her goggles, as if needing to be reminded exactly where they were on her person. She felt the need to work up some saliva for her inordinately dry mouth, licking her lips and swallowing as if to clear her air ways.

She didn't see...

Her fingers had returned to the table, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on its edge as her gaze darted around like a cornered beast. She found her focus alternating between the candle in front of her, the lights in the distance, her hand, and the unfinished bottle. She took a mental note of the state of each and every source of illumination, those chocolate eyes not quite able to eliminate the oily shadows dancing between them. Her focus went back to the woman across from her, her blood boiling at that look on her face. That smile. Those eyes. That way she sipped her wine.

That queen!

Blinking her eyes, she realized that the world around her had shifted to a slightly dull, orange hue. Lights were just a little too bright, but the countless, grasping shadows had receded back into the endless fields so very far away from her table. When had she put those back on? All of a sudden she was calm...ish, a practiced, if not quite confident smile gracing her features once more as she looked straight ahead at the darkly clad woman who had retaken the high ground so easily. "Any of 'em nearby?" She deliberately ignored the second half of that comment, though the difficulty might have added a moody furrow to her brow.

She reach for the bottle again, pausing just a moment to wrestle with the urge to skip the glass. She poured herself one more helping, some part of herself that was smarter and more savvy kicking her ribs for this. It seemed to be getting colder out... or was she just sweating?

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[Máiréad Vrána]

She had gotten to her. She knew that with utter certainty she saw the younger woman seeking out her goggles. Máiréad pursed her lips to restrain an almost sadistic, predatory simper from becoming too apparent. How pathetic that this amounted to a momentous night for her, playing with a visitor like a cat engrossed in its ball of yarn. Sure, it may have served her right for interrupting the raven woman's quiet dinner, but a quiet dinner she had had last night, and two nights before--and would again have tomorrow night, in all likelihood. What pointless manipulation on her part.

And yet it felt necessary to satiate something that had been bugging her for weeks now. Some longing for glories of the past. She wanted to live out something akin to her political ventures, when she held a quarter of the galaxy in her hands and verbally destroyed her rivals in a similar fashion to her showing tonight. She was meant for greater things than to sit on this agrarian globe. Had she exhausted her time of greatness? Had her right to immortality expired so soon? Perhaps she was dwelling on something she had lost forever. Then it truly was justified for her to treat Abigail this way, no matter if Abigail deserved it or not.

But she was done now. She had proved her dominance and made Abigail squirm for the pittance it was worth. Máiréad was tired. The galaxy wasn't the same, and maybe she should have changed along with it. That is, if she could change.

Máiréad sighed, the callous lust to her eyes faded as her body confessed its growing fatigue. "Schedristad is a small town," she answered matter-of-factly. "There's one on the other side of this building, one a few blocks down along the canal walk, and one on the far side of the main road.

"You're not quite in season either. So the Pastel Chateaus are probably rentable if you've got the credits."

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Abigail brought the freshly poured wine up to her face, the sweet smell clouding her senses as her mouth pressed against the cool glass. Her eyes fluttered closed, heavily obscured by the near-opacity of her goggles as she seemed to disregarded the other woman. The seconds ticked by in silence, the clear surface pinning the slicer's lip fogging up with every breath as she examined her position. Going off into the night seemed like a natural mistake, but she did not have the funds available to be even remotely picky about her next steps. How had she been so irresponsible?

She had heard that before, hadn't she? "The Pastel Chateaus..." Her voice trailed off, any resonance or volume smothered by the alcoholic liquid she was addressing. Breathing was becoming a bit of an issue, each measured gulp of air tasting heavily of Chandrillan red. "And what if you don't have the credits?" She lifted her face to look at the local across the table, the closely held wineglass pulling a heated lip down with it as it dragged over her chin. Abigail felt cornered, grateful for the tech covering her eyes as she tilted her drink back to make short work of it.

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[Máiréad Vrána]

Máiréad was hardly paying attention now, just staring into space over the canal; over the grain stalks that curled like dark tendrils in the night breeze. Her coat shielded and insulated her body quite efficiently, yet she still suffered a creeping shiver as haunting thoughts invaded her pondering mind. Abigail's voice chimed in shortly to break her from the trance. It was a welcome distraction.

She shrugged and leaned back, posing her artificial indifference as she so plainly stated: "Then I guess you create a cozy den for yourself in the wheat fields and hope for the best." A cold suggestion, but she intended to follow it up with something less insipid--an invitation, in fact.

"...Or you ask someone very nicely if you can stay with them." Her intonation was borderline mocking, as if it was ingrained into her voice, yet her offer was indeed genuine if the offworlder would interpret it as such. But was she really going to do this? Even hinting at it was a tremendous vault over her protective and, for the most part, prudent barriers. So why did she care? The dark woman bit her tongue harshly, almost to the point where the tip of the muscle numbed under the clamping pressure of her teeth. Some things, she supposed, simply required a dose of the irrational.

The truth was that too many secrets was too many secrets--even for a woman who had influenced history by dwelling in the cryptic. In spite of all her obstinacy and moxie, she was afraid to be alone anymore.

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Abigail held still for just a moment, a frustrated sigh emanating from her throat as she held the glass up to her face. She had probably drank too much, given her state, and she made a mental note to save the rest of her newly discovered interest for later. On the other hand, the very prospect of what she was considering made her want to abandon the glass for the bottle. After all, she still sober enough to hear the sass on the other end of that offer, whether it was genuine or not.

Turning the glass over in her hand, the tipsy slicer brought it down onto the table just a fraction harder than might have been appropriate. Leaving it upside down, the empty vessel stood as a declaration of finality. No more drinking at this table, it was time to pull a victory from this mess. "That's very..." Her voice trailed off, shoulders rolling with a satisfying medley of cracks and pops as she leaned well into the back of her seat. It suddenly seemed impossible to meet the older woman's eyes. "Could I..."

Dammit! Why can't this be easy? Teeth grinding brutally against the insides of her pinched lips, Abigail searched desperately for some way to make this work.

This could not be charity, some open handed pity offer would hurt too much the following morning. When somebody bought you a drink, it was perfectly find to accept it if you were feeling thirsty. It meant you were getting what you wanted, and the other person was just a sucker in your hands. It was the same for a dance, or a ride, or a bed for the night. It was easy to turn things around if she could tell herself that she was taking what she wanted.

What I need...

"...Could I stay with you?" Her voice was quiet, her hands absently fastening the large jacket closed over her chest and neck. She was still looking at the table, occasionally glancing over at something incredibly fascinating off in the distance. Certainly not straight ahead where she could catch the potential recognition on her drinking companion's face. "I mean, just for-" The words caught in her throat, fingers reaching out to lazily rest around the neck of her bottle. She told herself it was going to be fine, that it was dark and cold and windy and she could think of a better plan tomorrow. "...Tonight?"

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[Máiréad Vrána]

Frakking Sithspit. Exactly how foolish had she been to indicate such hospitality? Of course Abigail would accept, and now she was forced to back up her half-hearted hospitality. Obviously she could backpedal and claim it was a cruel joke, or taken out of context. But for some reason Máiréad just felt tired--tired of the wine, tired of shoving people away when, in the grand scheme of things, they played no role in this wide galaxy. Everyone could not possibly be hunting for her. Especially not the partially intoxicated individual sitting across from her.

Carelessly, Máiréad tipped her glass over with the back of her hand, completely unconcerned if whatever fluid was left spilled or if the glass became damaged. This engagement was over. She was not even hungry anymore. She continued to stare off into the night, bewildered as to how an evening conversation had brought about this new wave of fatigue and dread. Was she the one being manipulated after all?

The Chandrilan breathed in deep before releasing an elongated sigh. "Yes. You might as well." She clutched her book and retrieved her pen, preparing to take Abigail 'home'. This was a stupid idea.

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The faintest hint of a laugh slipped from Abigail's lips, more the expulsion of a withheld breath than a mark of joy. There was a relieved dip in her shoulders, and it took a few moments for the shaking in her fingers to stop. She reminded herself that it was cold, clutching the front of her stolen duster as if to prove the unspoken assertion as she rose to her full height. Was this a victory, or was she going to regret this when the wine ran dry? Both possibilities got her out of this biting wind, however, so she was willing let the indecision fester.

Releasing the loose grip she had taken on the rest of her bottle of Chandrillan red, she took a moment to sweep her hair forward over her shoulder. With a level of care she could not willingly admit to, she worked the dark tresses into the space under her coat in some attempt to keep it all under control. Once she was almost satisfied, her unceremoniously picked her wine up by the neck, her thumb falling into place over the open top.

Opening her mouth to day something, the slicer instead found herself merely giving the older woman an interrogative look, expectation showing on her features as she began fiddling with the back of her misaligned, pushed out chair. What could she have said to make this a bit less uncomfortable? None of the logical questions seemed to come to mind as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She would have to deal with all that later.

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[Máiréad Vrána]

She hesitantly arose from her seat, quite conflicted about whether she had just made a terrible mistake. Having slipped the book and pen into the right pocket of her coat, Máiréad leaned over the table and went through the process of thumbing the cork back into her bottle of Chandrilan red. Truly, she was not impoverished, but it was a policy of hers to never waste good wine. Besides... the bottle had another potential use--provided it was necessary, of course.

"Don't worry about the tab," she mumbled, flipping a pair of credit chips onto the table with a tinkling chime for the waiter's tip. Luke would know she was good for the rest of the bill sometime later. She came here almost every night, after all.

Left hand embedded in her pocket and right clutching the neck of the glass vessel, the darkly dressed woman breathed in deep with exasperated measure before releasing the air in a slow but steady exhalation. She rolled her shoulders momentarily, shrugging the shin-length black coat to distribute its weight more comfortably. "I have one question, Miss Abigail," Máiréad murmured, eyes lighting upon her company's abandoned bottle and cigarra. Perhaps her guest was more conscious of her substance intake than she had believed. "Do you trust me?"

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Abigail gave an appreciative nod, covered eyes following the tossed credits on their brief journey to the table. Her fingers twitched, an old temptation whispering terrible ideas in her ear as she tore her eyes away. Not all that long ago, she may very well have pocketed those. Real bad time to be an nerf herder... It only took a moment for her to push that creeping shame back down, reminding herself exactly what she was getting for nothing.

The slicer tightened her fingers around the neck of her own bottle, a slender thumb circling the lip as she cast a wary eye towards the cafe'. Even knowing better, the woman couldn't quite shake the fear of impending discovering from her chest. The technically hadn't paid, after all. With her free hand, she quickly plucked up her unlit cigarra, a feint sigh escaping her lips as she held it between her teeth. Her eyes returned to the dark woman, widening slightly at the strange question she had asked, not that she would see. "...Trust you?" At least she hoped she couldn't see.

Leaning back on her heels, Abigail shoved a hand in the unfamiliar pocket to her right. Maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the wine in her stomach, coupled with the promise of more in her left hand. Maybe it had just been a while since anybody had asked her that. She wore her torment on her face, her jaw practically chewing on the question as she closed her eyes. "I do..." It was quiet, barely a whisper over that wind she had forgotten about. She was feeling very cold once more, pulling her stolen coat tightly around frame. "I trust you."

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[Máiréad Vrána]

She quickly turned away, biting her bottom lip as she puzzled over the correct response. In all truthfulness, she was expecting Abigail to say no. She would have said it herself had she been in a similar situation. Or would she have? Máiréad suddenly realized she didn't truly know much at all about the woman from Naboo's story--save the fact that she was from Naboo. All she could muster was a simple and unconvincing "...Okay."

The older woman proceeded somberly, starting their short journey at a slow but deliberate pace. She crossed the walkway all the way to the edge and skirted its placid waters of the canal which the paved blocks contained. She strode in narrow steps, almost as if she was walking across a balance beam, tempting fate to knock her over into the artificial stream. As self-awareness dawned upon her, she glanced at the bottle in her hand in a quizzical manner. She had only drunk a fraction of the wine. She could not possibly be tipsy yet.

Paying no mind to whether Abigail was following her or not, she continued down the sidewalk errantly, unplugging the cork and indulging in a rather boorish swig of the crimson fluid. Her teeth reflected purple under the streetlights, stained by the juices of her choice beverage as she unexpectedly unleashed a childish smile. Maybe it was time to stop caring.

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Abigail stood, durasteel-lined boots firmly planted as she watched the other woman turn away from her. It was a sudden, hasty motion that might even have caused a sober, less chilly version of herself to suspect something, if not outright react in some way. In her current state, however, she felt only an uncomfortable wrongness. As if she had been caught doing something she shouldn't and had forgotten why she shouldn't care about that sort of thing. Had she made a mistake claiming to trust this stranger? Her simple, almost curt reaction certainly hadn't struck an appreciative chord.

It had felt like the right thing to say at the time, if not the polite thing. The raven haired local had done nothing to earn her ire, despite the fact that she had essentially intruded upon the woman's evening. It had been a selfish move, little more than an avenue for food, drinks, and a hiding place from that special brand of dark one only encountered on rural planets. In spite of this, she had been allowed to stay. What's more, she had been offered what seemed to be a free place to sleep for the night. If anything, she should have been the one called to prove her trustworthiness.

It had been right to trust her. She had gotten a bed out of it, and a kickass bottle of wine. It only made sense, right? Then why am I feeling so... She silently plucked the cigarra from between her lips, snagging it between her fingers as she took a long swig of her unfinished wine. It was time to get moving.

Briefly jogging to catch up to the retreating lady, the tipsy slicer eased into a comfortable step near the woman, keeping a comfortable distance to the right and just a hair behind her. Her steps were not clumsy, but there was an undeniable sway to the woman's gait, her weight shifting just a bit harder than usual from foot to foot. It would be no trouble yet, as long as the two women were not forced into some kind of chase.

Encouraged by her host's actions just ahead, Abigail emulated the older woman's swig with another of her own. After not one, but two gulps, the bottle was hastily pulled from wine-stained lips, a thirsty tongue leaping out to clean up the access. The whole thing brought a smile to the woman's face, a tenacious giggle struggling to find it's way out of her.

Almost spilled... that'd be embarrassing... She was already feeling just a bit better.

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[Máiréad Vrána]

Máiréad had a swing in her step as she quite literally walked the line on the edge of the canal. She helped herself to intermittent gulps of her wine, kicking her legs haphazardly with only the haunting gleam of the glasslike waters as her backdrop. Her coat clapped against the backs of her legs with each careless footfall, and the lights produced the illusion--or was it?--of a sparkle in her usually murky eyes as she looked briefly at her company while tipping the bottle sky high. The crimson liquid funneled through her lips and down her throat with the recklessness of a teen partier. A single tear accumulated itself and rolled down her cheek to match the dribble of wine dropping from her chin.

Steps growing uneven, the raven woman in her unprecedented disregard at least had the sense to drift away from the ledge, potentially saving herself from an embarrassing dive into the canal. Growing noticeably warmer, Máiréad unsheathed her left hand from her pocket and awkwardly wrestled the respective arm out of its sleeve, then switched position of the bottle with her opposite hand to remove that arm as well. She fumbled with the coat as it came off, and she was forced to stall as the heavy garment flopped to the ground beside her.

Her white pants and black blouse fully exposed, the woman bent over to set her bottle down gently upon the pavement and pick up her coat with both hands, its heavy, leathery construction weighted down further by the book in its right pocket. "Here, take it." Máiréad ceremoniously lifted the dark trenchcoat by the shoulders and sized it up against Abigail's figure. She wasn't drunk yet. But she wanted to be.

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

In spite of herself, Abigail gradually fell into step next to Máiréad, their proximity fluctuating back an forth between arm's reach and rubbing shoulders. Layer after layer of childish mistrust fell away as she sampled her wine, cigarra tucked neatly behind an ear among her unruly locks as she clutched the bottle in a two-handed vice grip. When she wasn't too busy drinking, she kept her prize tucked nice and snug against her chest. It was a full time job keeping the sloshing liquid from spilling over her hands with every enthusiastic step, the occasional trickle over her fingers pulling a string of giggles from her lips.

It wasn't so cold anymore.

Looking back towards her honorary drinking buddy, goggled eyes lit up at the peculiar sight. The local was awkwardly shedding her outer layer of clothing, forcing Abigail to stop and turn as she watched that distinctive coat reduced to a heap by the older woman's feet. "What are you-?" The unyielding surge of childish laughter pouring from the slicer cut her off, the sound of glass on pavement sounding as she doubled over for a spell. Her mirth was interrupted, however, when the lady came over with a most generous offer.

"Oh! Yeah! Hang on a sec..." Biting her lip in a ludicrous expression of intense focus, Abigail made hasty work of the normally thoughtless task of shucking a coat, the faint sound of a yanked button bouncing away into the night as her loose, black shirt was left a bit more open than before. She shrugged one arm out of a long sleeve before attempting the other. "Oh, for-!" Whether it was bad luck, poor planning, or foul play, the tipsy slicer couldn't tell, but she had neglected to drop her bottle before attempting to pull her hand out of her right sleeve. She had gotten her hand, forming a tight fist around the bottleneck, stuck on the now inside out sleeve of her stolen duster. "Dammit!!"

She looked around frantically, stomping a dirty, armored boot down onto the red leather as she tugged and tugged to no avail. It was like trying to maneuver a landspeeder through a small doorway, and she could feel the wine spilling out over her clutching hand. The look on her face quickly went from alarm to full on panic.

Oh, wait!

In a moment of unparalleled genius and ingenuity that would surely shame a Jedi Master, the tipsy woman pushed her arm back through the stripped garment. Almost instantly, the cool air touched her soaked fingers once more, the telltale sound of glass on pavement sounding in her ears. Before she could mess up, Abigail backed away from her neatly placed bottle, casting a hateful look at the offending garment in her hands. With a totally necessary spin and a flourish, she sent the coat flying off into the night, a look of true satisfaction washing over her face as she turned back towards the offered coat.

Without a word, she pulled the drooping shoulder of her shirt back into place, the top few buttons having been sent flying somewhere far away. "Okay, gimme!" A pale shoulder revealed itself once more, completely disregarded as she moved to push her arms into the dark coat's sleeves. She was positive it would look great on her, and that ugly thing she had before was tripping her up, anyway.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]