It was not that the scholar Nivie Georjeaux did not want to be present among the thronging crowd of people at the tavern's summer send off: it was that there were people present, and it is remarkably exhaustive to pretend insecurity is disdain.
The flyer had shown up, inconspicuously, in her mail - the retainer she had hired to tend to her business while she traveled chasing the faintest hint of a lead had contacted her by linkpearl, her voice soft as she asked, "And what would you have me do with this, Miss Georrrrjeaux?"
She had contemplated on it for the day, and it set in her mind, an unbidden - yet, not entirely unwelcome - guest, what had come calling, and one invites to stay for tea and to tell a story or two of what they've seen. Eventually curiosity won out over anxiety, and the night before, ("Approximately 11pm, on Wednesday night" she mentally notes) she sets out, she walks to the neighborhoods - her feet soft beneath her as she browses the neighborhoods of Mist, meandering through.
She had met three - Val, a miqo'te. A bodyguard. Yume? Yune? Nivie bit her lip; she would be able to put name to face, but as calm returned to her, she knew, but at the moment, she blanked: she was nervous as well. Kind, but lacking in confidence. Nivie liked her immediately. Finally, the Lady Faye Covington: hers was the name upon the invitation to the tavern's celebration, and she had an air of control about her - Nivie watched, as she does, Val called her "Princess" and it wasn't entirely in jest: Lady Covington seemed to swell with pride at every use of it, and Nivie found herself encouraged.
The next day - same day, rather, it had been rather late when Nivie finally begged off to find her bed at Limsa's inn - she had gone to the tavern, had gone with little expectations and less idea of what she would find there, and the answer was people, a multitude of people, and the quiet voice in her head of "I feel uneasy" had begun it's screaming defiance, "I DO NOT WANT THIS!"
To keep calm, Nivie found a quiet spot to stand, to watch people, to bite her tongue and breathe, in. Out. Inhale. Exhale. "This is meant to be a time to MEET people," she argued with herself, "But this is too many people!"
She stayed - she made polite conversation. She bristled at the over the top flirtations of others about her, and after a reasonable amount of time (a half hour, no less, no more) had passed, she excused herself with an apology.
Maybe next time, maybe next week would be kinder.
The flyer had shown up, inconspicuously, in her mail - the retainer she had hired to tend to her business while she traveled chasing the faintest hint of a lead had contacted her by linkpearl, her voice soft as she asked, "And what would you have me do with this, Miss Georrrrjeaux?"
She had contemplated on it for the day, and it set in her mind, an unbidden - yet, not entirely unwelcome - guest, what had come calling, and one invites to stay for tea and to tell a story or two of what they've seen. Eventually curiosity won out over anxiety, and the night before, ("Approximately 11pm, on Wednesday night" she mentally notes) she sets out, she walks to the neighborhoods - her feet soft beneath her as she browses the neighborhoods of Mist, meandering through.
She had met three - Val, a miqo'te. A bodyguard. Yume? Yune? Nivie bit her lip; she would be able to put name to face, but as calm returned to her, she knew, but at the moment, she blanked: she was nervous as well. Kind, but lacking in confidence. Nivie liked her immediately. Finally, the Lady Faye Covington: hers was the name upon the invitation to the tavern's celebration, and she had an air of control about her - Nivie watched, as she does, Val called her "Princess" and it wasn't entirely in jest: Lady Covington seemed to swell with pride at every use of it, and Nivie found herself encouraged.
The next day - same day, rather, it had been rather late when Nivie finally begged off to find her bed at Limsa's inn - she had gone to the tavern, had gone with little expectations and less idea of what she would find there, and the answer was people, a multitude of people, and the quiet voice in her head of "I feel uneasy" had begun it's screaming defiance, "I DO NOT WANT THIS!"
To keep calm, Nivie found a quiet spot to stand, to watch people, to bite her tongue and breathe, in. Out. Inhale. Exhale. "This is meant to be a time to MEET people," she argued with herself, "But this is too many people!"
She stayed - she made polite conversation. She bristled at the over the top flirtations of others about her, and after a reasonable amount of time (a half hour, no less, no more) had passed, she excused herself with an apology.
Maybe next time, maybe next week would be kinder.
