Quote:You have your will in your palm
So plant your dreams and wishes now
You must grow strong
No room for wilting flowers ..
She had lied.
To Solenne, she spoke of the lack of disguises made available to her, she wove the lie, as she did many times afore. Rivienne was not a woman who would simply present herself to the world without thinking two steps ahead of her. At Costa del Sol, she played the part of a new dancer learning the trade; from them she took light garments to fight back the heat of the sun, though they were all too small for a woman of her build, she knew well how to make something become adjustable. Lace and silk, cotton and linen, tunics and skirts. From clotheslines she pulled these free to claim her own. Some were taken from the bags belonging to the dancers present, evening attire that would certainly not be too useful – or so she believes.
Her personal garments were substituted with something lighter for the evenings here, now that she was away from the prying eyes of others. The inn she occupied provided her with stable space for Avenger to rest in and this last minute room for just one evening; that was enough time for her. The innkeeper was given a false name to call her, though it was not completely a farce. “Juliette,†is what she used, a middle name that was seldom mentioned or known to many.
Across the sea, far from her Black Shroud, safety was not always granted. Rivienne knew this, and such thoughts kept her awake at the late hour. In this room she was only accompanied by the small bottle of wine that Nai left her, a token from their meeting in Wineport, and some of the bread and cheeses she managed to take before leaving the gentle embrace of her forest.
The candlelight danced across the room, splashing it with shadows that stretched high to the ceilings. Her silhouette performed a dance against the walls, flickering about as she sat in silence. It was the first time she was given a moment to allow everything to truly sink into her skin. The haunting sounds did not end, nor did the crackling of the flame alleviate her from hearing the laughter and whispers of his voice.
Closing her eyes only caused her to see his face.
Loathing began to sink into the crevices of her heart. Despair was not but a breadth away from pursuing the hatred. Naked hands ran through her cropped hair whilst her gaze settled on the wood grain of the table; she concentrated on the world around her instead, piecing together the sounds of the inn, the pelting rain that began to hit the ceiling.
Among such sounds, the buzzing of conversation filtered through the air and Rivienne, who would not make it a habit to listen in, had little choice. The voices rose, agitation grew heavy in the air, something was amiss for certain.
And her paranoia did well to inform her that this was no mere traveler seeking shelter. By the tone used, and the command it carried, it was someone in search of something.
Or someone.
“She is long of hair, eyes made to match,†the baritone was gravelly, rough to the ears. He was taller than most; dark hair that fell upon broad shoulders, concealing the hard green that made up his gaze. Adorned in leathers, he was a stark contrast to what several individuals wore here in Noscea. He was obviously not a native of the land. The inn-keeper raised his bushy, salt and pepper brows, and gave the man a look over. The last thing he desired was to cause the inquiring fellow to raise his voice any louder than he was, lest he wished for angered patrons in the morn.
“I have several people stayin’ th’ night here, I can’t be bothered to remember all of ‘em.†He chewed at the end of his pipe, thoughtfully looking the man over, but his gaze settled on the pommel of the blade at his hip. “But –â€
“But what,†impatience was heavily noticed in his voice as the serpent leaned over the wooden desk; his shadow spreads long across the surface and falls upon the midlander, who looked awfully small before the wildwood.
Rivienne’s frame pressed to the door, hands flat against the grain as she attempted to listen. There came a twitch to her lips at the words shared; seems he was alone, though she wouldn’t place her trust on that thought. Immediately, troublesome thoughts, were of Avenger. He would not allow another to take him, and at the moment, she heard no sound of struggle beyond these walls. He came after her directly, good, he didn’t think to rid of her of the chocobo. Such would be cruel.
But, she wouldn’t put it past Heulioux.
The inn-keeper informed the officer of a particular patron who fits his description, though no longer did she have the length of hair he spoke of. This woman was the one backing away from the door now once his footfalls announced his approach with each creaking plank underneath his heel. Rivienne looked around the room. Her armaments were on the table along with a few documents she had been writing up. A lute rests flat on the bed, a bow leaning against the night-stand with its quiver. Weaponry was of little issue, and the idea of immediately taking the offensive against him was appealing. Long strides took her to the satchel hanging off the arm of her chair and she pulled the ties apart. Quickly, and blindly, she rummaged within the darkness until her fingers took a hold of a few vials. With her back to the door, she busied herself with them, whispering whilst the corks were opened.
Her silhouette shows her head tilting back, holding the position there for a moment before her hand falls to her features, brushing at her skin. The shadow soon turns to face the door, for the sound of footfall grows louder as it approaches near the door of her chamber.
His shadow peered from underneath it.
She swallowed and pressed her lips together firmly, twisting them into a frown.
