[LOG] The Proposal.
Who: Sunniva, Adrian.
What: A ghost from Sunniva's past catches up with her, finally. Things do not go so very well.
Where: Grotto, ISW.
When: 11/28/08.
11/28/2008
05:44 PM
Logfile from Adrian.
Seaside Grotto, Ista Weyr
The tunnel narrows and widens, narrows again before opening up into a secluded grotto far below the Weyr at the water's edge. A handful of fist-sized holes pierce the rocky ceiling to admit light, and other offerings from the sky in their turn. The sea has flooded much of this cavern, leaving only a crescent of beach at the tunnel's opening. Sand shifts underfoot, but the subtle black shimmer is utterly outclassed by the walls of the cavern. Ancient waters have left mineral deposits across the stone, turning it pale and dazzling as any light bounces from the ever-moving water and reflects around the space to create a sparkling, other-worldly glow.
Evening has spilled fully into night, making the grotto into not just a dark place, but a dark place lit dimly with starlight through those curious openings. Tonight, though, another source of light lends its luminance, sickly green light emitted from glows strewn on the slim crescent of beach. In the water, a shape can be glimpsed, a shadowy entity just beyond the reach of the light. Not so much swimming as floating, arms splayed and eyes shut. Unable to sleep, all Sunniva can hope to do is find relaxation.
Night isn't his favorite time to go searching a strange place with all its tunnels and weirdness for someone who may or may not even exist within said strange place, but it's far beneath Adrian to let such petty qualms deter him. He has a mission, he seeks to see it to fruition. It hasn't been an easy search, nor has it been a brief one. There aren't many in Ista awake right now with the knowledge of where the object of his search might be hiding herself, so most of his work has been of the guess variety. Luck is with him in his finding this place at all, so tucked away from the rest of the Weyr. His footsteps are quiet, his concern for his footwear and well being is nonexistent; there's someone out there. Swimming. Hesitating but a moment, unsure, he does the one thing he can think to do, and that is make a polite coughing noise, his black eyes intent on the water.
And at the cough, there's a bit of a splash, a gentle sound that precedes a straightening of the shape just beyond. "Hello?" is called, even as that shape draws closer to the glows scattered so copiously about; it eventually illuminates the shape well before the face, a shape wrapped in a two piece swimsuit and worn well. Six months of candidacy and good food have done much to shape her; a tan isn't readily apparent but likely an easy thing to deduce. More has shifted, more than just the physical if the suit is any indication. So, it's the voice that he might recognize first, as she continues to speak, "How might I help you?" That Sunniva doesn't recognize /him/ might be a blessing.
A blessing of unfamiliarity he isn't, despite his streak up until now, fortunate enough to share with her. Those first two syllables aren't quite enough to substantiate for him that she is who she is, he can't see her face as close-but-not-close-enough as she is to the sickly green cast. But he can see the rest of her, and it's a sight that tenses him. Weyrs and their women and their scantily clad skin. It's downright indecent. Quickly applying his neutral, standoffish mask, Adrian opens his mouth to say something more but she speaks first. 'Hello' wasn't enough; this is. His jaw drops further, his mask fallen that soon. Still, his voice doesn't miss a single smooth beat when he annunciates very clearly her name: "Sunniva?"
"Adrian." Immediate recognition in the midst of her effort to push her hair back; she's always been well-known for her memory. Water-slick arms drop, instinctively covering a midsection she was unashamed of until now; perhaps only because she's alone, perhaps because it was all she had to wear. Hard to say. She stops, right there, bare feet in sand -- something that Sunniva would have never stood for, not at the Hold, not for anything, even in shoes, being the ardent hater of dirt she is -- head cocked at that all-too-familiar and birdlike angle as she squints into the not-quite-darkness to pick out his features. "What brings you here?" she wonders as a matter of politeness and never mind the awkwardness of the situation.
Oh there will be no neverminding. She's easier to see for him than he is, for her, and now that he's certain it's her -- she couldn't be anybody else -- he can't help but stare at her. Before, when he assumed her to be some strange female clearly out of her mind, to be swimming out here alone when any number of things might happen to her, he was so quick to dismiss the entire situation for the greater purpose. Now that it would seem this /is/ his greater purpose, he can't compose himself. But the stunned expression on his face -- even it can't ruin his so-gentle features -- is taken in hand quickly. With that solid underlayer in his tone he answers her, unhappily, "I came for you. Thank goodness." Without hesitating he approaches her, already shucking off the thin jacket he wears. His face looks so pale in that strange lighting and his boots, most likely the expensive kind, squish in the sand she stands in. Long arms reach to settle the garment around her shoulders, or try to anyway.
"Why ever would you-?" and she can't quite finish the thought, her thoughts no doubt turning in gyres that come to enough unsavoury solutions that she can't give voice to them. Her lips press flat, an expression fortunately masked or otherwise unseen. But, propriety -- what shreds of it Sunniva yet clings to -- dictates that she stand there, at least long enough to realize his intentions. "Oh, oh dear. No, I shall ruin your jacket in this state, Adrian." But it's up to him to lay it on even after the warning, her lower lip caught up in her teeth and arms still folded. Should he persist, the jacket will find a home on narrow shoulders, shoulders that roll forward a little to hunker under the garment. "And whatever are you doing here at /night/?" As if she has a better reason. "You could have- have looked for me in the morning."
No such nonsense, please. Adrian's ministrations could hardly be deemed fussy or even really all that attentive for her well-being. She's half-naked, and this is the thing to do. But at least his hands are gentle, though after he's finished he tilts his chin down and backs away from her like she might bite him. Those gentle hands find themselves fidgeting, palms rubbing on pantlegs, before he realizes and stills them. Fists at his sides, dark eyes direct, he addresses her again so formally. "Had I known I would find you in such a 'state' I would have come looking much sooner. If I had waited for morning, who knows what sight might have greeted me." Which is part-concerned, part-insulting. As if she's partaking in the deepest of debaucheries. "Now then. Did you bring anything? Gather it up, if so."
But, this is not the same Sunniva that once was. While she endures the contradictory indignity of being covered by a man she hasn't seen in at least a turn, if not more, her hands eventually find their way to her hips, head lifted in a way that would make Berit proud. "Had you any sense of timing, you might have shown up well before I initially left Fort." The Weyr. So strange to think that she, the mousy one, the one who was forever destined to cling to the Hold, would be world-hopping. Her leaving the gardens or even the dance square was generally treated as a triumph. "I am quite alright, by the bye." Since he seems so concerned. No edge to her voice -- she might seem incapable -- but still. "A towel and the glows, though I suppose the glows shall be fine here." And it's off to get the towel she goes, moving with her usual grace and fludity. "Are you intending to walk me back to the dorms, then?" Just to make sure.
"For the sake of keeping my temper and not offending you I shall ignore that remark." She can put her hands anywhere she wants, Adrian is a placid lake. With eyes that smolder some when they watch her, unreadable and entirely too intense, completely at odds with his familiar face and calm mask. Her update and the later question as to his intent both gain the same reply; he's efficient like that. "What /are/ you talking about. Travelling has stopped you making sense. We're going home." His or hers, he doesn't say.
"Mm-hm. Ever so thoughtful," is entirely too mild to be offensive; carefully schooled. Pure Sunniva. "But, I do regret that I must inform you that this /is/ my home." And, just like that, she stops moving. She has the towel, which is now wrapped around her waist, and now she's just /looking/ at him, head tipped up, green eyes dark. "Regardless of whatever Leoren has no doubt told you," for, surely, Leoren is the one doing this, even though that makes absolutely no sense and, thus, makes perfect sense fo the man, "I was forbidden /from/ returning. I did not /just/ leave." His home doesn't even enter her mental equation.
That she stopped moving doesn't seem to bother him. It puts a small wrinkle between his severe eyebrows, but otherwise he remains as confident as a moment ago. "/This/?" he interjects at one point, emphasizing but still calm. Tense, but calm. Once she's finished and ended on that note he presses his mouth into a thin line and informs her thusly, "Your brother and my father will be making an arrangement, granted I return you safely. And, I would imagine, fully clothed." A detail he's still very much uncomfortable about, because she still remains in a bikini, a towel and his jacket. Which is as good as naked, certainly not at all appropriately attired.
"Ista. The Weyr." In case he somehow presumed the grotto was it. Barefoot, she starts to move anew, to try to slip past him, to try to head for the tunnel leading out. "My brother and your father," with pointed emphasis on each word, "will just have to sort out new arrangements." No elaboration needed, but the tension in her jaw doesn't need to be seen; it's easily heard. "My things, /most/ of them, are in the dorms." Perhaps the 'most' is meant to be a jab, an implication. With luck, it will be. "In either case, I am fairly certain that Leoren, my brother, does not even consider me a living thing, let alone his sister."
Wherever does he get his patience. It's an infinite source, whatever it is, the thing he draws from. "Do not behave like a spoiled little girl, Sunniva." Adrian turns; she was successful in her attempt at getting by, he isn't about to lay hands to her. But he isn't going to allow this easy escape into the night either, not when he's travelled so far and endured this Weyr for an entire day. Facing her, or her back, he lifts his chin imperiously and adds, "You've had your fun and your adventure, at the cost of your home and your family, and now it's time to grow up." Her jab doesn't hit its mark; there's no mark, as of yet, to hit. That she should be spending her nights anywhere /but/ a public space reserved for such activities isn't even an option, and so he isn't aware.
It would seem their patience might be equal in quantity, though not applied quite the same. Sunniva's voice remains measured, her pace equally so. Unrelentingly onward, without glows; without needing them, givne her familiarity with the tunnel. Her irritation is not revealed, leaving her voice to be as it always is, with artful use of inflection to make points that her tone of voice cannot achieve. "As you are not my betrothed, dearest Adrian, I shall be flattered that you have come so far to seek me and terribly saddened for you that your search shall come to naught." Grow up? She rolls her eyes, then shuts them. She keeps moving. "You would be better off returning to your home and seeking someone else of comparable blood who has not been Weyr-tainted."
If she continues on then so must he. Finding /his/ way here without glows wasn't quite the simple and effortless task he made it seem, but he finds his footing going the reserve way regardly. Never let it be said he doesn't put on a good show; his parents would have nothing less. "Weyr-tainted or not, this is a union that our families have sought before, and it's the only one remaining that is both available and still advantageous. Your /father/ wanted this." Not that Adrian went to any lengths to mention what his purpose here /is/, exactly, so that statement might come as a surprise now that some light's been shed on why finding her was so important. That she mentioned not being her betrothed is almost ironic.
Silence. Eerie, eerie silence. Then: "How convenient, then, that my father is dead and cannot speak to his wishes." A breath is taken, released, and she continues, "And I sincerely doubt Leoren would have encouraged you to pursue me." There's a brief look back to him, perhaps attempting to discern where he is, how fast he's following. Not far until the dimly lit tunnel can be reached. "Our Hold is hardly the /only/ Hold with young women, either. In fact, I am positive that someone suitable can be had if you felt like talking to Berit." At Fort. Away from here. He's not getting any hints and she's clearly missing something in her unspoken frustration with the situation.
"You are not listening. On top of that you're being difficult. It is not for you to assume or speculate, only to comply." And it's something close to frustration, this feeling related to how much she's changed, this tension he feels. There are many levels to frustration. Still a respectful distance behind her, Adrian continues in his pursuit of her, into that tunnel where he can see her better, can see well enough to hasten forward for three long-legged and graceful strides; he means to stop in front of her, to halt her progress. Hands clasped behind his back and chin tilted up, he regards her with half-lidded eyes down the bridge of his perfect nose.
And he makes it, forestalling any forward movement on her part. Hands on her hips again, green-eyed gaze tipped up. Defiant. Whether defiant for him or defiant for what he represents, it matters not. "Frankly, Adrian, you are about a turn too late to do this. To do any of this. I am not of the Hold; Leoren has forsaken me and I have washed my hands of that as much as they have washed their hands of me. Does that even make any /sense/ to you?" And Sunniva wants /out/, but the only way past is going to involve pushing past him; something she's not in a mood to do, not yet. "Does the fact that I am so utterly unwanted by the Hold of my birth mean anything to you?" Pleading, now. Cajoling. Trying to make a case for unfitness, now.
But his is a countenance far too severe, expressionless, for her pleas. It's as is he's simply playing the role of the judge, weighing the sides and choosing the best, most fair. There's still something, though, in the way his eyes see her: burning. Finally he moves, to cant his head down and fix her with that black, heated gaze. Intense. His voice, of course, contradicts him by coming out smooth and firm, but gentle too. And for just a second it seems he's seeing /her/, not just his own devices. "Do you think so little of me that I would come all this way, search you out, if I thought even for a second your brother wouldn't allow me this?" Allow /Adrian/ this, not their families.
She weathers the worst of it, the severity of it, without a blink. It's when his mien shifts oh-so-subtly that she moves. A hand lifts. Perhaps it is out of some sense of respect -- for a memory, not the here-and-now; perhaps some other bit of the way Things Must Be Done that she hasn't shed entirely -- that has her reaching to place long fingers along his jaw. Featherlight. She smells like coconut and tropical flowers, likely a combination of her late evening snack and some sort of lotion. "With you," Sunniva finally murmurs, "I never know what I ought to think. I never have." Her breath escapes in a sigh. "Now is certainly no different." Lips press flat; her mouth pulls to a side. "And I do not need any further complications. I have enough in my life as it is."
Not light enough to spare her his sudden and complete tensing. There is no jerky twitch to the side to remove himself from under her touch, but he does lean just a fraction back on his heels. That serves him too, pulls him away from her just enough. Her scent, something that clings to her fingers, forces his nose to flare and his eyes to narrow. The disturbed line his full lips have found themselves in does not soften, but nor does he round on her. Instead he retreats back into what comes so naturally to him, what years of training have ingrained in his every fiber. This is an official errand, so it will be treated as such. "Your life is complicated because you have made the decisions you have made to come here. You should have--" He stops himself, but not for long. His eyes search right and left for someone, anyone, who might hear what he's about to say before he murmurs the words. "You should have come to Gray River." Read: come to /him/. Not that he would ever dare say such a thing.
Ah. And that's what it'll take. Despite his impeccable wardrobe, his immaculate state, the hand at his jaw drops and the other joins it, to busy themselves with his shirt and the task of sweeping dust from it -- imagined, perhaps, but that is just how Sunniva was ... and how she is now. One of the rare junctures between old and new. "Yes. And that is why I am trying to dissuade you from being yet another complication." Just a slight shift in tone, deliberately chosen; cajoling. Her head lifts, her eyes deliberately seeking his. "And I did not. Could not. You know that. Not with Ella needing someone there -- someone /blood/ -- to see to her," Fiorella, formally, for the youngest "and Berit gone and the others busy."
Every bit as tense as he was before, Adrian endures her grooming with his jaw muscle clenched and the strong length of his arms trembling. But it says something to his credit that he doesn't retract further from her; perhaps something about his self control. Mentioning her youngest sister softens the uneasiness in him. It hasn't been often that his own sister has needed his help, capable woman that she is, but he can understand the will to be available for family. Afterall, it's partially for his family he is here right now, with this exiled lady fussing over him with all of this rare familiarity. His sense of propriety takes a backseat for just long enough for him to say, "I know." She knows he knows. Still, "There is nothing complicated about this proposal, Sunniva. You know as well as I do how important it is."
An adjustment to the shirt there, a brush of her palm across his chest. Knowing full well that this is not a conversation that will end quickly, however, her hands drop. "Do you know anything at all about what has happened to me? Or, perhaps more importantly," her voice drops, just a touch, "do you care? If all I am -- all I was, all I /will/ be -- is a part of some- some business proposal, then that is not important to /me/. Therefore, it is a complication, despite not being complicated." And Sunniva sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly, and tilts to a side to try to look past. "In either case," she remarks, "I /would/ like to get dressed, if I may. And perhaps get something to drink." Something strong; implied, not spoken outright.
The adjusting is fine. The brushing not so much. His breath hitches on his long inhale, too much of her scent brought in. It's a huge relief when she's finally done, though /his/ hands are still clenched into tight fists at his sides, shoulders squared like he's opposing some great physical force. And what's more, she's on a tirade. Well, a tirade for /her/. And he's far too proper a gentleman to interrupt her, so she's allowed to continue -- 'what has happened' earns her what could only be considered a slightly hurt grimace from him. Until she leans around him he remains silent; only then he makes a small, cautionary sound. Ah, ah. Rather than comment on those points she made, Adrian alights on the freshest of those things she's said. Her needs haven't seemed to play too large a role in his grand design so far, truthfully, and that doesn't change now. With that authority in his tone again, "I've come here for a reason, Sunniva. I do not plan to return empty-handed."
"Then I suppose you cannot return." There. See? Simple. She can play this stubborn game, too. His jacket is touched and then she threatens to pull it off; her lower self might be more modestly covered with the towel, but the upper part most definitely will not be if he doesn't stop her. In either case: "This," the jacket, of course, "is yours." An eyebrow arches; wordlessly, 'take it'. More audibly, "Now. Would you rather see me in this, or in something a bit more appropriate to this conversation -- if this," Sunniva's fingers flutter between them, "is a conversation, which, to be utterly honest, it does not feel like. You want something; I will not give it. Nor do you even /care/, so what purpose would giving it serve?"
'Care'. 'Purpose'. 'Serve'. These words mean something. So does her hand on his jacket. It's to that he responds first. "No!" And quickly, like she's threatening to slice her own wrists. The hand he'd put up to stop her clenches between them, his long fingers convulsing. He drops it to his side, takes another deep breath and recollects himself that easily. Again, the mask he wears. So measured, so put right, Adrian can manage a real reply. A calm reply. A reply his mother would approve of. "You are correct. This isn't a conversation." There, he's stuck staring down at her with those burning eyes. Finally, after being statue still for so long, he takes one casual step to the side to allow her a space to pass. Not that he intends on allowing her to go without him. "You cannot refuse me this," he tells her, with what could very well be regret in his melodic voice.
Serene. That is the look on her face. It is either a precursor to her dropping into her old ways or else something far more ominous. Neither shows when he admits the truth of it, when he permits her to pass. She does so, bare feet barely audible on stone and what noise is there is clearly deliberate; spiteful if she were capable of it. The jacket stays on, for now, but likely out of deference to just out violently he reacted; it is soaked within and without, however, with her waist-length, wavy hair soaking the back. "No," she repeats, "this is not a conversation." In case he needed to be reminded of the words he's just said. But his last words, those do not go unaddressed. Sunniva doesn't turn precisely, it's more a look over her shoulder at him; green eyes, slightly hooded, a coil of dark hair stuck to her cheek: "Give me a reason to accept."
Like an obedient servant, like someone tethered, Adrian follows her. That he is as quiet as she, despite his wearing shoes, is a minute detail. His gait is graceful, yes, arms barely moving, his spine painfully straight. Anything less would be unacceptable. With her back turned to him she won't be able to see how he rolls his eyes at her for her secondary reminder. Perhaps they can both just repeat the same passage over and over and that could be their conversation, how strange would that be. But then she /is/ looking back at him and he meets her gaze evenly. "This is not a matter of debate or-- or barter." On that last word his expression loses its smoothness, pinches incredulously. How could she be behaving so? The unhappy set of his features remains.
"No?" That dark curl of hair is brushed away and she faces forward again, leading the way unerringly to the dorms. "Then I do believe we will remain at an impasse. I am not leaving Ista." Decided. In fact, more decided than at any other time in her life. And in Sunniva goes, heedless -- or simply uncaring -- of the man following her. To her cot, to her potpourri-scented trunk, to the clothes so meticulously maintained within. At least her clothing appears to be proper; skirts and dresses and things. Assuming he's followed thus far, he might be in for a horrible shock -- with the lighting being much improved, he can definitely see the tan. And ... bare shoulders. And then back, as the jacket is so efficiently shed without a second thought. It is set on her cot, of course, to keep it clean, but that doesn't excuse the relative exposure of that much of her skin, even with the swimsuit.
Of course he follows her, like a dark and elegant apparition. Completely out of place among the cots and sleeping forms of Ista's residents. Some of them, anyway. Others are simply here, watching them enter together. Not that he pays them any mind, he has eyes only for Sunniva. In a purely official capacity, of course. While she moves for her cot, though, he lingers back a few paces. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough away to retain some portion of his dignity and bearing. "There is no impasse, Sunniva," he's saying wearily when she sheds his jacket and suddenly so much of her is in plain sight again. His black eyes widen, he looks around warily; extremely uncomfortable, his focus does not return to her. He stares hard at the floor, a dangerous look on his face. "Please get dressed," he murmurs.
"Are you really going to try to /physically/ drag me from the Weyr?" she wants to know, her tone casual and conversational, even as she sifts through her belongings. "Because that is the only way I will leave. Kicking and screaming and against my will." The final selection is that of a summery dress of light yellow -- given the warmth of the area, it's more than appropriate ... in truth, it might be something he's seen before. Broad shoulder straps, a concealing bodice, a skirt that's snug at her waist but flares elegantly at her ankles. Not, of course, that she's putting it on just yet. Another look back, this time with one eyebrow lifted. "Do you mind?" Not, of course, that she seems to care that everyone else can see. After this long in a Weyr, one learns to eschew modesty in many aspects of life; she's done the same, though it's taken her some time to get there. So, perhaps, the warning is for his sake before she makes the relatively quick transition from swimsuit to dress.
"If that is what it takes then I will have you tied and gagged as well," Adrian says in all seriousness, though it might be difficult to discern any sort of tone with the way he's speaking through his perfect teeth. If her wardrobe selection is familiar he hasn't noticed yet, so in tune is he with his desire to not see any more of her skin. Her tanned, smooth skin. It isn't any obvious desire that has him turning his face away so, instead it's a steadily seething anger that boils in him. "No. I do not mind." Not that it matters. He wasn't looking and she isn't going to stop. Hopefully it'll all be over soon.
And it is, fortunately for him. A quick pass of the towel is made for her hair, then the jacket is taken up, brushed off, and placed -- /so/ -- on the cot. "To dry," she explains, as if he even cares, her fingers quickly working a length of ribbon into a bow, binding her hair in a ponytail. Around her neck, a silver chain and locket -- another anomaly. Sandals are found and slipped on, the hang of her skirt adjusted. And then Sunniva folds her arms. "Really." Flat. "And if I, hypothetically, said I was spoken for? What then?" Even if it's not so hypothetical; even if it's not as solid as she makes it seem.
He doesn't. A jacket is a moot point; it hardly counts as clothing, it's simply another layer of modesty. Modesty that /he/, apparently, can afford to personally live without. Adrian is still refusing to look at her up until she poses her hypothetical. Even then it's only carefully that he hedges a glance at her, out of the corner of his eye. Sighting her easily in yellow, his chin comes up and he breathes in. Better to face her while continuing on in this vein. "You are not, in any way that would hamper my engagement to you, otherwise attached." And he says this with such firm undeniability that obviously some care has been taken to update himself on at least this portion of her life. For one brief second his gaze sweeps over her, her dress accounted for. The necklace too. His mouth finds that hard line it so cleaves to.
"Mm." So ... noncommittal, that. Acquiescing? Or simply not willing to bother to correct him? So many hundreds of things it could be and she offers no explanation on any of them. "And here, you can hardly stand to look at me. Am I that hideous to you, Adrian? So abhorrent?" Needling. Her arms remain folded; Sunniva merely looks up to him with a well-schooled mask of impassivity, while her voice is a serene melody. "Tell me, then, if I were to go with you, whatever would you /do/ with me?" And not blushing for it; even if it is through sheer force of will and perhaps a bit to do with just how /cold/ she's feeling now. More than an emotion, it's just what she is.
The sheer /forwardness/ she's demonstrating right now has him unsettled again. This is not the way women behave. No, this is not the way /she/ behaves. Where has she gone, inside this big strange place? How much of her story has been omitted in the word sent back to him from his connections. When faced with such questions, Adrian can only stare at her, unfeeling. His face looks so cold, not at all at ease with Ista's climate, temperature, mood. Ista is bright, warm; he is cool, except for the burning in his eyes. A burning that only seems to smolder all the more hotly with her looking at him like she is. /Questioning/ him. The worst part of it all is he has no answer for her. Nothing he can say would be-- /proper/. It's his refusal to be anything but, to be nothing but respectful of her, at least, that keeps him silent. Silent while he /burns/ at her.
Perhaps, had he caught her at a better time -- at work in the infirmary, or acquiring lunch, or any other point where she was not in tune with /her/ -- it might have gone differently. Cool sage meets and conflicts with burning black, serenity contrasting fervence. But, there are certain lines she's willing to toe; others, she knows to keep well away from. She's verging on the latter and she knows it, even if she /knows/ what he might be thinking. Knows to the point of allowing a small smile to touch the corner of her mouth. And then Sunniva's reaffixing her features, confirming the polite neutrality of their arrangement. Head ducked, just so; a demure look up at him through long lashes. "As I thought." Cultured. Soft. Sunniva sounds as she should, but the words just don't fit what was and what is. "Since it is settled that I am hideous," for he didn't answer either way, "then perhaps I ought to go. I need something to drink and I would hardly wish to further trouble you by insisting you come with me."
That she should come to that conclusion is an unfortunate turn. Had he the freedom, the right to, he would no doubt deny it. As it stands, he has no real claim to her right now. And even if he did, their arrangement will be purely functional. Adrian must remind himself of these things, to keep his perspective. Once she's regained her control he can start gathering together the shreds of his own forgotten restraint. Even standing so still, tense, is giving himself away. And though he denies her with his voice, his body language, his eyes still burn. "Very well." Which is refusal through acceptance, refusal of what might have been an opening to join her. His voice is low, smooth. Fixed.
"Very well." Echoed again. If she is hurt by his non-acceptance of an offer made of politeness, she makes no showing of it. "Your jacket," she murmurs, head still canted down, eyes tipped up, "will be in your quarters tomorrow morning." Time to dry, to ensure it doesn't lose its shape. "Good night, Adrian. Do take care." The last three words are especially important; words dutifully uttered, every time, without fail at departures. Departures of others; departures of self. It's the latter that occurs; skirts whisper and she moves, intent on taking her leave and, in fact, getting something to drink.
She chooses duty /now/. Unruffled, visibly, by her exit, Adrian stands there moments after she's gone. He didn't say anything to her, no more arguments, no more persuasions. It might seem that he's given up, if someone were of the mind to assume something like that. For Sunniva, though, the reality should be easier to see: he's far from done. Whenever she returns to her cot after whatever drink she's acquired, she'll find his jacket is gone. Not even the smell of him, something masculinely gentle, will remain. It wouldn't be proper.
What: A ghost from Sunniva's past catches up with her, finally. Things do not go so very well.
Where: Grotto, ISW.
When: 11/28/08.
11/28/2008
05:44 PM
Logfile from Adrian.
Seaside Grotto, Ista Weyr
The tunnel narrows and widens, narrows again before opening up into a secluded grotto far below the Weyr at the water's edge. A handful of fist-sized holes pierce the rocky ceiling to admit light, and other offerings from the sky in their turn. The sea has flooded much of this cavern, leaving only a crescent of beach at the tunnel's opening. Sand shifts underfoot, but the subtle black shimmer is utterly outclassed by the walls of the cavern. Ancient waters have left mineral deposits across the stone, turning it pale and dazzling as any light bounces from the ever-moving water and reflects around the space to create a sparkling, other-worldly glow.
Evening has spilled fully into night, making the grotto into not just a dark place, but a dark place lit dimly with starlight through those curious openings. Tonight, though, another source of light lends its luminance, sickly green light emitted from glows strewn on the slim crescent of beach. In the water, a shape can be glimpsed, a shadowy entity just beyond the reach of the light. Not so much swimming as floating, arms splayed and eyes shut. Unable to sleep, all Sunniva can hope to do is find relaxation.
Night isn't his favorite time to go searching a strange place with all its tunnels and weirdness for someone who may or may not even exist within said strange place, but it's far beneath Adrian to let such petty qualms deter him. He has a mission, he seeks to see it to fruition. It hasn't been an easy search, nor has it been a brief one. There aren't many in Ista awake right now with the knowledge of where the object of his search might be hiding herself, so most of his work has been of the guess variety. Luck is with him in his finding this place at all, so tucked away from the rest of the Weyr. His footsteps are quiet, his concern for his footwear and well being is nonexistent; there's someone out there. Swimming. Hesitating but a moment, unsure, he does the one thing he can think to do, and that is make a polite coughing noise, his black eyes intent on the water.
And at the cough, there's a bit of a splash, a gentle sound that precedes a straightening of the shape just beyond. "Hello?" is called, even as that shape draws closer to the glows scattered so copiously about; it eventually illuminates the shape well before the face, a shape wrapped in a two piece swimsuit and worn well. Six months of candidacy and good food have done much to shape her; a tan isn't readily apparent but likely an easy thing to deduce. More has shifted, more than just the physical if the suit is any indication. So, it's the voice that he might recognize first, as she continues to speak, "How might I help you?" That Sunniva doesn't recognize /him/ might be a blessing.
A blessing of unfamiliarity he isn't, despite his streak up until now, fortunate enough to share with her. Those first two syllables aren't quite enough to substantiate for him that she is who she is, he can't see her face as close-but-not-close-enough as she is to the sickly green cast. But he can see the rest of her, and it's a sight that tenses him. Weyrs and their women and their scantily clad skin. It's downright indecent. Quickly applying his neutral, standoffish mask, Adrian opens his mouth to say something more but she speaks first. 'Hello' wasn't enough; this is. His jaw drops further, his mask fallen that soon. Still, his voice doesn't miss a single smooth beat when he annunciates very clearly her name: "Sunniva?"
"Adrian." Immediate recognition in the midst of her effort to push her hair back; she's always been well-known for her memory. Water-slick arms drop, instinctively covering a midsection she was unashamed of until now; perhaps only because she's alone, perhaps because it was all she had to wear. Hard to say. She stops, right there, bare feet in sand -- something that Sunniva would have never stood for, not at the Hold, not for anything, even in shoes, being the ardent hater of dirt she is -- head cocked at that all-too-familiar and birdlike angle as she squints into the not-quite-darkness to pick out his features. "What brings you here?" she wonders as a matter of politeness and never mind the awkwardness of the situation.
Oh there will be no neverminding. She's easier to see for him than he is, for her, and now that he's certain it's her -- she couldn't be anybody else -- he can't help but stare at her. Before, when he assumed her to be some strange female clearly out of her mind, to be swimming out here alone when any number of things might happen to her, he was so quick to dismiss the entire situation for the greater purpose. Now that it would seem this /is/ his greater purpose, he can't compose himself. But the stunned expression on his face -- even it can't ruin his so-gentle features -- is taken in hand quickly. With that solid underlayer in his tone he answers her, unhappily, "I came for you. Thank goodness." Without hesitating he approaches her, already shucking off the thin jacket he wears. His face looks so pale in that strange lighting and his boots, most likely the expensive kind, squish in the sand she stands in. Long arms reach to settle the garment around her shoulders, or try to anyway.
"Why ever would you-?" and she can't quite finish the thought, her thoughts no doubt turning in gyres that come to enough unsavoury solutions that she can't give voice to them. Her lips press flat, an expression fortunately masked or otherwise unseen. But, propriety -- what shreds of it Sunniva yet clings to -- dictates that she stand there, at least long enough to realize his intentions. "Oh, oh dear. No, I shall ruin your jacket in this state, Adrian." But it's up to him to lay it on even after the warning, her lower lip caught up in her teeth and arms still folded. Should he persist, the jacket will find a home on narrow shoulders, shoulders that roll forward a little to hunker under the garment. "And whatever are you doing here at /night/?" As if she has a better reason. "You could have- have looked for me in the morning."
No such nonsense, please. Adrian's ministrations could hardly be deemed fussy or even really all that attentive for her well-being. She's half-naked, and this is the thing to do. But at least his hands are gentle, though after he's finished he tilts his chin down and backs away from her like she might bite him. Those gentle hands find themselves fidgeting, palms rubbing on pantlegs, before he realizes and stills them. Fists at his sides, dark eyes direct, he addresses her again so formally. "Had I known I would find you in such a 'state' I would have come looking much sooner. If I had waited for morning, who knows what sight might have greeted me." Which is part-concerned, part-insulting. As if she's partaking in the deepest of debaucheries. "Now then. Did you bring anything? Gather it up, if so."
But, this is not the same Sunniva that once was. While she endures the contradictory indignity of being covered by a man she hasn't seen in at least a turn, if not more, her hands eventually find their way to her hips, head lifted in a way that would make Berit proud. "Had you any sense of timing, you might have shown up well before I initially left Fort." The Weyr. So strange to think that she, the mousy one, the one who was forever destined to cling to the Hold, would be world-hopping. Her leaving the gardens or even the dance square was generally treated as a triumph. "I am quite alright, by the bye." Since he seems so concerned. No edge to her voice -- she might seem incapable -- but still. "A towel and the glows, though I suppose the glows shall be fine here." And it's off to get the towel she goes, moving with her usual grace and fludity. "Are you intending to walk me back to the dorms, then?" Just to make sure.
"For the sake of keeping my temper and not offending you I shall ignore that remark." She can put her hands anywhere she wants, Adrian is a placid lake. With eyes that smolder some when they watch her, unreadable and entirely too intense, completely at odds with his familiar face and calm mask. Her update and the later question as to his intent both gain the same reply; he's efficient like that. "What /are/ you talking about. Travelling has stopped you making sense. We're going home." His or hers, he doesn't say.
"Mm-hm. Ever so thoughtful," is entirely too mild to be offensive; carefully schooled. Pure Sunniva. "But, I do regret that I must inform you that this /is/ my home." And, just like that, she stops moving. She has the towel, which is now wrapped around her waist, and now she's just /looking/ at him, head tipped up, green eyes dark. "Regardless of whatever Leoren has no doubt told you," for, surely, Leoren is the one doing this, even though that makes absolutely no sense and, thus, makes perfect sense fo the man, "I was forbidden /from/ returning. I did not /just/ leave." His home doesn't even enter her mental equation.
That she stopped moving doesn't seem to bother him. It puts a small wrinkle between his severe eyebrows, but otherwise he remains as confident as a moment ago. "/This/?" he interjects at one point, emphasizing but still calm. Tense, but calm. Once she's finished and ended on that note he presses his mouth into a thin line and informs her thusly, "Your brother and my father will be making an arrangement, granted I return you safely. And, I would imagine, fully clothed." A detail he's still very much uncomfortable about, because she still remains in a bikini, a towel and his jacket. Which is as good as naked, certainly not at all appropriately attired.
"Ista. The Weyr." In case he somehow presumed the grotto was it. Barefoot, she starts to move anew, to try to slip past him, to try to head for the tunnel leading out. "My brother and your father," with pointed emphasis on each word, "will just have to sort out new arrangements." No elaboration needed, but the tension in her jaw doesn't need to be seen; it's easily heard. "My things, /most/ of them, are in the dorms." Perhaps the 'most' is meant to be a jab, an implication. With luck, it will be. "In either case, I am fairly certain that Leoren, my brother, does not even consider me a living thing, let alone his sister."
Wherever does he get his patience. It's an infinite source, whatever it is, the thing he draws from. "Do not behave like a spoiled little girl, Sunniva." Adrian turns; she was successful in her attempt at getting by, he isn't about to lay hands to her. But he isn't going to allow this easy escape into the night either, not when he's travelled so far and endured this Weyr for an entire day. Facing her, or her back, he lifts his chin imperiously and adds, "You've had your fun and your adventure, at the cost of your home and your family, and now it's time to grow up." Her jab doesn't hit its mark; there's no mark, as of yet, to hit. That she should be spending her nights anywhere /but/ a public space reserved for such activities isn't even an option, and so he isn't aware.
It would seem their patience might be equal in quantity, though not applied quite the same. Sunniva's voice remains measured, her pace equally so. Unrelentingly onward, without glows; without needing them, givne her familiarity with the tunnel. Her irritation is not revealed, leaving her voice to be as it always is, with artful use of inflection to make points that her tone of voice cannot achieve. "As you are not my betrothed, dearest Adrian, I shall be flattered that you have come so far to seek me and terribly saddened for you that your search shall come to naught." Grow up? She rolls her eyes, then shuts them. She keeps moving. "You would be better off returning to your home and seeking someone else of comparable blood who has not been Weyr-tainted."
If she continues on then so must he. Finding /his/ way here without glows wasn't quite the simple and effortless task he made it seem, but he finds his footing going the reserve way regardly. Never let it be said he doesn't put on a good show; his parents would have nothing less. "Weyr-tainted or not, this is a union that our families have sought before, and it's the only one remaining that is both available and still advantageous. Your /father/ wanted this." Not that Adrian went to any lengths to mention what his purpose here /is/, exactly, so that statement might come as a surprise now that some light's been shed on why finding her was so important. That she mentioned not being her betrothed is almost ironic.
Silence. Eerie, eerie silence. Then: "How convenient, then, that my father is dead and cannot speak to his wishes." A breath is taken, released, and she continues, "And I sincerely doubt Leoren would have encouraged you to pursue me." There's a brief look back to him, perhaps attempting to discern where he is, how fast he's following. Not far until the dimly lit tunnel can be reached. "Our Hold is hardly the /only/ Hold with young women, either. In fact, I am positive that someone suitable can be had if you felt like talking to Berit." At Fort. Away from here. He's not getting any hints and she's clearly missing something in her unspoken frustration with the situation.
"You are not listening. On top of that you're being difficult. It is not for you to assume or speculate, only to comply." And it's something close to frustration, this feeling related to how much she's changed, this tension he feels. There are many levels to frustration. Still a respectful distance behind her, Adrian continues in his pursuit of her, into that tunnel where he can see her better, can see well enough to hasten forward for three long-legged and graceful strides; he means to stop in front of her, to halt her progress. Hands clasped behind his back and chin tilted up, he regards her with half-lidded eyes down the bridge of his perfect nose.
And he makes it, forestalling any forward movement on her part. Hands on her hips again, green-eyed gaze tipped up. Defiant. Whether defiant for him or defiant for what he represents, it matters not. "Frankly, Adrian, you are about a turn too late to do this. To do any of this. I am not of the Hold; Leoren has forsaken me and I have washed my hands of that as much as they have washed their hands of me. Does that even make any /sense/ to you?" And Sunniva wants /out/, but the only way past is going to involve pushing past him; something she's not in a mood to do, not yet. "Does the fact that I am so utterly unwanted by the Hold of my birth mean anything to you?" Pleading, now. Cajoling. Trying to make a case for unfitness, now.
But his is a countenance far too severe, expressionless, for her pleas. It's as is he's simply playing the role of the judge, weighing the sides and choosing the best, most fair. There's still something, though, in the way his eyes see her: burning. Finally he moves, to cant his head down and fix her with that black, heated gaze. Intense. His voice, of course, contradicts him by coming out smooth and firm, but gentle too. And for just a second it seems he's seeing /her/, not just his own devices. "Do you think so little of me that I would come all this way, search you out, if I thought even for a second your brother wouldn't allow me this?" Allow /Adrian/ this, not their families.
She weathers the worst of it, the severity of it, without a blink. It's when his mien shifts oh-so-subtly that she moves. A hand lifts. Perhaps it is out of some sense of respect -- for a memory, not the here-and-now; perhaps some other bit of the way Things Must Be Done that she hasn't shed entirely -- that has her reaching to place long fingers along his jaw. Featherlight. She smells like coconut and tropical flowers, likely a combination of her late evening snack and some sort of lotion. "With you," Sunniva finally murmurs, "I never know what I ought to think. I never have." Her breath escapes in a sigh. "Now is certainly no different." Lips press flat; her mouth pulls to a side. "And I do not need any further complications. I have enough in my life as it is."
Not light enough to spare her his sudden and complete tensing. There is no jerky twitch to the side to remove himself from under her touch, but he does lean just a fraction back on his heels. That serves him too, pulls him away from her just enough. Her scent, something that clings to her fingers, forces his nose to flare and his eyes to narrow. The disturbed line his full lips have found themselves in does not soften, but nor does he round on her. Instead he retreats back into what comes so naturally to him, what years of training have ingrained in his every fiber. This is an official errand, so it will be treated as such. "Your life is complicated because you have made the decisions you have made to come here. You should have--" He stops himself, but not for long. His eyes search right and left for someone, anyone, who might hear what he's about to say before he murmurs the words. "You should have come to Gray River." Read: come to /him/. Not that he would ever dare say such a thing.
Ah. And that's what it'll take. Despite his impeccable wardrobe, his immaculate state, the hand at his jaw drops and the other joins it, to busy themselves with his shirt and the task of sweeping dust from it -- imagined, perhaps, but that is just how Sunniva was ... and how she is now. One of the rare junctures between old and new. "Yes. And that is why I am trying to dissuade you from being yet another complication." Just a slight shift in tone, deliberately chosen; cajoling. Her head lifts, her eyes deliberately seeking his. "And I did not. Could not. You know that. Not with Ella needing someone there -- someone /blood/ -- to see to her," Fiorella, formally, for the youngest "and Berit gone and the others busy."
Every bit as tense as he was before, Adrian endures her grooming with his jaw muscle clenched and the strong length of his arms trembling. But it says something to his credit that he doesn't retract further from her; perhaps something about his self control. Mentioning her youngest sister softens the uneasiness in him. It hasn't been often that his own sister has needed his help, capable woman that she is, but he can understand the will to be available for family. Afterall, it's partially for his family he is here right now, with this exiled lady fussing over him with all of this rare familiarity. His sense of propriety takes a backseat for just long enough for him to say, "I know." She knows he knows. Still, "There is nothing complicated about this proposal, Sunniva. You know as well as I do how important it is."
An adjustment to the shirt there, a brush of her palm across his chest. Knowing full well that this is not a conversation that will end quickly, however, her hands drop. "Do you know anything at all about what has happened to me? Or, perhaps more importantly," her voice drops, just a touch, "do you care? If all I am -- all I was, all I /will/ be -- is a part of some- some business proposal, then that is not important to /me/. Therefore, it is a complication, despite not being complicated." And Sunniva sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly, and tilts to a side to try to look past. "In either case," she remarks, "I /would/ like to get dressed, if I may. And perhaps get something to drink." Something strong; implied, not spoken outright.
The adjusting is fine. The brushing not so much. His breath hitches on his long inhale, too much of her scent brought in. It's a huge relief when she's finally done, though /his/ hands are still clenched into tight fists at his sides, shoulders squared like he's opposing some great physical force. And what's more, she's on a tirade. Well, a tirade for /her/. And he's far too proper a gentleman to interrupt her, so she's allowed to continue -- 'what has happened' earns her what could only be considered a slightly hurt grimace from him. Until she leans around him he remains silent; only then he makes a small, cautionary sound. Ah, ah. Rather than comment on those points she made, Adrian alights on the freshest of those things she's said. Her needs haven't seemed to play too large a role in his grand design so far, truthfully, and that doesn't change now. With that authority in his tone again, "I've come here for a reason, Sunniva. I do not plan to return empty-handed."
"Then I suppose you cannot return." There. See? Simple. She can play this stubborn game, too. His jacket is touched and then she threatens to pull it off; her lower self might be more modestly covered with the towel, but the upper part most definitely will not be if he doesn't stop her. In either case: "This," the jacket, of course, "is yours." An eyebrow arches; wordlessly, 'take it'. More audibly, "Now. Would you rather see me in this, or in something a bit more appropriate to this conversation -- if this," Sunniva's fingers flutter between them, "is a conversation, which, to be utterly honest, it does not feel like. You want something; I will not give it. Nor do you even /care/, so what purpose would giving it serve?"
'Care'. 'Purpose'. 'Serve'. These words mean something. So does her hand on his jacket. It's to that he responds first. "No!" And quickly, like she's threatening to slice her own wrists. The hand he'd put up to stop her clenches between them, his long fingers convulsing. He drops it to his side, takes another deep breath and recollects himself that easily. Again, the mask he wears. So measured, so put right, Adrian can manage a real reply. A calm reply. A reply his mother would approve of. "You are correct. This isn't a conversation." There, he's stuck staring down at her with those burning eyes. Finally, after being statue still for so long, he takes one casual step to the side to allow her a space to pass. Not that he intends on allowing her to go without him. "You cannot refuse me this," he tells her, with what could very well be regret in his melodic voice.
Serene. That is the look on her face. It is either a precursor to her dropping into her old ways or else something far more ominous. Neither shows when he admits the truth of it, when he permits her to pass. She does so, bare feet barely audible on stone and what noise is there is clearly deliberate; spiteful if she were capable of it. The jacket stays on, for now, but likely out of deference to just out violently he reacted; it is soaked within and without, however, with her waist-length, wavy hair soaking the back. "No," she repeats, "this is not a conversation." In case he needed to be reminded of the words he's just said. But his last words, those do not go unaddressed. Sunniva doesn't turn precisely, it's more a look over her shoulder at him; green eyes, slightly hooded, a coil of dark hair stuck to her cheek: "Give me a reason to accept."
Like an obedient servant, like someone tethered, Adrian follows her. That he is as quiet as she, despite his wearing shoes, is a minute detail. His gait is graceful, yes, arms barely moving, his spine painfully straight. Anything less would be unacceptable. With her back turned to him she won't be able to see how he rolls his eyes at her for her secondary reminder. Perhaps they can both just repeat the same passage over and over and that could be their conversation, how strange would that be. But then she /is/ looking back at him and he meets her gaze evenly. "This is not a matter of debate or-- or barter." On that last word his expression loses its smoothness, pinches incredulously. How could she be behaving so? The unhappy set of his features remains.
"No?" That dark curl of hair is brushed away and she faces forward again, leading the way unerringly to the dorms. "Then I do believe we will remain at an impasse. I am not leaving Ista." Decided. In fact, more decided than at any other time in her life. And in Sunniva goes, heedless -- or simply uncaring -- of the man following her. To her cot, to her potpourri-scented trunk, to the clothes so meticulously maintained within. At least her clothing appears to be proper; skirts and dresses and things. Assuming he's followed thus far, he might be in for a horrible shock -- with the lighting being much improved, he can definitely see the tan. And ... bare shoulders. And then back, as the jacket is so efficiently shed without a second thought. It is set on her cot, of course, to keep it clean, but that doesn't excuse the relative exposure of that much of her skin, even with the swimsuit.
Of course he follows her, like a dark and elegant apparition. Completely out of place among the cots and sleeping forms of Ista's residents. Some of them, anyway. Others are simply here, watching them enter together. Not that he pays them any mind, he has eyes only for Sunniva. In a purely official capacity, of course. While she moves for her cot, though, he lingers back a few paces. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough away to retain some portion of his dignity and bearing. "There is no impasse, Sunniva," he's saying wearily when she sheds his jacket and suddenly so much of her is in plain sight again. His black eyes widen, he looks around warily; extremely uncomfortable, his focus does not return to her. He stares hard at the floor, a dangerous look on his face. "Please get dressed," he murmurs.
"Are you really going to try to /physically/ drag me from the Weyr?" she wants to know, her tone casual and conversational, even as she sifts through her belongings. "Because that is the only way I will leave. Kicking and screaming and against my will." The final selection is that of a summery dress of light yellow -- given the warmth of the area, it's more than appropriate ... in truth, it might be something he's seen before. Broad shoulder straps, a concealing bodice, a skirt that's snug at her waist but flares elegantly at her ankles. Not, of course, that she's putting it on just yet. Another look back, this time with one eyebrow lifted. "Do you mind?" Not, of course, that she seems to care that everyone else can see. After this long in a Weyr, one learns to eschew modesty in many aspects of life; she's done the same, though it's taken her some time to get there. So, perhaps, the warning is for his sake before she makes the relatively quick transition from swimsuit to dress.
"If that is what it takes then I will have you tied and gagged as well," Adrian says in all seriousness, though it might be difficult to discern any sort of tone with the way he's speaking through his perfect teeth. If her wardrobe selection is familiar he hasn't noticed yet, so in tune is he with his desire to not see any more of her skin. Her tanned, smooth skin. It isn't any obvious desire that has him turning his face away so, instead it's a steadily seething anger that boils in him. "No. I do not mind." Not that it matters. He wasn't looking and she isn't going to stop. Hopefully it'll all be over soon.
And it is, fortunately for him. A quick pass of the towel is made for her hair, then the jacket is taken up, brushed off, and placed -- /so/ -- on the cot. "To dry," she explains, as if he even cares, her fingers quickly working a length of ribbon into a bow, binding her hair in a ponytail. Around her neck, a silver chain and locket -- another anomaly. Sandals are found and slipped on, the hang of her skirt adjusted. And then Sunniva folds her arms. "Really." Flat. "And if I, hypothetically, said I was spoken for? What then?" Even if it's not so hypothetical; even if it's not as solid as she makes it seem.
He doesn't. A jacket is a moot point; it hardly counts as clothing, it's simply another layer of modesty. Modesty that /he/, apparently, can afford to personally live without. Adrian is still refusing to look at her up until she poses her hypothetical. Even then it's only carefully that he hedges a glance at her, out of the corner of his eye. Sighting her easily in yellow, his chin comes up and he breathes in. Better to face her while continuing on in this vein. "You are not, in any way that would hamper my engagement to you, otherwise attached." And he says this with such firm undeniability that obviously some care has been taken to update himself on at least this portion of her life. For one brief second his gaze sweeps over her, her dress accounted for. The necklace too. His mouth finds that hard line it so cleaves to.
"Mm." So ... noncommittal, that. Acquiescing? Or simply not willing to bother to correct him? So many hundreds of things it could be and she offers no explanation on any of them. "And here, you can hardly stand to look at me. Am I that hideous to you, Adrian? So abhorrent?" Needling. Her arms remain folded; Sunniva merely looks up to him with a well-schooled mask of impassivity, while her voice is a serene melody. "Tell me, then, if I were to go with you, whatever would you /do/ with me?" And not blushing for it; even if it is through sheer force of will and perhaps a bit to do with just how /cold/ she's feeling now. More than an emotion, it's just what she is.
The sheer /forwardness/ she's demonstrating right now has him unsettled again. This is not the way women behave. No, this is not the way /she/ behaves. Where has she gone, inside this big strange place? How much of her story has been omitted in the word sent back to him from his connections. When faced with such questions, Adrian can only stare at her, unfeeling. His face looks so cold, not at all at ease with Ista's climate, temperature, mood. Ista is bright, warm; he is cool, except for the burning in his eyes. A burning that only seems to smolder all the more hotly with her looking at him like she is. /Questioning/ him. The worst part of it all is he has no answer for her. Nothing he can say would be-- /proper/. It's his refusal to be anything but, to be nothing but respectful of her, at least, that keeps him silent. Silent while he /burns/ at her.
Perhaps, had he caught her at a better time -- at work in the infirmary, or acquiring lunch, or any other point where she was not in tune with /her/ -- it might have gone differently. Cool sage meets and conflicts with burning black, serenity contrasting fervence. But, there are certain lines she's willing to toe; others, she knows to keep well away from. She's verging on the latter and she knows it, even if she /knows/ what he might be thinking. Knows to the point of allowing a small smile to touch the corner of her mouth. And then Sunniva's reaffixing her features, confirming the polite neutrality of their arrangement. Head ducked, just so; a demure look up at him through long lashes. "As I thought." Cultured. Soft. Sunniva sounds as she should, but the words just don't fit what was and what is. "Since it is settled that I am hideous," for he didn't answer either way, "then perhaps I ought to go. I need something to drink and I would hardly wish to further trouble you by insisting you come with me."
That she should come to that conclusion is an unfortunate turn. Had he the freedom, the right to, he would no doubt deny it. As it stands, he has no real claim to her right now. And even if he did, their arrangement will be purely functional. Adrian must remind himself of these things, to keep his perspective. Once she's regained her control he can start gathering together the shreds of his own forgotten restraint. Even standing so still, tense, is giving himself away. And though he denies her with his voice, his body language, his eyes still burn. "Very well." Which is refusal through acceptance, refusal of what might have been an opening to join her. His voice is low, smooth. Fixed.
"Very well." Echoed again. If she is hurt by his non-acceptance of an offer made of politeness, she makes no showing of it. "Your jacket," she murmurs, head still canted down, eyes tipped up, "will be in your quarters tomorrow morning." Time to dry, to ensure it doesn't lose its shape. "Good night, Adrian. Do take care." The last three words are especially important; words dutifully uttered, every time, without fail at departures. Departures of others; departures of self. It's the latter that occurs; skirts whisper and she moves, intent on taking her leave and, in fact, getting something to drink.
She chooses duty /now/. Unruffled, visibly, by her exit, Adrian stands there moments after she's gone. He didn't say anything to her, no more arguments, no more persuasions. It might seem that he's given up, if someone were of the mind to assume something like that. For Sunniva, though, the reality should be easier to see: he's far from done. Whenever she returns to her cot after whatever drink she's acquired, she'll find his jacket is gone. Not even the smell of him, something masculinely gentle, will remain. It wouldn't be proper.