[Wh- He said that he smelled them!!! While holding Claude’s (Khalid’s) freshly laundered shirt! At her house! Of course she assumed he meant intimately!!! After all, she can smell… Well, she couldn’t smell… that two people, precisely those two, had been intimate, but she could smell… sex… and then also the scent of others, so usually one just… assumed… That’s part of why she’d left Akua’s so early in the morning after That Night, afraid to be detected by smell by those she might not know capable and-
And anyway- !
He says he wouldn’t accept it. If she had to twist herself to be accepted, or to be loved, and she looks… pensive for a moment. Not about Claude. About… other things. About her past, too. The weapon she had forged herself into in order to survive in the world she’d been born into. It was good she had, surely, better to be steel than a flower crushed underfoot, but…
But Set knew better than some, than most. The threats that Hayame had lived her whole life under. What she’d seen happen to the women around her for a single mistake, a single mistake of birth. The fate that had awaited her. If she felt even the first hint of it… of fingers ripping her hair, of feeling cornered, powerless, of being treated like… like the barely-different-from-a-horse that she had been… She would run, and likely leave blood in her wake. Hurt, hurt, too, and a sure belief that she was stupid to ever have thought she might be able to have something good, but…
She wouldn’t tolerate it. … She wouldn’t, right?]
… He treats me well.
[Too well, she sometimes thought. She should say that. He deserved her saying that, even if she can’t say it without her cheeks ruddy and her lips pursed strangely. Set is right, though, about why she hadn’t told anyone and kept it secret. It had nothing to do with how much she trusted anyone, only some to do with how she feared it might affect her reputation (a warrior ruined by softness) and his (a diplomat arguing for peace bedding one of Meridian’s most vocally hard-line members), and so much to do with…
Not knowing how she felt. And if she didn’t know… How she could tell anyone? How could she say what this was? Her world… a woman having sex was either married or a whore. There was no concept of “dating”, and courting was ritual and exchanging wealth wi to intimacy dangled as the reward after sale, and so this… this thing where a man claimed he loved her and instead of saying she loved him back she said “you are a fool”…
She looks taken aback. Just to hear something other people must think is normal. “I’m happy for you.” She… she wanted to be happy for Set, for Akua, for Liem, for Yuri, for Gray… She’d told him that, hadn’t she, on the banks of that pond where they lay exhausted, his shade left temporarily behind. She didn’t know what form that would take, but she wanted it. Even so… other people weren’t supposed to say it to her. Finally, she remembers how to move again. She takes Claude’s shirt gently from Set’s hands, and puts it in her basket. Muttering, trying to be… fun, despite being obviously touched by his words…]
Set, I am…
We are… far too sober for this sort of talk, are we not?
[She’ll put the laundry in. And they can… they can go where he wants to show her? Hopefully… somewhere, eventually, that does have strong liquor.]
I wanted to say it before you could put doubt to my words.
[ Which is to say, they might be too sober for this sort of conversation, but he's unwilling to allow Hayame to have any more ammunition that she might be able to use to spin falsity into what he says. Oh, he was drunk and didn't really mean what he was saying, is something he really, really wants to avoid right now.
Set finishes crumpling Claude's shirt, folding it neatly ( very tidy and devoted to the task, for a sloppy war god like him ) and relinquishes it to Hayame as she takes it from him. The laundry done, there's no further chores that will keep them from having fun. Set doesn't know how to have fun that isn't brassy and messy, but for her, he will try to keep her dignity as intact as possible — even if he wants to see her listing to one side with every step, her cheeks rosy with drink and laughter pouring from her. He hopes she's the sort of drunk that doesn't get maudlin, and instead finds joy in everything.
One will never know, until the moment, though. ]
I'm going to take you to the Last Dance. It's my favorite location — close to Kowloon but beyond that city's politics, and neutral among neutrality. The arts are beloved there. I watch theatre shows and observe occultists reading the stars and cards, booze and smoke and dancers and ware-hawkers... well, it may be a bit hedonistic, but it is not... a cruel place. They don't care about a lot of things, just what's nice and feels good.
[ As if to show Hayame how intent he is on having a good time, he even lets his tongue slip. Pulls words together informally, his normally arched and elevated address blurring into something casual. It makes him sound very human, much younger than he is. And he offers his hand to her, invitingly, once she's ready. What he doesn't tell her is that the Last Dance views him as a strong patron, but that he hasn't gone back to it without a companion on his arm in a long time. Because Osiris haunts him, no longer in his mind, but lingering in crowds.
That's too abysmal to talk about, so he ignores it. Hayame is here, with him. ]
[... Hayame may be flustered, perhaps flushing, and it may be her instinct to deny that she would doubt them... But Set was not wrong, and in the end, and she cannot pretend that he was just for the sake of her proud or her desperation to be perceived a certain way in order to advance her standing in her world. She had learned early on in life not to trust the words of others, that those who said kind things to her almost never meant to be kind, and so even now... It was an instinct to find a "reason" for why someone would say something touching or sentimental to her, allowing her to dismiss it as insincere or false. So... maybe it was better that he said it sober. Later, when she is (not) alone at night and thinking of what he said... she won't be able to blame it on drink.
He says their destination is his favorite, and she finds that... Did she have a favorite place? Just one? Was she even a good choice, to bring to a place that is so focused upon the arts? She surely-]
I am afraid I am no great patron of the arts... I have only seen the performances my master arranged for Exhibition Day guests...
[... Buyers. The buyers of "horseflesh" who purchased jinba for generals and lords afar. It was just a few times a year, overhearing or watching from afar as a blind lute player sung of heroes past, tumblers put on comedy shows, actors performed tragic loves or dramas, and dancers twirled with fans and bells. She had always imagined... perhaps hoped, that if she were to be sold as a warrior she might be exposed to more of it, like human samurai of class were, but. Until then, she had been focused far more on the "being sold as a warrior" part that was necessary for the rest.
And in Kenos... She had continued to cast herself that way. A warrior. One with no time to see... art. Or shows. Or waste time on... booze and fortune-tellers and smoking? On... things that make her blush even more noticably, when she considers "what's nice and feels good" could mean. ... Had meant. (... Surely he wasn't taking her to a brothel? Or... a part-time brothel???) She has the time it takes to put her laundry back away, to take off her apron, to arm herself, and to lock her door behind her to think if she ought to demure to avoid the potential humiliation of not understanding something else that other "normal people" did...
But she puts her hand in his, instead.]
... I suppose it will be alright as long as you explain things properly.
[She may not know it, or know why he has not attended The Last Dance without one, but... She will be there, a companion on his arm. One who has temporarily run that sickly presence off before... and who would gladly, viciously do so again.
One who also did not know that she was about to find out she was actually an affectionate, somewhat emotional drunk.]
Well, then! Let us make a grand patron of you, Hayame!
[ Because.
He will not dwell on Hayame's past, not now. It may define her greatly, inform her decisions and personality, but if he wants to create new memories for her, they cannot be held up against the measurement of other experiences. He wants these to be unique, no matter their similarities, because they are being made between two friends. Let this be her foray into a new life, to encourage her to find people and things that she will fight for. That she will want to bring to the children she is going to save. That she will want again, when she survives what is waiting for her.
Set takes her hand, linking his little finger with hers as he does so. Warm, as he brings her hand up to give the knuckle of her thumb a kiss. And then he brings her away — away, through Alenroux. A Cornerstone. It brings them both out into a dark booth, heavy wine-red curtains drawn around a low table and cushions neatly pressed below it. There is enough room for Hayame to move, and the brass lanterns hang low enough that she could easily touch one, metal and starry mirrors and a single hanging sign made of light and mist displaying a unique mark — his own. ]
This is my private booth in one of the businesses, called the Seven Black Oaths. I have a Cornerstone — the dark stone there, among the other pretty stones in the censer — that allows one to jump close to Kowloon, fairly unseen. If ever you need one, for any reason. Through the curtains, Hayame. Through them and out through the Oaths, and into the alleyways! It is a theatre, a bazaar, a place of culture!
[... A grand patron. That, truly, would be... unique, unlike anything she would ever likely be able to experience in her world, even if she did figure out how to save that village and elude capture at her (former) master's hands. If she remained there... It would by necessity and circumstance be a hard life, eking out survival in the deep mountains and hiding from human hunting parties with weaker individual strengths but overwhelming numbers and clever traps. No shows, no markets, no luxuries... But if she... If, once she had fulfilled her duty and cleansed her honor, if after she saved those she had damned she were able to go to a much more distant place where a home had been offered her, one of heat and sand and flying lizards...
No. It will surely not be possible. It is already a feat enough to imagine going back to her own world. She should not entertain the thought. (But she does think, briefly... Oh. Because of Set, she would know a little of how to exist in such a place full of desert. He showed her what those look like.) The kiss, small and soft, draws her from that musing because she did not expect it... But does not deny it. Even if she averts her gaze with a soft blush, her little finger reflexively curls and squeezes on his.
Then soon enough they are in a place she has never been, in a town beneath Springstar she has always avoided because she could never feel safe there. With Set at her side, if she put away her pride and her desire to never be the one in need of protection, she knew no harm would likely come to her, but. Her large body was not as adroit at navigating the narrow alleys, the crush of people, and the many, sometimes precarious staircases of the underground settlement. And... The last time she had been in Kowloon she had woken on a makeshift surgical table in a room that stunk of rot and chemicals with her arms lashed down and her fetlocks bound to the wall.
Despite herself, she balks before the curtain Set urges her out of.
Until a hand finds a simple bracelet on her wrist he has not seen on her before, and she remembers-]
... Allow me to. Make things easier on our trip. Cetina recently provided me with something, after I expressed to her my reservations about how useful I could be outside of Springstar.
[With her face (and distinctive shape, the only non-humanoid shard-bearer in this generation) known in Highstorm, with her body clumsy in Kowloon... If the battle spilled into those places, what could she do, when the illusion magics would not last the minute someone tried to touch her or she joined a crowd that would bump into an equine rump disguised by visual magic alone? Apparently there was a solution. One that involved turning a small stone inlaid on the bracelet the Tribune's assistant had handed over, so that from one moment to the next-
A centaur mare becomes a human woman. One with the same face still, yes, the same build simply transferred over to a different configuration, but decidedly only five feet tall instead of seven, and something like half a ton lighter. Also... not wearing pants or underwear, it was a transformation spell, not a dressing spell, but... she learned her lesson last time and so she manages to grab her garments to clutch her not ill-fitting robe shut and keep the pelt wrap on her hips from dropping down to the floor.
Gods, balancing in this damn shape on two weird legs... No, she has been practicing, so. She can stay upright as she lets out her robe to cover her strange new rump, as she retied her pelt wrap into more of a kilt-like skirt, pulling emergency soled slippers she had started carrying in one of her many belt pouches out to put on her feet... So that she can be ready now. To step out out into Kowloon feeling less like she sticks out. To see...]
If you might... lend me your arm, Set, while we see this culture of yours...
[She may have been practicing, but, it has not been that long at all. The first steps were still tricky.]
[ The atmosphere of the Last Dance is that of a lively bazaar, a set of narrow alleys not as warm as Springstar above, but not as chemical-and-blood soaked as the depths of Kowloon; it is both a part of the city and a unique entity unto itself, ruled by a small coalition of artists and occultists, who prefer freedoms from the Factions, but also do not devote themselves to harder crimes. A little bit of a hippy commune, with the hippies still willing to knife someone in the back. It creates an artistic environment of actors and culture that Set thrives in, and has patronized since soon after his arrival.
It's a place he likes to share with people he counts as friends, because his liveliness pours through him and becomes something animated, sweeter, when he is here. And he cannot bear going alone anymore, so having Hayame at his side means a lot to him.
He pauses, as she touches a hand to a bracelet upon her wrist. One he thought, perhaps, was a gift from her lover rather than a practical thing from Cetina. Color him pleasantly surprised, then, as Hayame's form shifts and morphs — the same way his had when he had taken the form of a fleet-legged jinba to join her and flee the things that had haunted him — he reaches out with both hands to seize her elbows and forearms, to steady her as she tumbles onto two legs. ]
— you're so short.
[ The words seem harsh, but he speaks them with a spreading grin on his face. ]
Hayame, by the end of the night I will have you dancing on these two new legs of yours! Come, come! Do not put too much thought into your gait, let your muscles move you as you [ walk like an egyptian ] follow my lead!
[ He whips the curtain back then, and presses her along, out into the dark-lit tavern proper. Outside of his personal booth, the ambiance is a little more occult, rife with esoteric symbols and the acrid scent of herb and hookah smoke, lounging figures behind more gauzy-satin public-use booths, and a long-faced woman polishing glasses behind the bar. Her voice a haunting siren call as she hums and sings and spares a fond sort of nod toward Set, and his companion.
He draws her from the darkness, and into the shimmering, layered lanterns and lights that decorate the cavern ceiling of the alley-shops and businesses that make up the Last Dance. The moment they're out of the tavern area, the throng of people encompasses them; a crowd of various peoples, species and genders, hawking wares and putting on plays right in the street. There's a beautiful and terrifying disorder to it, and Set immediately tugs Hayame to his side. ]
Stop me if you see anything you are curious about, though I have an idea where I want to bring you!
Th- This is a perfectly respectable height for a human woman in my lands!
[Even though she is not insulted, because he says it smiling and he does not linger on it, Hayame cannot help but try and defend her new height. Mainly because she herself is very self-conscious about it, having been completely discombobulated by it the first time she'd found herself looking up at people. She had looked up at jinba stallions before, of course, she was neither short nor tall for a mare, and her brother Yubari, with whom she spent the most time around, was a few inches taller...
But look, she's not used to it! Is this what Set looks like from below? Not that... she hasn't occasionally seen him from a lower angle, whether while sparring or... cleansing Discord, but, those moments she had not been focusing on their height differences. (Had his lips always been so... soft-seeming and defined?)
There is no time to really wonder. She is pulled out of the booth into the whip and fervor of the Last Dance, sudden memories trailing behind them of her dance lessons with Liem Talbott before the masquerade at The World's Edge that had been left untested, as she had been left lingering on the edge of the ballroom, unasked and telling herself that she preferred it that way so that she might patrol the event for dangers. (Dancing would be--)
There is so much to look at. First, because she is on alert for attacks knowing that it is technically Kowloon, and then... simply because it is fascinating and foreign, and Set was right that she moved better when she was distracted and not thinking overly on whether the ball or sole of her foot should hit the ground first. Even if she would violently protest the idea that she was relying on a man to safeguard her, she does feel... more at ease closer to his side, and also it is loud so, simply... a practical consideration! Beside him she stares at bizarre foods that smell amazing but look atrocious, (goodness, no, she will pass on trying it until she is far more intoxicated, thanks), there is a seller of golden baubles she does linger by with a certain person in mind (but no, the idea of buying something was too embarrassing, it was not even a gift giving occasion), a fan dancer captures her attention for a time just because the items they are using look so similar to what she is used to (well, used to seeing the wealthy hide their face behind, richly painted and perfumed), and eventually...
She almost starts to look something possibly perhaps kind of adjacent to "comfortable enough". Which for Hayame in this situation is no small feat. At some point, she has made herself grab hold of Set's hand, not just stick to his side, because as lewd as it was... Otherwise, she feels like she could genuinely lose him in the crowds. Squeezing it to get his attention beneath the bustle and chatter, she cannot help but inquire as she swerves around a large, lumbering patron,]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And anyway- !
He says he wouldn’t accept it. If she had to twist herself to be accepted, or to be loved, and she looks… pensive for a moment. Not about Claude. About… other things. About her past, too. The weapon she had forged herself into in order to survive in the world she’d been born into. It was good she had, surely, better to be steel than a flower crushed underfoot, but…
But Set knew better than some, than most. The threats that Hayame had lived her whole life under. What she’d seen happen to the women around her for a single mistake, a single mistake of birth. The fate that had awaited her. If she felt even the first hint of it… of fingers ripping her hair, of feeling cornered, powerless, of being treated like… like the barely-different-from-a-horse that she had been… She would run, and likely leave blood in her wake. Hurt, hurt, too, and a sure belief that she was stupid to ever have thought she might be able to have something good, but…
She wouldn’t tolerate it. … She wouldn’t, right?]
… He treats me well.
[Too well, she sometimes thought. She should say that. He deserved her saying that, even if she can’t say it without her cheeks ruddy and her lips pursed strangely. Set is right, though, about why she hadn’t told anyone and kept it secret. It had nothing to do with how much she trusted anyone, only some to do with how she feared it might affect her reputation (a warrior ruined by softness) and his (a diplomat arguing for peace bedding one of Meridian’s most vocally hard-line members), and so much to do with…
Not knowing how she felt. And if she didn’t know… How she could tell anyone? How could she say what this was? Her world… a woman having sex was either married or a whore. There was no concept of “dating”, and courting was ritual and exchanging wealth wi to intimacy dangled as the reward after sale, and so this… this thing where a man claimed he loved her and instead of saying she loved him back she said “you are a fool”…
She looks taken aback. Just to hear something other people must think is normal. “I’m happy for you.” She… she wanted to be happy for Set, for Akua, for Liem, for Yuri, for Gray… She’d told him that, hadn’t she, on the banks of that pond where they lay exhausted, his shade left temporarily behind. She didn’t know what form that would take, but she wanted it. Even so… other people weren’t supposed to say it to her. Finally, she remembers how to move again. She takes Claude’s shirt gently from Set’s hands, and puts it in her basket. Muttering, trying to be… fun, despite being obviously touched by his words…]
Set, I am…
We are… far too sober for this sort of talk, are we not?
[She’ll put the laundry in. And they can… they can go where he wants to show her? Hopefully… somewhere, eventually, that does have strong liquor.]
no subject
[ Which is to say, they might be too sober for this sort of conversation, but he's unwilling to allow Hayame to have any more ammunition that she might be able to use to spin falsity into what he says. Oh, he was drunk and didn't really mean what he was saying, is something he really, really wants to avoid right now.
Set finishes crumpling Claude's shirt, folding it neatly ( very tidy and devoted to the task, for a sloppy war god like him ) and relinquishes it to Hayame as she takes it from him. The laundry done, there's no further chores that will keep them from having fun. Set doesn't know how to have fun that isn't brassy and messy, but for her, he will try to keep her dignity as intact as possible — even if he wants to see her listing to one side with every step, her cheeks rosy with drink and laughter pouring from her. He hopes she's the sort of drunk that doesn't get maudlin, and instead finds joy in everything.
One will never know, until the moment, though. ]
I'm going to take you to the Last Dance. It's my favorite location — close to Kowloon but beyond that city's politics, and neutral among neutrality. The arts are beloved there. I watch theatre shows and observe occultists reading the stars and cards, booze and smoke and dancers and ware-hawkers... well, it may be a bit hedonistic, but it is not... a cruel place. They don't care about a lot of things, just what's nice and feels good.
[ As if to show Hayame how intent he is on having a good time, he even lets his tongue slip. Pulls words together informally, his normally arched and elevated address blurring into something casual. It makes him sound very human, much younger than he is. And he offers his hand to her, invitingly, once she's ready. What he doesn't tell her is that the Last Dance views him as a strong patron, but that he hasn't gone back to it without a companion on his arm in a long time. Because Osiris haunts him, no longer in his mind, but lingering in crowds.
That's too abysmal to talk about, so he ignores it. Hayame is here, with him. ]
no subject
He says their destination is his favorite, and she finds that... Did she have a favorite place? Just one? Was she even a good choice, to bring to a place that is so focused upon the arts? She surely-]
I am afraid I am no great patron of the arts... I have only seen the performances my master arranged for Exhibition Day guests...
[... Buyers. The buyers of "horseflesh" who purchased jinba for generals and lords afar. It was just a few times a year, overhearing or watching from afar as a blind lute player sung of heroes past, tumblers put on comedy shows, actors performed tragic loves or dramas, and dancers twirled with fans and bells. She had always imagined... perhaps hoped, that if she were to be sold as a warrior she might be exposed to more of it, like human samurai of class were, but. Until then, she had been focused far more on the "being sold as a warrior" part that was necessary for the rest.
And in Kenos... She had continued to cast herself that way. A warrior. One with no time to see... art. Or shows. Or waste time on... booze and fortune-tellers and smoking? On... things that make her blush even more noticably, when she considers "what's nice and feels good" could mean. ... Had meant. (... Surely he wasn't taking her to a brothel? Or... a part-time brothel???) She has the time it takes to put her laundry back away, to take off her apron, to arm herself, and to lock her door behind her to think if she ought to demure to avoid the potential humiliation of not understanding something else that other "normal people" did...
But she puts her hand in his, instead.]
... I suppose it will be alright as long as you explain things properly.
[She may not know it, or know why he has not attended The Last Dance without one, but... She will be there, a companion on his arm. One who has temporarily run that sickly presence off before... and who would gladly, viciously do so again.
One who also did not know that she was about to find out she was actually an affectionate, somewhat emotional drunk.]
no subject
[ Because.
He will not dwell on Hayame's past, not now. It may define her greatly, inform her decisions and personality, but if he wants to create new memories for her, they cannot be held up against the measurement of other experiences. He wants these to be unique, no matter their similarities, because they are being made between two friends. Let this be her foray into a new life, to encourage her to find people and things that she will fight for. That she will want to bring to the children she is going to save. That she will want again, when she survives what is waiting for her.
Set takes her hand, linking his little finger with hers as he does so. Warm, as he brings her hand up to give the knuckle of her thumb a kiss. And then he brings her away — away, through Alenroux. A Cornerstone. It brings them both out into a dark booth, heavy wine-red curtains drawn around a low table and cushions neatly pressed below it. There is enough room for Hayame to move, and the brass lanterns hang low enough that she could easily touch one, metal and starry mirrors and a single hanging sign made of light and mist displaying a unique mark — his own. ]
This is my private booth in one of the businesses, called the Seven Black Oaths. I have a Cornerstone — the dark stone there, among the other pretty stones in the censer — that allows one to jump close to Kowloon, fairly unseen. If ever you need one, for any reason. Through the curtains, Hayame. Through them and out through the Oaths, and into the alleyways! It is a theatre, a bazaar, a place of culture!
no subject
No. It will surely not be possible. It is already a feat enough to imagine going back to her own world. She should not entertain the thought. (But she does think, briefly... Oh. Because of Set, she would know a little of how to exist in such a place full of desert. He showed her what those look like.) The kiss, small and soft, draws her from that musing because she did not expect it... But does not deny it. Even if she averts her gaze with a soft blush, her little finger reflexively curls and squeezes on his.
Then soon enough they are in a place she has never been, in a town beneath Springstar she has always avoided because she could never feel safe there. With Set at her side, if she put away her pride and her desire to never be the one in need of protection, she knew no harm would likely come to her, but. Her large body was not as adroit at navigating the narrow alleys, the crush of people, and the many, sometimes precarious staircases of the underground settlement. And... The last time she had been in Kowloon she had woken on a makeshift surgical table in a room that stunk of rot and chemicals with her arms lashed down and her fetlocks bound to the wall.
Despite herself, she balks before the curtain Set urges her out of.
Until a hand finds a simple bracelet on her wrist he has not seen on her before, and she remembers-]
... Allow me to. Make things easier on our trip. Cetina recently provided me with something, after I expressed to her my reservations about how useful I could be outside of Springstar.
[With her face (and distinctive shape, the only non-humanoid shard-bearer in this generation) known in Highstorm, with her body clumsy in Kowloon... If the battle spilled into those places, what could she do, when the illusion magics would not last the minute someone tried to touch her or she joined a crowd that would bump into an equine rump disguised by visual magic alone? Apparently there was a solution. One that involved turning a small stone inlaid on the bracelet the Tribune's assistant had handed over, so that from one moment to the next-
A centaur mare becomes a human woman. One with the same face still, yes, the same build simply transferred over to a different configuration, but decidedly only five feet tall instead of seven, and something like half a ton lighter. Also... not wearing pants or underwear, it was a transformation spell, not a dressing spell, but... she learned her lesson last time and so she manages to grab her garments to clutch her not ill-fitting robe shut and keep the pelt wrap on her hips from dropping down to the floor.
Gods, balancing in this damn shape on two weird legs... No, she has been practicing, so. She can stay upright as she lets out her robe to cover her strange new rump, as she retied her pelt wrap into more of a kilt-like skirt, pulling emergency soled slippers she had started carrying in one of her many belt pouches out to put on her feet... So that she can be ready now. To step out out into Kowloon feeling less like she sticks out. To see...]
If you might... lend me your arm, Set, while we see this culture of yours...
[She may have been practicing, but, it has not been that long at all. The first steps were still tricky.]
no subject
It's a place he likes to share with people he counts as friends, because his liveliness pours through him and becomes something animated, sweeter, when he is here. And he cannot bear going alone anymore, so having Hayame at his side means a lot to him.
He pauses, as she touches a hand to a bracelet upon her wrist. One he thought, perhaps, was a gift from her lover rather than a practical thing from Cetina. Color him pleasantly surprised, then, as Hayame's form shifts and morphs — the same way his had when he had taken the form of a fleet-legged jinba to join her and flee the things that had haunted him — he reaches out with both hands to seize her elbows and forearms, to steady her as she tumbles onto two legs. ]
— you're so short.
[ The words seem harsh, but he speaks them with a spreading grin on his face. ]
Hayame, by the end of the night I will have you dancing on these two new legs of yours! Come, come! Do not put too much thought into your gait, let your muscles move you as you [ walk like an egyptian ] follow my lead!
[ He whips the curtain back then, and presses her along, out into the dark-lit tavern proper. Outside of his personal booth, the ambiance is a little more occult, rife with esoteric symbols and the acrid scent of herb and hookah smoke, lounging figures behind more gauzy-satin public-use booths, and a long-faced woman polishing glasses behind the bar. Her voice a haunting siren call as she hums and sings and spares a fond sort of nod toward Set, and his companion.
He draws her from the darkness, and into the shimmering, layered lanterns and lights that decorate the cavern ceiling of the alley-shops and businesses that make up the Last Dance. The moment they're out of the tavern area, the throng of people encompasses them; a crowd of various peoples, species and genders, hawking wares and putting on plays right in the street. There's a beautiful and terrifying disorder to it, and Set immediately tugs Hayame to his side. ]
Stop me if you see anything you are curious about, though I have an idea where I want to bring you!
no subject
[Even though she is not insulted, because he says it smiling and he does not linger on it, Hayame cannot help but try and defend her new height. Mainly because she herself is very self-conscious about it, having been completely discombobulated by it the first time she'd found herself looking up at people. She had looked up at jinba stallions before, of course, she was neither short nor tall for a mare, and her brother Yubari, with whom she spent the most time around, was a few inches taller...
But look, she's not used to it! Is this what Set looks like from below? Not that... she hasn't occasionally seen him from a lower angle, whether while sparring or... cleansing Discord, but, those moments she had not been focusing on their height differences. (Had his lips always been so... soft-seeming and defined?)
There is no time to really wonder. She is pulled out of the booth into the whip and fervor of the Last Dance, sudden memories trailing behind them of her dance lessons with Liem Talbott before the masquerade at The World's Edge that had been left untested, as she had been left lingering on the edge of the ballroom, unasked and telling herself that she preferred it that way so that she might patrol the event for dangers. (Dancing would be--)
There is so much to look at. First, because she is on alert for attacks knowing that it is technically Kowloon, and then... simply because it is fascinating and foreign, and Set was right that she moved better when she was distracted and not thinking overly on whether the ball or sole of her foot should hit the ground first. Even if she would violently protest the idea that she was relying on a man to safeguard her, she does feel... more at ease closer to his side, and also it is loud so, simply... a practical consideration! Beside him she stares at bizarre foods that smell amazing but look atrocious, (goodness, no, she will pass on trying it until she is far more intoxicated, thanks), there is a seller of golden baubles she does linger by with a certain person in mind (but no, the idea of buying something was too embarrassing, it was not even a gift giving occasion), a fan dancer captures her attention for a time just because the items they are using look so similar to what she is used to (well, used to seeing the wealthy hide their face behind, richly painted and perfumed), and eventually...
She almost starts to look something possibly perhaps kind of adjacent to "comfortable enough". Which for Hayame in this situation is no small feat. At some point, she has made herself grab hold of Set's hand, not just stick to his side, because as lewd as it was... Otherwise, she feels like she could genuinely lose him in the crowds. Squeezing it to get his attention beneath the bustle and chatter, she cannot help but inquire as she swerves around a large, lumbering patron,]
Where are we going, Set?
[Or... is it a surprise?]