C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

She had been allowing herself a moment of selfishness, living vicariously through a moment as Kes and Mayael had joined up again. The voice of the new arrival almost didn't register. If she'd been any other person, it probably would have passed her by, but Kalleeiha was a listener. It was impossible to disconnect. With the sound of Curzon's praise, her ears twitched, and she carefully tracked her attention from hopeful lovers to something new.

"jYourr prrajisse jiss too much," she demurred "jI ssjimpljy know people wjith meanss, and jI sseldom take no forr an ansswerr."

The man before her didn't hew to the sort that she'd expect at an event like this. He wasn't some preened Carshoulis poppinjay. Like so many men on the frontier, he had the look of a life lived fully; something weathered and handsome despite the wear.

"But jI ssupposse bejing jin charrge of the rrevelrrjy meanss that jI'm left at a djissadvantage. To whom goess mjy thankss?" She smiled with a beckoning gesture as her ears lightly raised.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

She was stately, and genteel. Traits that he found himself appreciating more and more in his elder years. He had heard of her in passing, though only in the sort of way that a being hears about another. Her establishment was certainly the kind that invited excitement and revelry - a far cry from his own quiet corner of Jovan Station.

"Esrimoure, Ma'am," he gave a dip of his head to acknowledge her status, "... Curzon Esrimoure."

There was a slight pause as he pondered just how much he should disclose to her. She was a businesswoman, after all. In the end of it all, he opted for a sort of partial honesty.

"I spend most of my time in the lower levels."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

Madame Maillanaarro had built a livelihood upon taking the measure of people. Understanding when people were saying what they meant and what they did not mean was one aspect, but understanding why one would tell the truth or lie was an entirely different level of understanding. Did someone speak from the heart, or was their pretense or subterfuge? If the latter, then what was at the root of it? Not all pillow talk happened at the lofty pinnacles of Carshoulis spires.

Taking a calculation, the Madame shifted her speech. Was it likely that Arr Esrimoure could discern a more Patrician Carshoulis accent from that of a mid-lower level prole?

"Me too, Arr Esrimoure. Kaleeiha Maillanaarro."

She offered an upturned hand.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

He took her hand, giving a respectful dip of his head. His lips brushed her fingertips in deference and proper etiquette, and the elder man let his eyes shift upward as his posture soon enough followed suit.

"Madame Maillanaarro. A pleasure."

Releasing her, he regarded her with a curious eye. She held herself confidently, and with suredness. It was refreshing, and yet expected.

Still however, he found himself guarded and ever-meticulous. She had the bearing of one who was used to dealing in subtleties and half-truths - or at least not full truths. Unless the situation suited her, which was a position that he couldn't help but respect even more.

"A woman of your stature, Madame, should never have to find herself in the lower portions of this station," he offered an olive branch then, "... unless you are comfortable in the sort of company that keeps ... a certain code of conduct."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

"Let'ss call jit ssurrvjival." She let a small smile linger past her true lower-level brogue. "Afterr all, therre arre otherr rrjisskss to be dealt wjith jin placess wherre all thjingss gljitterr. Asss long asss jyou underrstand wherre jyou'rre gojing and what the rruless arre, jyou'rre not ljikeljy to be caught unawarress."

The polite contact of Curzon's hand with her own spoke to what she'd already figured out. They were the hands of a man who did a lot of work with them, with a tell-tale roughness. He didn't feel the urge to apply too much pressure to the embrace to assert his masculinity as some alien men were known to do, which hinted that he had nothing to prove to her or preferred not to reveal. Even the way that his lips pressed to her knuckles spoke to someone who at the very least understood some of the rules at the top of things.

Curzon Esrimore was also a survivor. He, like her, wasn't from the upper levels. But he could pass well enough.

That they hadn't met was a sign that he'd never darkened the door of her business. That wasn't too surprising. While a Tea House was a hub of Cizeri social interaction, Kalleeiha knew that a majority of aliens found the confluence too strange at best or offensive at worst. While there were many who gave her patronage, there were sometimes limits to cultural exchanges. She took a moment to tip the remnants of her Akivan liqueur back, using the limited cover of the slender flute to give Curzon a closer look. His eyes tracked elsewhere furtively, but spent the balance of their time on her with an intensity that suggested he was taking her measure. Combined with their embrace and the small verbal cues, she had no doubt that her new visitor wasn't exaggerating the hint of danger.

"jI djidn't ssee jyou come jin wjith anjybodjy. jIss therre ssomeone jyou'rre lookjing forr?"

[Curzon Esrimoure]

She was cunning. Her probe was met with a slight pause as he lifted his glass to his lips, sipping the Caridan brandy within. He remembered a small tale, from another hunter who had stumbled in to the guild, of how the Teahouse was a wonderful place ruled by a tyrant of a woman. The young hunter had been barely able to stand, his legs thoroughly useless from the amount of drink he had taken. Curzon had made a bet that night, with his fellow elders, that the hunter would not last past three more jobs. And true enough, the hunter had been killed while on the third job he had taken from the Huntmaster on Jovan. Initially, Curzon had not wished to give the young man the option of the hunt, but he had been overruled, and subsequently did as was wished of him.

From what he had been told, the young hunter had to be scraped from the tarmac of a spaceport.

"I look for everybody," he answered with the beginnings of a grin cracking through his features, "... but nobody, either."

Her eyes were studious, and took nothing for granted. This was a woman who observed others, and not simply out of curiosity, no. She watched because it was what helped her to survive.

He allowed himself another sip from his brandy before affording her a measure of praise.

"The Madame is a keen observer herself."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

That wasn't the reply of some lovelorn soul looking to make a connection at the Festival of Lovers. Madame Maillanaarro's ears rose a measure out of a habit of triangulating on intrigues.

"jI'm famjiljiarr wjith the look." She offered with a warm smile; there was just enough confirmation so that they held an understanding.

"jI alsso ssusspect that sshould jyou fjind that ssomeone, that the Moon God majy not have a hand jin that tjype of meetjing."

It was a confrontation, but as with all things in the upper levels, one done with a little lace and ceremony.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

He couldn't help the slight, yet reassuring shake of his head.

"You misunderstand, but it is perhaps my own fault for that."

Again his eyes left her, to look out over the throng of festival-goers.

"I am not here to conduct the more... physical side of my business; indeed, I am much too old for that, nowadays. Unfortunately, old habits do tend to show themselves."

Eventually, his gaze returned from their travels. His small glass was lifted in deference to her as he went on.

"I make this promise to the Esteemed Madame, that I am here this day, to simply watch and be away from my normal environments, and to appreciate the lovely celebration of life and love that she has brought together for all to enjoy."