The remiss supplier man was toeing the borders of Adrian's impatience. Nearly half an hour she'd been waiting at the park, doing all she could to stay seated and hidden from view of the small posse of teenagers that had shown up just after her. She'd seen them at school before a handful of times, but had never approached any of them. It was only in her nature to stay away from others, and these few had not been an exception to her preferred solitude. While she couldn't have cared less what they thought of her, the last thing she needed was to have them--or anyone, for that matter--think of her as some freak who spent her free time sitting alone against a war memorial.
"Adrian?"
The girl flinched instinctively and her gaze swiveled to meet a gray, gaunt man standing a few yards away. She nodded, then stood up, having recollected her stoic demeanor, and approached him. They made the exchange wordlessly, but Adrian was so giddy she could have cried. She now held a week's worth of contentedness in her hands; after having been deprived of any solace for two days, the drug was like... like whiskey to an alcoholic. The man nodded sternly then turned and sauntered off in the direction from where he'd come. Adrian stuffed the paper bag into her messenger bag then slung it over her shoulder and sighed deeply. It would be nearly impossible to make it through the school day without at least a glance at the supplements. But there was the risk of losing it to any prying eyes of her schoolmates, and she would not lose this week's supply. She would need it.
As Adriana neared the school, she noted with a complete lack of interest that she would very likely be tardy to her first period class. It was not out of the ordinary for her to arrive half an hour late to gym--she didn't care about school and the truancy letter she'd received months ago was somewhere in the paper shredder. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, it wasn't as if she'd get into any real trouble. Her mother was never sober enough to care, and if the government insisted on taking action against her, she would simply drop out. There was not a force out there that could influence her.
To her immense dismay, Adrian arrived just after the bell. She walked lazily into the locker room as the rest of the underclassmen filed anxiously out of the room, fleeing at the threat of detention as a result of tardiness. Most of the physical education class was made up of freshman; it was a first-year class that most everyone had taken. Adrian, however, had managed to skip most of the year, a fact that the school hadn't discovered until they reviewed her lack of credits at the end of her junior year. Now, as a senior, she'd been forced to make it up, and was the eldest of the large class. In her opinion, eighteen was too old to be playing dodgeball and dribbling basketballs. She had better things to do with her time.
Like... this, she thought, and dug the paper bag out of her messenger bag. A quick smoke before class wouldn't hurt. Not enough to make to huge a difference; just enough to calm her nerves and skip out on a short bit of class. Adrian locked the door to the locker room then walked back to her bag and quickly rolled a small joint. She lit it hastily with the lighter that never left her pocket, then sat back against the wall and closed her eyes. Just one.
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After a few brisk moments he spoke, and though his words were barely discernible above the wild waves that crashed below them, she understood him well enough to grasp that, for the time being, he would not give up on her. He would "chase" her until she stopped running. It still hadn't ceased to amaze Talia that Nicholas viewed her as anything less than morbidly average. After a night at the island surrounded by the silky dancers and musicians it was a wonder that, after the evening's events had come to a close, he had chosen to approach her among all the others. There were so many better-equipped young women on the island--those with finer hair, fuller figures, darker skin, useful talents, and much, much higher social statuses than she held. Once a gypsy was orphaned, it was nearly a sin in itself to attempt at creating any sort of a future; he or she was expected to make what they could of a living by doing whatever tasks that humans wouldn't and animals couldn't. Talia had done quite well to become a minstrel, and though the majority of the villagers enjoyed her storytelling there were those--particularly the elders--who still looked upon her as lower class. It was a demeaning lifestyle, and she was apathetic at best, but over time she had grown to appreciate her solitude. Omit a handful of other girls her age and the occasional suitor, the villagers left the young woman her peace, and while her own life was often an insult in itself, she didn't mind so much. What had she lost in all of this, other than an island of people who thought nothing of her?
But then there was Nicholas: a man who knew nothing of her lowly lifestyle and who would never have to know. A man who, for the time being, seemed to show a genuine interest in her--not her social status or her constricting history. Just Talia. And what a gentleman he'd been, offering her the first meal she'd be eating after two days of hunger, and free of charge at that. She'd simply had to agree to go with him to his ship, and she was so close to it now that she could hardly contain her excitement. Four more steps. Three more. Two. Just as she lifted her foot to take the final step from the plank into the ship, Nicholas appeared behind her and wrapped both of his lean arms around her torso. She froze momentarily, shocked by both the gesture itself and the cold water from his sleeves that seeped into her own clothing and covered her bare skin in chill bumps. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips and she giggled lightly as they closed the short distance to the ship together.
Upon their arrival, they were greeted by two of Nicholas' crewmates that, once their babbling ceased, he introduced as Henrietta and Alistair. They'd jested back and forth for a short while, Henrietta scolding Nicholas, Alistair apologizing before he winked at Talia. A few words were distinguishable--wet, clothes, meal--but for the most part, she only pretended to be following. For a moment, she gawked openly at them. Nicholas spoke so beautifully and softly, and while she had a difficult time understanding some of his strange dialect, Talia found these two even more hard to comprehend. Some of their words were hardly more than a sharp syllable and what she could make out of the conversation didn't sound too pleasant. She would have thought that they were crazed lunatics were they not kin to Nicholas. How he had maintained a polite, enchanting tongue among such people was beyond her, and she hadn't noticed her own appalled facial expression until his gentle voice interrupted the chaos to introduce her. A blush nipped at her cheekbones and she nodded once to them, feeling all but comfortable under their stares until Nicholas sent them off to cook. The idea of food sent her mind whirling. What would they cook? Fish or boar, like they ate on the island? A type of poultry, maybe? He said they traveled, so would it be something foreign? Did they use spices in their foods like the gypsies or did they leave them be so that one could savor the natural flavor? Her stomach protested at the thoughts and she focused on the matters at hand. Until she could finally eat, she wouldn't think on food.
Once Henrietta and Alistair set off to prepare a meal, Nicholas led Talia to his room, arms still wrapped around her waist. Her own arms rested loosely on top of his and she feared that, if he listened close enough, he could hear or feel the butterflies in her stomach fluttering about. Silly, she knew, but nerve-wracking all the same. This young man had such a strange affect on her, and that was something she would not reveal--not the extremity of it, anyway. If he knew the power he had over her, she would literally be nothing more than a slave to his every word. Luckily, he spoke soon after they entered the room and Talia could feel herself relaxing, as if his voice were some sort of remedy for frazzled nerves. She gazed around the room slowly, thoroughly examining each and every item visible. There were so many books, similar to the manuscripts that the elders kept in their care but bigger and bound more carefully, and maps with names and places that she'd never heard of scrawled elegantly across them. Various papers littered the floor and he had the strangest knick-knacks: small bottles with dark pools of liquid inside and various instruments and rulers that she supposed were to assist him in crafting the maps he'd taken a trade in creating. Cabinets around the room were open, exposing all manner of things--clothing, for the most part, among other foreign articles. She felt like a child, surrounded by a world of mystery and intrigue, and in Nicholas' world she nearly was.
His voice broke Talia from her awe-inspired gaping and she laughed softly, shaking her head. She hadn't expected a crisp, clean ship--after all, her home was far from tidy. Even living by herself she managed to keep a consistent layer of clutter in her home. “And since you’ve met a few of my friends, I guess you wouldn’t mind meeting my family either." Talia cocked an eyebrow and placed the silver pocket-watch that she'd been examining back on the desk, eying him through her bangs. Had his family accompanied him on his voyage? Surely he'd found the need to separate from them at one point in his life. She opened her mouth to question him, but before she could get a word out he gestured to a large painting on the wall before them. One by one, he introduced each figure in the painting. They were all dressed so formally, and the woman, his mother, was clad in a beautiful dress that covered nearly every inch of her body. Talia suddenly felt ashamed of her own attire, and wondered just what Nicholas had thought all along of the gypsy's clothing. As he continued naming them off, her gaze became fixed on one of the figures particularly: tall, though the painting was quite a few years old, and strikingly beautiful with dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to swallow the world around them. It was Nicholas, from a former life.
As Talia continued to study the elegant photo, Nicholas drew himself from her and walked over to what she supposed was a bed, although it was hardly similar to the flat, straw mattresses on which the islanders slept. A large, intricately designed box sat on the floor in front of it and he picked it up to place it on the bed. “I bought it for my sister, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you stole one for the night.” She watched him curiously until he took a few articles of clothing and dismissed himself to the 'washroom,' whatever that was. Once he was well gone, she walked slowly to the chest and peered inside. There seemed to be an endless amount of wonderful fabrics inside: soft purples, luscious pinks, creamy beige, and starch white. Some pieces were small and hard with laces while others were longer, fuller, softer. They were gorgeous to a stunning degree, but Talia soon realized that she had not the slightest clue as to how they were to be worn. His mother was wearing a dress...
She glanced up at the painting on the wall once more and studied it even more deeply, particularly his mother's dress. There was obviously a pink piece to the dress, so she took the pink layer from the chest and sat it on the bed. It was beautiful and so incredibly soft, but the skirt was too flimsy to be the same attire that the woman in the picture was wearing, so she rummaged through the trunk and pulled out a thick, white skirt that would give the dress more volume. Among other various articles in the chest, only one seemed even remotely close to resembling something to be worn as a part of the dress. It was the harder, laced-up piece she'd seen earlier, and judging from the painting, it must have been what made his mother stand so tall. She took one from the chest along with a few pieces of jewelry that complimented the dress well then closed it and faced the clothing with her hands on her hips.
"I can do this," Talia muttered, slipping out of her damp clothes. "Its just a dress." She hurried to put on the easiest piece first so as to not stand so... in such close quarters to Nicholas. The puffy, white skirt had many layers--too many for her to handle well, and in an effort to literally jump into the skirt, Talia's foot caught the waist and she fell hard against the floor. Angry and embarrassed and somewhat amused with herself, she stood and held the skirt in front of her at eye level. Surely it wasn't so difficult to put on a dress for the women of Nicholas' world. She sighed, gnawing on her lip, and decided to try an easier, more child-like approach to getting the skirt on. Delicately and with steady hands she set the skirt on the floor, making sure to keep an opening all the way through in the middle, then stepped into the hole and pulled it up to her waist. Genius, she thought, tightening the waistline as needed until it clung to her torso comfortably.
Next, Talia picked up the hard piece. Her gaze flickered from the painting to the article of clothing in her hands and back again. She was almost positive that it was next in order, but getting it on was going to be something of a trial. With trembling fingers, she unlaced the piece completely until it was held together at one end by a single strand of lace. Even then, it was hardly as wide as her shoulders. One arm at a time, Talia slipped the piece over her head and positioned it around her torso so that it covered her chest and left a only few inches of her waist exposed. Despite her small frame, this was still something of a death trap for her. She couldn't place her arms at her side and felt as though her breathing was limited; this was before she'd even attempted to lace it back up. With something like a restricted sigh, she sat down on the floor, legs entangled awkwardly in the many layers of the skirt, and reached as well as she could behind her to try and lace the piece together. She twisted and turned and shook and grasped but she was physically incapable of even reaching the ribbon, much less lacing the thing all the way down her back. With a cry of frustration, she swung her arms back around and crossed them stiffly in front of her.
"Nicholas?" Her voice was strained and uncertain, due in part to both the constricting clothing and the fact that she was calling him to her whilst she was inadequately dressed. "Nicholas, I'm not sure what you're trying to put me in, but this is surely not a dress. Nicholas?" Her tone was light, though she was evidently frustrated, and she hoped that he didn't think of her as ungrateful. The gown was beautiful. But it was also a monster.