09.12.3013: Afterparty Cooldown
Summary: A trio of rave escapees relax in Nitrim's hotel room.
Date: 6 September 2013
Related: Need a Lift?
Cyrielle Helena Nitrim 


A Hotel Room - The Ring
A generic, slightly upscale hotel room.
12 September 3013

With the horror of the elevator issue finished, Nitrim heads with Rook back to the hotel and sends a request, by mind, for all of them to join the two of them at his hotel suite at Chambermount. Passing the front guards, he leaves instructions for him to allow his guests to come through as they arrive. They'll all be given access codes for the door as they arrive, and he leaves the door for them as he slides to the kitchenette. Leaving the shirt on the counter, he reaches for the soap and turns on the water to wash his hands, leaving an opened beer bottle beside him.

The sound of Helena's hesitant footsteps precede her, and after fumbling with the keypad she finally manages to punch in the access code. The door slides open quietly and she enters the hotel room, glancing around at the decor. Her hands are shaking a little, and she curls them into fists to keep it from being noticeable. "For a Khourni, you sure like to keep a room chilly."

The arrival of the Hollolas is delayed and it's clear why as she enters the room. Cyrielle is relying more on the cane than she was at the warehouse. She seems a bit uncertain, but not as uncomfortable and out of place as she was during the rave. "It is rather chilly," she says, catching Helena's words.

Looking up from the faucet, Nitrim's green eyes settle on the two of them as he reaches for a towel to dry his hands clean. He nods towards the fridge once then picks up his beer and moves over to the atmospheric controls. "Maybe I'm just a mutant but with everything always so bloody warm at Volkan I kind of like the cold when I come here." He comments, dialing the room up a few degrees, but not many. Tipping the beer back, he moves down into the small, recessed sitting area where he slides onto a sofa and stretches his legs out before him. "Feel free to relax. It's just good to get off of your feet after all of that. Did you two have a good night?"

"As good as night can get in a blasting room full of young people drinking and gyrating and making me feel about seventy years old," Helena replies, moving woodenly to perch on the edge of a couch. She clasps her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turn white the force of it. The smile she offers after her little jest is one that does not quite reach her eyes. "It looked like you were having a wonderful time, Lord Nitrim. Lady Reena knows how to pick these affairs, I must say."

"Neither hot nor cold is my preference," Cyrielle admits. "But the Beacon has rather lovely and consistent weather." That great tropical, but temperate part of the world. She glances over towards Helena and something of a smile finally twitches over her lips. "That is about the right of it. I don't mind the music or the darkness, but… too many bodies gyrating in one place. Hot, sweaty, and stench of people."

"And maybe I'm a mutant there, too. I was having a great time, to be fair." Nitrim replies to the two of them as he slips a cigarette out of a pack. Eyes flashing white just briefly, he lights it against his palm and settles back against the arm of the sofa to pin a thumb to his temple and watch them. "No one knows or cares who you are if you're on a dance floor until they're right in front of you. The pictures, everyone's anonymous and there's a certain life to it. Of course, it's not the only thing I like in life, but I don't mind all the sweat. It's euphoric." He grimaces, shaking his head against his thumb. "Helena, damn, you're young and I'm sorry, Cyrielle, I thought in the crush you might enjoy the energy. I'll have to remember these things for next time."

Helena leans back on the couch for a moment, rubbing her left palm with the thumb of her right hand. She watches Nitrim light up a cigarette, and something in the depths of her gaze rears its ugly head. Leaning forward in her seat far more than is absolutely necessary, Helena holds out a hand to the Khourni and smiles, this time appearing more genuine. "May I have one of those? And I'm young, I know. Old-young, I call it. I'm an old person trapped in a young body, too busy with work matters to really find time to relax and enjoy life. I am aware of it, but there's nothing I can do right now except my work. Perhaps… Well, at some point I will get a break, I'm sure."

"No need to apologize," Cyrielle assures Nitrim. Something drives her a bit, perhaps. She moves past him to sit on the sofa next to where he leans upon. It's forward, but that is the sort of brass Cyrielle can be when more in her element. A very public environment? Not so much. As the Hollolas makes to sit, she reaches out to take one of the cigarettes. "It's rare to meet someone who is not wholly physically capable." Hooray for medical advances. There's a glance to Helena and she blinks somewhat. "What is your work, if I may ask?"

Reaching to the cigarette case, Nitrim flips it open and pries out a cigarette. With a long wave of his arm, arcing from overhead, he places the cigarette into Helena's palm as Cyrielle steals another. His aura simmers to life and he keeps his arm extended, offering a flaming palm for each of them. "With the dreams none of us are ever really young once we get them." Nitrim offers, adjusting his hip on the arm of the sofa so that he can get a better look at Cyrielle while they talk. He takes a sip of the beer then offers to pass the bottle around, starting with Cyri. His stomach pulls in and releases as he sighs a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Honestly, it was just nice to get free for a bit. I've been so busy, so long, I can't remember the last time I danced. Midsummer's? Erik and Johana's wedding?"

Helena accepts the cigarette with a grateful smile, leaning in to wait for it to light. When it does, she inhales slowly and then exhales smoke through her nostrils; her eyelids flutter and then draw shut as she enjoys the first, blessed touch of nicotine. "I don't dance," she says to Nitrim with a quiet laugh before turning her attention to Cyrielle. A pause, followed by another pull, and she's exhaling as she answers: "Director of Emergency Services on Inculta, which means I have spent the last few months preparing all of the medical clinics moon-wide for dealing with large volumes of wounded, establishing evacuation plans, and putting into place a chain of fallbacks that draw inward toward Detritus."

One would expect her to be done, but no, Helena pulls again, and the cigarette seems to be doing a good job getting her to relax now. "I am also Director of Medical Services for the Notice Project, which is basically an extension of my work beyond Inculta. I moonlight as a trauma surgeon in the clinic here on the Ring, and I've been delving into studying what little we know about Hostile biology. Now that you have my biography, my lady, may I ask what your work is?"

The cigarette is lit and Cyrielle offers a grateful nod to Nitrim. She draws it in, chest expanding within her snug rave dress. With an exhale, she listens to Helena's detailing of her work. "You work too hard." The question causes her nostrils to flare and she takes a long drag on the cigarette. "My work?" She looks disconcerted to think about it. "My work is figuring out my work."

"Helena?" Nitrim asks, since this seems to be a far more casual, less Lord-and-Lady conversation. "If you need help with Detritus, please call on me and let me know. I haven't been tied to Volkan yet and if there's trouble at Detrius and not at Volkan, I'd like to help. You know how much I like it there." Nitrim comments, slipping off of the arm of the sofa to step over Cyrielle's legs and drop to the center of the large sofa beside her. His legs stretch out, shuddering with the effort, and he lowers his heavy boots on the coffee table. With a sidelong glance to Cyrielle, he slips the cigarette into his lips for a pull before he exhales if over their heads.

"And my job," He slowly starts, not that anyone's asked. "Is the poor, horrible art of being paranoid, right, and completely failing to be credible at the moment." He stares off to a painting on the wall. The snows of Nubilus! No wonder it's so cold in the room. "But I think I always wanted to be outside of all of these proud lords to the point where I could slip through, come and go and be underestimated." He pauses for another drag. "And in that, I'm a fucking fool of a genius, aye?"

"I work too hard, indeed." Helena's laugh is low and deep, and she leans forward to flick ash into the bowl placed on the table for that very purpose. "I would recommend not being in a big rush to figure out your work, because it may wind up consuming you." She leans back in her seat and looks up to Nitrim when he says her name, earning a raised eyebrow. "Oh? I will keep it in mind, my lord. I have pretty much wrapped up my preparations, but I know the minute shit hits the fan I'm going to be needed to help smooth out the kinks. And yes, Lord Nitrim, you are certainly a fool of something." These last words are aimed as a light jest and accompanied by a wink.

The brunette leans back into the couch as Nitrim makes his way past her to settle into the cushions. Cyrielle soon follow's Helena's example, ashing her own cigarette. "They recommend the digitals," she says, lifting the thing to study it. "But there's something to be said for the flame and the way it burns. A small piece of pure, pristine destruction… right in your hand." She glances sidelong at Nitrim. "Politics are… useless. Especially in this day and age." Which is, perhaps, why so few of this generation really give way to them. Her brown eyes float to Helena, "I have no intention of letting work consume. My studies already do more than I would like."

"Politics are messy, but they're going to rule everything. In the end the decisions are all going to be made by the decision makers. Fuck me if I want to become one of them, but I'd rather be the man giving information and letting them be the face. I'm no leader." Nitrim's eyes peel from Cyrielle as he talks, giving the negative space between them a nod as he swivels his head back to Helena. He rolls his tongue over his teeth and then reaches out to ash his cigarette. He smirks up to her wink, furrowing his brows at her. "Oh Helena, for just once, call me Nitrim. I don't want to care or feel much like a lord tonight. I just want to be me."

Helena grinds her teeth for a moment - the bad habit of a deep thinker and poor sleeper - and looks from Cyrielle to Nitrim and back again. "Politics are hardly useless, but when placed in the hands of the inept they certainly can grow to feel that way. It's up to us to investigate and find the people who are skilled enough to wield that authority with a degree of wisdom and respectability." She ashes her cigarette again and waves it at Nitrim with a sigh. "Yes, of course, Nitrim. I'm sorry, but old habits like using titles die hard."

"Yes Doctor Lady, they do." Nitrim sidelobs, getting a little jab in with a playful roll of his eyes.

"People are not meant…" Cyrielle drifts off and frowns. As if her train of thought was suddenly derailed and many neuron processes died in the resulting fire. Screams, sirens- shambles. "I dislike talk of politics. Even talk of talk of politics. Surely there is something else or shall I take a walk for a bit?" She ignores te playful banter, not being familiar enough with them — especially Helena — to do so without feeling as if she is stepping upon toes.

"No, no it's okay we don't need to talk about politics. I think that one was my fault," Nitrim replies to Cyrielle as his eyes veer back over in her direction. Brushing his hands over his torso, he glances back to his room as a shiver rattles over his shoulders. He probably should have put on a shirt. "Helena, did you know that Cyrielle is a photographer? She's better than I am. I'm far more of an impulsive type, stealing what I can when I can. She's got a better eye for the art of it, though."

Helena indulges in a little childishness by sticking her tongue out at Nitrim when he insists on calling her "Doctor Lady", a title she has stated for the record more than once as being 'quite a bit silly.' When Cyrielle requests the change of subject, she defers silently to their host and waits for him to come up with a new topic. She is rewarded only a moment later as she stubs out her cigarette, and her interest is apparent when she turns a smile to Cyrielle. "A photographer? That's wonderful. I love to look at pictures. Do you have specific subjects you enjoy photographing, or do you kinda just go with the feel of the moment?"

One might note that Cyrielle has been doing her best to not look too pointedly at Nitrim. She can't help it, however, from time to time. "I can't say whether or not I'm better than you," she says to the Khournas lordling as she puts out her own cigarette. "I've not seen enough of your work." She does look to Helena, brightening somewhat at her interest. "The moment. I look for… well, I cannot say specifically. I just keep an eye out for things that strike my fancy, be they a couple out for a walk or the way the shadows play on the leaves of a tree."

"Well I guess we'll find out soon enough won't we? You've got that camera for a few days and I'll see what you put on it. Maybe I'm just too much a critic of my own work." Nitrim rubs a hand over his chest, his own knuckles turning slightly white. Leaning out in front of the two of them, he stubs his cigarette free and rises to his full height to stretch his arms over his shoulders lazily. "Okay, maybe you were right it's cold in here. I think I'm gonna turn the heat up or put a shirt on or something."

Helena's gaze flickers past Cyrielle to Nitrim as he rises from the couch, and she offers a shrug of one shoulder at his thinking aloud. "I wouldn't mind if you turned up the temperature in here a little bit. After growing up in a desert, I find people from other places have an affinity for cold that I will never understand." Affecting a shiver, the doctor reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ears before smiling cheerfully at Cyrielle. "I think those photos are the best - the candid shots that you suddenly just feel are about to be there, and so you pull out your camera, you wait and wait, and then snap-snap-snap-snap. You can really capture the essence of a person in a shot like that, don't you agree?"

"I, too, would not complain to an adjustment in temperature. You could even turn up the humidity and I would find myself only more comfortable." Cyrielle does catch herself watching Nitrim as he stretches. Her ears color slightly and she pulls the camera that the Khournas gave her for safekeeping from the pouch at her hip. Leaning forward as she turns it on, she shifts more towards the edge of the couch, taking a few photos of the ashtray. A moment later and the bottle is moved near. More taken. "I rarely get multiple photos of people," she says to Helena, glancing to the woman finally. "I don't want to disturb the… setting, as it were. And much like… many things in life, nothing is as genuine as the first time."

"More heat and humidity it is, then." Nitrim decides, his tattooed forearms dropping to his belted hips. "Excuse me," He offers, slipping in front of Cyrielle, careful to not intervene in her shots. Leaving his beer bottle behind, he rounds around the back of the sofa and up the two steps over to the kitchen. Tapping some more heat and humidity into the room controls, the vents start to breathe out a new kind of air, something that will set the room better for his impromptu guests. He turns to the fridge and opens the door, bending over to dig into it for a trio of beers. After a few moments, he hip-checks the door shut and walks back over, handing them out.

"Thank you, Nitrim. You are a generous host." Too polite to decline the drink at this point, Helena accepts the beer and sets it on the table in front of her. No doubt in a few minutes she will find a reason to get up and move around and slip it back into the fridge to keep cool. For now, she watches with interest as Cyrielle pulls out the camera and begins to take pictures of the many things around the room. "Some cameras have a setting on them where if you press the button it will snap a series of photos in quick succession. Gives you more options to choose from when you're looking at the ones that you feel really capture the moment."

For a moment the Dalton is silent, looking from Cyrielle to her camera to Nitrim and back again. Whatever she sees, it's enough to send her gaze around the room in search of a clock. The time is late enough for her to realize she is well past her bedtime and then some. "Ah, Nitrim, thank you for inviting me back here but I am starting to feel a little loopy with fatigue. I should get going. It was nice to meet you, Lady Cyrielle, and I hope to see you again soon. Nitrim, as always it was a pleasure to see what new thing you had decided to do to make guests marginally uncomfortable in your presence. Topless is a nice choice."

"My thanks," Cyrielle says to Nitrim as the air shifts. She draws in a long breathe, accepting the beer as it is handed to her. "You're a kind and gracious host. Especially to such a lackluster party guest as myself." She looks to Helena as the woman makes her excuses. She tilts her head somewhat in a nod. "It would be lovely to see you again, should you find opportunity to break away from your busy schedule. One always needs something to clear their minds." There's a sudden burst of laughter at the last, directed to Nitrim. Sudden enough that it's clear it caught her unaware as well, for her hand rises to cover her mouth as eyebrows raise. "Oh… My… my apologies. I'm not certain why that was so humorous."

"Oh damn, Helena, I didn't do it to make anyone uncomfortable. I had soot all over the shirt and was going to get one before you all came in." Nitrim defends with a laugh, perhaps a little blush as he dumps his body back down onto the sofa and tilts the lip of the beer to his mouth for a pull. His lips pull, flashing a serpentine grin to the two of them that twists into a look of mock disapproval. "Seriously, men go shirtless all of the time and it was bloody hot in that rave. The shirt was a mess." He points to Helena daring. "Don't make me throw that shirt at you. You wouldn't like it." His smile fades. "Hey, do you think when we get our friends together next that we should invite Cyrielle?" Nitrim asks. It sounds like a simple question, and only Helena would know it's a loaded one.

"Really, Cyrielle, Lady Helena is a wonderful friend. You should try to arrange some dinner. Some of the best conversations and laughs I've had." He gives her the mock look of disapproval too, saluting her with his bottle of beer. "Don't laugh at me. I turned on the humidity. I'm a good host."

"No no, Nitrim, please. This is your place. If it were your choice to host guests in the nude, you know most of us would be much too prim to even acknowledge the fact. We'd just try to carry on a conversation about taxes and tournaments without looking 'down there'!" Approaching Nitrim, Helena leans over him and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead; the gesture is entirely sisterly, or perhaps even a little maternal. "Men go shirtless all the time because they are convinced women prefer them that way. Hah! And see, even Lady Cyrielle understands."

Now Helena is laughing true and well, but she nudges Nitrim's knee with her own in a silent gesture to communicate that she is only teasing. His question regarding Cyrielle does not cause her smile to fade, but her laughter does slow enough so that she can answer it. "Yeah? Yeah, I think so. I'm looking forward to the next one. I need to get my cupcake fix. Hey, you two have a great rest of your night and I will see you both around for sure. Thanks again for inviting us over Nitrim. I know it's not the rockin' afterparty you're used to, but…well, maybe some of my class will rub off on you." With a final wink, Helena slips out the door.

There's a slight quirk of brows at the question Nitrim poses to Helena, but the Hollolas isn't going to voice anything there. Not at that juncture, no. Instead she takes a sip of her beer and looks to the Doctor Lady. "I would hate to take what precious little time she has. As for laughing at you, well… I think it was less you than the hypothetical," one hopes, "situation the Lady proposed." She watches her depart and blinks a few times as the door closes. "Well," she murmurs. "She's quite the force."

Turning on the sofa, Nitrim glances back to the room where Ithaca disappeared, as if checking up on her. His eyes flash over to white, sensing her out, and then return back to normal as he sips his beer, no less apparently fine with what he sensed. "Detrius, and all of the lords and ladies there, have this energy about them, like the power they worship that fuels the Waygates." Nitrim replies, pointing to the newly closed door. "Helena's no different. She's smart, and I bounce my theories off of her to test whether or not I'm being a fool." His cheek tugs into a smirk. "And don't believe what she says. I'm not that guy that would invite company over and just come out naked and expect them to deal with it." His eyes roll as he takes another sip.

Beer is drained, though not as quickly as Cyrielle downed her drinks at the rave. This is more of a palette cleanser. "That is a good way to put it… an energy." She seems to be mulling it over, but his addition snaps her from the thoughts. She laughs, though it's a bit put-on. Perhaps trying to hide the new redness that seeps its way into her ears and cheeks. "I didn't think so. It's just an amusing thought, is it not?" She glances to her lap a moment, then back up to the Khournas. Expression vaguely serious. "I'm sorry for pushing the AMP on you. I just… like having someone to share in the experience sometimes."

"No, no it's okay." Nitrim replies, his eyes softening as the topic comes to the forefront. His lips part, tongue pressing against his molars as he tries to emit the same emotion he sent to her. "I don't hate it. Fuck, I love it. I loved it all for years, but…" He motions to the door in the distance. "Rook and I survived it. If she gets on it, she risks me getting on it. If I get on it, she risks it, and it could kill her. It should be shared, but I've never done AMP, I was a Red-man. Gods," He laughs softly, lowering his eyes to the cushions between them with a shake of his head. "It was many, many good times, but Rook is the best friend I've ever had. It's important to me that I don't put her in danger, you know?"

"Red-eye just… never was quite the same for me," Cyrielle says with a small shrug, glancing to her lap. She picks a bit of some feather or other colorful fuzz off her skirt. Likely picked up while in the press of bodies on the dance floor. "I understand," she continues after a few beats of silence. "I'll try to avoid bringing it up too often around you." She glances to that door, biting her lip briefly. As if toying with her own thoughts, turning them over and over. Finally, she braves it, dark gaze returning to the lordling she sits next to. "Is she… the reason you…" The words don't work quite right and she draws in a breath. "Did you break your betrothal for her?" Then, almost as soon as the words leave her lips, she looks embarassed. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

The embarassment on her lip leaves Nitrim biting his own and his brows hitching up with concern for her. It's so awkward being embarassed, he knows, and despite the way he sometimes tries to dig in deep and personal, it's not what he wants for her now. "No, no she isn't." Nitrim sips at the bottle of beer and leans out past her, setting the beer on the coffee table. He looks up to the ceiling, averting his gaze to find the right launching point. Once he's found it, he looks back to her. "I broke off the betrothal because there were problems that were going to eventually turn Soleil and I into a fireball. I'll be torn apart by the press but it was a…a mess." But the explanation continues. Again, the side of his lip twists as he tries to explain. "Rook is like a survivor of the same wrecked space transport. We're sort of bound to each other, and I know she's a citizen but she's important to me. She's my best friend, we " He cants his head, one eyelid narrowing briefly as he blushes. "you know." You know. As if it wasn't obvious. "We have a promise that nomatter what, we always stay friends and don't replace each other. She saved my life, and I saved hers." His head slowly tilts, locking eyes with Cyrielle, his voice lowers. "Why?"

And it's clear, from time to time, that being embarrassed is not a common thing for Cyrielle. Perhaps that is part of the reason for her oft-aloof demeanor. To avoid the descent into situations which may prove to hold that particular brand of awkward for the participant. She drinks of her beer slowly as she listens, watching Nitrim with an almost too-close intensity. Perhaps seeking to validate the truth to his words. At the question he poses to her, she swallows. Her gaze wavers slightly, as if daring herself to break it. "Perhaps I like you." The attempted jest of her words is marred by the way her voice breaks to quiet at the end.

Nitrim reaches to the top of his head to run a hand through his short, blonde hair. His fingers curl in and out, scratching softly as Cyrielle holds his gaze. His lips contort, far less out of awkwardness and more out of a willingness to be up front, honest, clear. He isn't shying away, as it's undeniable that the two of them are kindred spirits. "I couldn't lie, I won't. I want you to keep that camera for a week and if you want to go to that club, we could. Rook and I have an understanding." He leans his side against the back of the sofa, canting his head just a little. "But she might one day be my Companion. Does any of this make sense?"

It is Cyrielle who breaks the gaze. Not to look away, but to blink a few times. She seems surprised, more than anything else. "Of course. A Companion is certainly not an uncommon practice. Especially for those, like us, that are the younger of our respective families." Then a few beats more and she seems a bit further confused. "Did you think I had hoped you might leave her for me? Oh, certainly… No." She shifts a hand to the pouch, where the camera he has lent her rests. "I would never ask that. We have our Companions for a reason. I feel they foster greater ties between the nobility and the Citizens." A pause and she glances towards her feet, finally breaking the gaze for certain. "I had hoped to be perhaps considered as an option. No more, no less. I would not demand anything of you. That would be unkind."

"No I didn't think that's what you wanted, no," Nitrim awkwards a bit now too, laughing as he scratches behind his ear and lowers his eyes to her knee. Though, something comes through, something honest as he lowers his hands to his lap and turns his head, trying to catch her gaze again. It fails, she's looking at her feet. So to get her attention, he reaches out to press a fingertip to her upper arm. It's a slight, soft press of his fingertip. "I was trying to understand if you wanted to be an option. An option," He bites the side of his lip, slowly nodding his head. "Yeah. I like you." He laughs again softly. "And I'm sorry for dragging you out there. You'll get one free punch in the arm for that, aye?"

"You do?" Cyrielle seems genuinely surprised and pleased. All in one bundle of a package- to the point that her eyes briefly lose color and the emotion presses out over a telepathic link to him. When she recovers herself, she lifts hands to press against her cheeks. Both warm and red with a flush. "That is a relief. I've… never approached someone in that way before. It's a bit terrifying." She drains the rest of her beer, to wet a mouth gone dry. "It's alright. Really. My brother would like as not wish to throw a grand party in your honor for your success in getting me to at least try."

"Yeah, I do." Nitrim's lips part into a smile at the sight of her. It's been a forward moment, a rather forward moment, so he continues with it. "Rook says she doesn't care if options happen but she wants to be important. Gods, someday I might get politically married off, sex is —" He leaves that to hang as he considers, shaking his head. "I don't want to fight over anyone, ever. I just want to be alive and love the life I've got. So," He leans out and plants a kiss to her jaw then reaches for her hand, sliding off of the sofa to offer to help her rise. "It's late. Take the camera. Enjoy your time with it. We'll have that meeting I told you about and if you find that club and you still want to meet? We'll meet there. No rules and no pressures and — we'll hang out." And whatever that is, it is. At least that's what he suggests, but giving her time to reconsider. He smiles quietly. "No punch in the arm before you go?"

In the days of games being play amongst the ruling houses, even as people die in the field with Hostiles… Being forward is nice. It's a breath of fresh air. To know when and where things lie. The kiss to her jaw brings a broad smile to Cyrielle's lips. One that spreads and takes in her entire visage. It's one of the truest expressions she's held this evening. The aid to her feet is well accepted. She tilts her head in a nod. "I'll let you know once I've taken enough photos. We'll enjoy a night in my kind of environment and hopefully… it will suit you." At the final offer there's a soft chuckle. "I'm not one for such to begin with, but perhaps I ought to save it. Right now, you're expecting it and where's the fun in that?" She steps forward, closer to him for a moment. Her hand rises to settle lightly at his upper arm; fingertips resting just-so on the bicep. "Thank you." With that, she breaks the closeness and moves to depart.

Smiling softly as his new friend, a new non-complicated friend departs from him, Nitrim lets out a sigh of relief. Just like her, the little moments where battle lines aren't drawn, even just out of friendship, are victories. "And you're going to get me when I least expect it." Nitrim muses, turning to follow after her. Hands clasped behind his back, he laughs softly as the scenarios cross his mind. "I'll be drinking a beer, then all of the sudden…" He trails off quietly, reaching to get the door for her. Pulling it open, he thumbs the auto lock, he'd have had to get up and lock it anyway before sleep. Slipping into his normal, unaffected cool, he flashes her a brief smile and starts to close the door behind her. "Be safe, Cyrielle and be in touch. Good night and…thank you. I'll see you soon." With that, he closes the door and starts to shut down the hotel room for the night.

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