De Wallen [Amsterdam/Public]

Diederik was disgruntled. That was, actually, pretty much the perfect word to describe how he felt, presently. Disgruntled.

Never in his wildest dreams (or nightmares, perhaps), would he have guessed that Bourbon would show up as the man in charge of this place. And he certainly hadn't counted on him ruining his day. One purchase. One underpriced purchase. This is what he'd traveled the seven seas for?

Well, perhaps he'd have more luck unloading some new 'merchandise' at the brothel. And if not...well, at least brothels were good for other things, too, unlike Bourbon. It had been some time he'd been away at sea, after all, and the touch of a woman was hard to come by, while traveling. Best to take advantage of the opportunity.

(Of course, the question of the morality of it sprung to his mind once again, but he waved it away tiredly. Tonight was not the night for that.)

Having left his equally disgruntled crew to start packing away the freaks cages, he went ahead to go see if the brothel owner was around. He was never sure how to feel about the man--he seemed to encompass all of what his morality questions...well, questioned. But sometimes you couldn't pick your business partners; you just had to go with whoever was buying. And at least he could get along better with this guy than with the likes of Franziska or Auguste.

Approaching the car, he rapped his knuckles against the door smartly and declared loudly enough to be heard (even if whoever was behind the door was in a drug-induced stupor), "It's Van der Linde!"


((Well, there goes my plan to defy Amsterdam stereotypes. :I FFFFUUUUUUU--/shot))

Morality wasn't something Dimitrie liked to think about anymore. He could have been anything he wanted. A respectable businessman, a family man, or even a politician like he'd told his mother. The intelligence was certainly there. But too often as happens with intellectuals with no outlet, they make a less savory one for themselves. He found his in drugs and drink and selling women. He contented himself with the idea that the women were safer and richer here than anywhere else. To him they were like family with benefits. Except for the one of them that actually was his family. There was no stigma. Christ accepted Mary Magdalene. What was a few more whores?

Only the rich ever came to the carnival, most patrons of his department were husbands that had left the wife and kids at the carnival because he might have forgotten something in the car, or had to make a call... Anything that wasn't what it was. They looked at him as if somehow he would care enough to find and tell someone who would have been concerned.

Which was why the Dutchman was a breath of fresh air, a friend, even. He never said what he didn't mean and he seemed to always wait to make sure one really got his point. And if his point today was to make a sale, the Moldovan would happily oblige. He needed more women if he was to become independent from that French fruit.

Ignoring his disheveled appearance, he picked his cigarette off of the ashtray and took a drag before taking it to and opening the door to the office car. He'd caught him at a good time-- the stupor was almost faded. Another would follow soon after, of course.

"Hey, Scurvy." He greeted (he was one to talk), descending the steps and shaking the man's hand. "Got something to sell or something to buy?"

The door opened, and the cigarette smoke within mixed with that of the Dutchman's own pipe. He noted that the Moldovan's eyes were thankfully not dialated--the dishelved appearance, on the other hand, was something he'd long been used to. Relieved that they weren't going inside (at least someone around here knew how uncomfortable it could be for a man of his height to be packed inside those boxcars), he firmly shook the hand given to him.

"Buying--for now. But later, I'll be selling. Need to unload as many of them as I can," he talked around the pipe clenched between his teeth, "Couldn't get rid of any of the freaks; the new management here's a goddamn nightmare."

It was still clearly grating on his nerves, the thought of how much money was being lost on this trip. But he could think about it later. For now...other matters.

"It's been a while... Do you have any not-short women?" He snorted, "I just got back from the East Indies. Didn't see a single person over five foot, the whole time." It was exaggerating, just a little (though from his perspective, it certainly seemed that way). ...Though it did hold true, in most part, if not for the men, then for the Asian women he'd seen. Which made for some awkward sex, in his case.

At least someone else wasn't afraid to say how badly the place was being managed. "And I thought it was worse before. At least the woman left the business to the men. This new woman looks like a man but... I'm still doubtful." He laughed hoarsely. "In any case I'm pulling away from this place before it can crash. Heh, Van Der Linde, you think there's ever been a portable whorehouse before?" It was about time he started to be a real entrepeneur.

Did he have not-short women? After all their business, did this man not trust him to be professional? A respectable brothel had every kind of woman. "'Not-short'? Sir, I can do you much better than that," Though what he was thinking of probably only qualified as 'not short' to him, still. "Follow me," He walked down the row of cars and stopped at one a ways away. "We call her the Amazonian Princess, but seeing as how she's blonde and you've probably been to wherever the hell Amazon women come from, you can just call her Vesna."

He knocked on the door and after a few seconds of commotion inside, it opened a crack and revealed the blue eye and sliver of a face of a woman who seemed afraid to open the door-- most likely for the wrong reason.

But he knew the reason even before she'd even greeted them. He could see a smudge of clay water on her cheek. "Dammit, Vesna, I told you to do that shot outside."

She was busted. Fully opening the door and revealing a pottery wheel and clay in the room behind her, she smiled at the stranger apologetically and returned to the argument. "It gets dried out outside! Then we have to move and I forget it..."

"Men don't like to see muddy shit in the rooms."

To which she blinked away, eyes turning bleary as her lips turned down. Argument over.

"Fine. Okay, keep it for now. Just clean yourself up, you got a visitor."

Snapping out of her sadness as quickly as she had fallen into it, she blinked at the man, confused. She'd never seen someone so tall-- come to think of it, she only saw to shorter men, most of the time. If she had a few inches on them they would always be eye-level with what they wanted to see. It wasn't her face. She gave her supervisor the okay to leave, and she smiled as amicably and spoke to the Dutchman as if she had no idea why he was there. Of course, she did, but this way was easier. "Come in, it's too hot outside." She stepped back to let him in, revealing a room that would seem to belong more to an artist than a prostitute. Wind chimes hung from the ceiling (when the cars moved along bumpy roads it was like an orchestra-- she never felt alone) and canvases and various materials were pushed in a corner, along with her wheel once she got a hold of it, murmuring a quick apology before disappearing into the small bathroom to wash the clay off. "What's your name?" She asked from within. At the very least, she had to know that.

Diederik never had been one for humor--well, actually, he had been when he was younger, though that had changed pretty drastically--but even he couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from twitching upwards. "Whorehouse on wheels? It's not a bad idea, actually..." Sell what people demanded, and what was demanded more than the world's oldest profession? And many of the hardships that normally came along with operating a brothel--the conditions of (nine times out of ten less than clean or safe) red light districts, notoriety from the local populace, any kind of unwanted reputation...it could all be avoided by packing up and going elsewhere.

It was just a shame, he sometimes thought, that that knack for business wasn't going towards something a bit more...beneficial for society. Then again, the exact same thing could be said of him.

He was taken to see this not-short woman, and again, he nearly laughed. He should damn well hope he knew where Amazonians came from. Despite that their name suggested to the modern man that they hailed from Brazil, Diederik was both a learned man and the former 'owner' of said country. He knew that the river in question had been only named after the mythical female race, whose true origins were said to lie somewhere around Ukraine, according to the Greeks that had invented them.

((I swear, I did not make this up. /just read this XD))

The door opened and the so-called Amazonian peeked out, causing the Dutchman's brow to furrow. Why was her face dirty? He'd always been under the impression that there was a fairly clean operation being run here--

...Ah. Pottery.

Diederik was secretly something of an art admirer--one of his own relatives was quite the artist, in both painting and Delft pottery. The little white-and-blue ceramic box in which he kept his tobacco seemed to weigh more heavily in his pocket than usual as he emptied and stowed his pipe.

Nodding to the Moldovan, he stepped inside (immediately ducking to avoid knocking into the wind chimes--though his head did still brush against a few), and found himself confronted with art on all sides. This, along with her mannerisms, got him feeling somewhat taken off-guard. Was he here for sex or for an exhibition?

(It crossed his mind that, just as it was a shame that two businessmen had resorted to pimping and human trafficking, it was a damn shame that an artist had to become a whore.)

"Van der Linde," he replied, then, "...Diederik van der Linde." He found himself inspecting the unfinished pottery, hands in his pockets, thinking vaguely that it was too bad he'd never see it finished. He'd be gone long before that.

((askdjl-- sweet validation B) That's hilarious XD))

Diederik. She stowed it away in her mind so she could write it in her journal later. As she cleaned herself off and undressed down to her slip (knowing from enough experience that too many clothes didn't get a good salary, but neither did too little) and watched him in her periphery.

She didn't consider herself an artist. One just needed hobbies. Not seeing enough art to compare out of her own home city, she couldn't judge how good it was. It was something to pass the time, that was all she thought she could really claim. But seeing someone just stare at it, well... she didn't think she liked it. What if he'd seen art and was thinking that hers didn't qualify? And the way she had to store it all-- it seemed as if she didn't take pride in it. Terra cotta rested haphazardly on an unfinished rock crystal bird, and yet-to-be-used blocks of clay sat discoloring the windowsill. Not that she didn't expect visitors to look... just not look that closely.

Trying not to look visibly hurried as she approached him again, she pulled him by his coat lapels away from the insecurity she didn't know she had and back to her bed (which, she never felt right just plain sleeping in) where she sat and took his face in her hands (whoo, he smelled like smoke)-- it was odd, having someone who waited for her. Usually men had their hands on her as soon as the door closed. She appreciated it, no matter if it was a conscious courtesy or just never having been to a whorehouse before. She couldn't tell which was more likely. His expression never changed. Setting out to fix that, she kissed him lightly (she'd seen her fair share of bad teeth.... but he even tasted like smoke) putting on her best coy smile. "Are you just here to look or aren't you paying big money to touch?"

What she didn't know was that, while he appreciated art, he was certainly no critic of it. He liked all of the styles, all of the forms...he wasn't picky. He would have had a hard time conveying this, though, as he wasn't used to giving out compliments.
Not that it was something he apparently needed to be concerned over, though, as she pulled him away from her mini-gallery.

He still had his hands in his overcoat pockets when she drew him in for the brief kiss--and though he returned it, they remained where they were for the moment. His eyes--the color of waters that had seen better years--were focused directly into hers, as was his custom when addressing someone. But they turned away when she smiled and spoke, with a look that perhaps would have been hard to read on such a gruff man.

Straightening up (or...as much as he could, anyways), he took off his coat, which contained the delicate instruments for his smoking, and folded it over a chair before removing his shoes. He was clever, but not a talkative fellow; even less so when it came to responding to the pleasant things that women said. He had to gather his thoughts.
Turning back towards her, he lifted her by the waist and took her place on the bed, sitting her over his lap. She was a little thing...well, to him, anyways--but not too little. Just right. Mouth over her ear, he finally spoke, voice low, "I won't look, if it bothers you." Despite his bluntness, it wasn't altogether clear if he was still talking about the artwork. But the way he paused for her to answer seemed to suggest that he wasn't.

At heart, he wasn't a bad person. Just a person who was uncertain about 'right' and 'wrong'...or perhaps just skeptical about the concept altogether. And ultimately ended up doing bad things without expressly bad intentions. But the truly bad thing was that his intentions were just not clear to others.

Though his stare was unnerving, she tried to keep her gaze of dark blue, reminiscent of a deep yet welcoming sea. She became even more confused than she already was when a sudden unknown emotion flashed over his face and he looked away. As if that wasn't enough, he pulled away without a word. How many had he actually spoken since he'd been in the room? Seven. And it was to tell her his name. People like that were either planning something she might not have liked, or were just... Odd. Which made the whole process more difficult for her.

However, when he did say words, they seemed normal. Considerate, even-- but misguided. Laughing lightly, with a little bit of sadness, she answered, "I'm not new at this, Diederik," She used his name with a little trepidation, since he still seemed like too much of a stranger. "I don't get paid to do things that I want-- which I don't." It didn't matter to her, really. Sometimes she would take part in it, and other times she would rather just watch the windchimes and let her mind be taken somewhere else. She wanted to ask him, if he was fine with conceding not looking at her, then what was he there for? Then again, he probably wouldn't answer her. So instead she said quietly, "But thank you..." It was nice enough to offer.

But a thought wouldn't leave her head. And when something was in her head, she spent so much time thinking about it (usually futilly) that she was unable to do anything else. And with what was coming up, she needed to be able to be unparalyzed with thoughts. "In total you've said only fourteen words to me." Not that she was expecting compliments, or deep conversation. But she wanted to hear him laugh (because at the moment, she was wondering if emotionally something was off with him) or at least smile. And how was she supposed to know what he liked? She stared him down again, looking perplexed and perturbed. "Why?"

It was strange when she used his first name. Of course, he was the one who gave it to her, but he was used to being called 'Captain' or 'sir' or 'Van der Linde'...or 'Scurvy'. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been referred to as 'Diederik'.

Was he surprised, however, when she said she wasn't new at this? No. Because neither was he. But... "I'm asking you what you want," he replied frankly. Perhaps this was how he settled his inner disputes. It was unorthodox, maybe, but personally, he didn't know how some men could make love with the thought lingering in their mind that the recieving party wasn't enjoying it. Maybe they just didn't let it linger. Or maybe they never considered it, to begin with. As for him, he'd dealt with too many women-turned-prostitutes to not be disillusioned.

The gratitude, however, he didn't acknowledge. He hadn't earned it.

He still didn't smile (Who honestly wanted to see his smile that close up, anyways?), though he did take on a somewhat preturbed expression of his own. Why wasn't he talking much? He struggled to find a good way to put it. "I'm not used to saying a lot of...nice things. Being a sailor." 

And that was perfectly fine with him--he wasn't sleeping with any of them, was he now? Perhaps his views were a bit queer, but he felt that if you were going to have sex with a woman (hired or not), the very least you had to do was to speak to her pleasantly. But he wasn't very good at it. 

"Best just not to say anything."

What did she want... Had anyone else ever asked? It wasn't a bad gesture... She just wasn't sure how to handle it. "I'd want a man who says nice things and is actually taller than I am for once," She'd never tell how exhasperated the latter made her. "So you're halfway there. And as for the rest... You don't seem too odd, so I think it'll be my kind of night." Perhaps she shouldn't have been so casual about the situation... But what else could she really say?

A sailor? Already a million questions flew through her mind. Where had he been? What did he do? Did he know that she'd sailed once? Or that she'd known alot of sailors? Was the sky colored different in the south of the world? But if she'd begun to ask them, she would never be paid. ...Best to just leave them for afterwards. Instead she settled on pulling his chin jokingly and saying before kissing him again, more purposefully, "Should have known-- that's a sailor's mouth if I ever saw one." He was quite handsome otherwise-- so maybe it was good he didn't open his mouth to say much, then.

Deciding to speed things up (she wouldn't lie-- it was mostly to badger him with questions later) she carefully maneuvered herself over his lap so that she straddled him, and pulled the slip over her head and tossed it aside (the one good thing about being in the brothel was being able to have the best lingerie out of... Well mostly the whole town). Kissing him again and holding it as long as she could, her hands wandered to his belt, and she waited for him to make the next move. Normally she wouldn't have... But with someone so silent, how could she guess what she could do next?

It was funny, it didn't cross his mind (because again, from his viewpoint, she wasn't exactly 'tall', just 'taller' compared to other women) that she would want the same thing as him: a partner that actually fit, height-wise. The unexpected answer surprised him, as did the quip about his teeth. It was a shame for her that she'd leaned in to kiss him after that, because she wouldn't have been able to see the small half-smile that finally worked it's way to his face.

Well, he'd asked, and hadn't gotten any answer that suggested that he couldn't just do what he wanted. He was never quite sure if he actually preferred it that way or not--it didn't help to ease his conscience, at any rate. But oh well, he wasn't paying her to give him guilt-free sex. Just sex. And he certainly couldn't complain about that, especially when the slip was tossed aside.

One hand cupping her face to hold the kiss, the other fingered beneath her thigh and up her back, tracing the alluring contours that was the female figure. His hands were those of a seafarer's; toughened by life on deck. Women were so soft--it was silly to think so, but he sometimes absently wondered if his skin could ever be so calloused as to hurt to the touch. 

How awful that would be.

Both hands traveled back down, to rest on her thighs, where those rough fingers slipped so easily past the delicate lace to explore the most alluring contours of all.

How very awful, indeed.

She couldn't see his smile, really, but she could feel it. So he was capable of some kind of human emotion beyond what he was there for. It was comforting, in a way, to know that she wasn't just trying to entertain a brick wall.

...And yet, the feel of his hands made her think that she was. But this time it wasn't a problem. She tried to think back; when was the last time she'd felt hands like that? Never from the rich men that visited her. Two thoughts entered her mind then-- Dimitrie was careless with friends, what if he really couldn't pay her? But...what if he was just different? Not that she was complaining about his touch-- far from it.

Even farther when those hands found their way under the little clothing she had left. He wasn't kidding when he asked her what she wanted. Gasping from the unexpectedness, she moved against his touch as her hands snuck up his shirt to see what else there was to this stone of a man.

In the back of her mind she wondered what compelled a sailor to show up in a place like this-- that he must have been there to exchange something. But what could the carnival get from him that it couldn't get anywhere else? The thoughts continued to resurface and then be pushed back even farther each time. Would she ask after it was all said and done, or was she better off not knowing?

Oh, if only she knew. Once upon a time, he was a Rockefeller in his own right, before it all went to hell. The epitome of the self-made man--and a young one, to boot. Of course, he wasn't so rich anymore. But he did well enough, with all of his scrimping and saving, especially in these hard times. The image of a nouveau-riche wasn't one he liked to have, though--he worked too hard to be mistaken for one of them--which was why he didn't let it on that he was anything more than a sailor.

Lips engrossed in the crook of her neck, he removed that little layer of lingerie that lingered on her, tossing it aside before pulling her closer to him. With one hand to her back, and the other under her leg, he stood up for a moment, lifting her so that he could set her down on the bed.

Pausing only to take his own shirt and belt off, he carefully maneuvered over her (he couldn't normally do this with women, due to the size difference), taking a moment to look at her, the same way he'd quietly looked at the creations which decorated her room. He had to admit, even if he had promised not to look, he would have had a hard time following through with it. She was a beautiful woman.

When he'd seen enough, he returned to her lips, working his way down more intensely, with a rhythm not unlike that of a ship caught in a storm. And he rode out the waves for as long as he dared, until he could no longer resist making harbour.


Exhausted, he collapsed to the side of her, eyes already closed in drowsiness. Some men could get up and walk away like nothing happened, but he was always too tired to move afterwards. Holding her close, as though they were lovers, he kept her from moving away as he rested. Even with his eyes closed, his brows remained knitted, serious expression only undermined somewhat by his mussed-up hair. "Don't let me fall asleep," he requested in a murmur. He'd rather not have his persistent nightmares in someone else's bed.

He wasn't the only one in the room with a former life that seemed incongruous to the present. All she could remember about the home she once loved were bright colors and plaster and marble and seafoam. And all the potential that it held for her. She could have been an artist... She might have been. Then, her sister was taken, and though she didn't get along with her at times (not to mention slightly afraid after her accident) it wasn't right that someone with such ambition and intelligence was just reduced to a commodity. So she followed her here-- and what could she do? Between her fear and her want to help, she was at a painful stalemate with herself about helping her sister escape. And needing a job to keep living... She fell into the bed she was in now. And somehow all one's ambitions disappeared after that.

So inadvertently she had just slept with the man who had indirectly started it all. Yet at the moment she couldn't be happier... Compared with other experience, that is. Normally she wouldn't have let a man stay longer-- they were usually avoiding payment or if they were homeless trying to find somewhere to sleep for the night. But he was Dimitrie's friend... And something about it seemed different. He was holding her... And most of her visitors seemed disgusted by her afterwards-- most likely a hippocritical hate for themselves they were casting on someone else.

She didnt question why he didnt want to sleep-- men weren't allowed to sleep in the rooms, anyways. Smiling lightly, she turned in his arms to face him, amusing herself by pulling at his hair and twisting it into an odder mess than it was before. "If you want to stay awake you're going to have to talk to me," She warned. She sorted the questions in her head quickly from most important to least important. After seeing many sailors at her home but never getting to speak to them... There was a lot she was wondering about.

"Do sailors really sing?" It was more important than 'why are you here'-- she'd been thinking about that for years. "They sing in the moving pictures-- we all went out to see one, once. It had Joan Blondell in it. I think I'd like to be in a moving picture. Have you seen one? What about pirates? Do they still use swords?" So much for keeping an organized mental list. She always thought there was so much she didn't know about so many things. But as she worked her way down her list which was more or less self commentary, she finally asked, "What's a sailor doing all the way out here?"

And he had just slept with a woman whose life he had inadvertantly ruined--not that this was new, but it usually happened the other way around. Of course, he didn't recognize her (he'd probably never actually seen her before, in the first place), and even if he had, it was hard to say whether he'd have said anything or not. After all, his conscience operated according to it's own rules, and his vocal chords barely operated at all.

Which was never more apparent than at the present moment. He could feel her playing with his hair, but he didn't open his eyes to see. She spoke, but he didn't reply. The soft sound of him trying to even out his breathing was the only sign that he was still with her.

When he answered, it was straightforward, without elaboration or emphasis--nor did he make any sign that he was even bothered by it. It was just to-the-point. "Not on my ship." "Yes, I've seen a moving picture." "Yes, there are still some pirates." "No, we all use guns now." It wasn't until the last question that he finally cracked one perpetually tired eye open, then both, to look at her. His expression softened just slightly, "I sell things to carnivals. Exotic things...that you can't get in this country."

She didn't believe people were that inherently quiet by nature. Which was why she was a little disappointed she wouldn't have the time to figure him out. And his answers to her questions weren't really helping.

Oddly enough, it was his answer to her least important question that put all the next questions in her head to a halt. "Exotic things..." She murmured, trying to figure her way around the idea. There were really no other exotic things there besides the freaks. He must have been the one who had taken her sister away, and god knows whoever else occupied the freak cars didn't go there willingly. She stared off at nothing in particular, the weight of the sudden realization paralyzing her and her thoughts. She pulled her hands away from his face and herself out of his arms, silently redressing with shaking hands.

Perhaps she could have been angry-- but who could she blame but herself? All it did was remind her that she could have done something for her sister... And now she was staring her own guilt in the face. Speaking around the lump forming in her throat, she murmured, "I... You're not supposed to stay here like this... I think you should leave-- now..."

She couldn't wrap her mind about how she felt-- disgusted, afraid, angered... But only with herself. As if she was some sort of marionette whose operator had lost all enthusiasm, she slumped against the wall and slid down, staring at the floor and wondering if she could just sink into it.

Well, it seemed like she had puzzled it out. If she'd asked, he was fully prepared to say that 'exotic' things meant spices and perfumes (as that was technically also true), and excluded any mention of human trafficking. But he hadn't been too hopeful. It wasn't altogether hard to figure out.

When she pulled away so suddenly, though, it did confuse him. He couldn't fathom why the information would affect her so negatively--he hadn't brought her here, after all. Or at least, if he had, he had absolutely no memory of it. He was fairly certain that he would have recalled a woman of her height. Sitting up and watching as she redressed herself, he began putting his own clothes back on, eyebrows re-knitting themselves--this time in perturbation.

She told him to leave, so he stood up, accidentally banging his head against the ceiling in a moment of forgetfulness. "Godverdomme--!" He swore under his breath, clutching his head as a chorus of wind chimes announced his folly. By the time the pain had ebbed, he saw that she'd slumped to the floor like all the life had gone from her limbs. He honestly just didn't know what he was supposed to think or do.

Pulling his shoes and coat back on, slowly, he turned towards her like he wanted to say something, but stopped and just frowned. For once, he wished he was a man of words. But he wasn't, so all he could do was rummage through his pockets for his wallet--one of his fingers brushed against the tiny delftware box that contained his tobacco for the day (which was flavored with cardamom; very fragrant). Without really thinking, he pulled it out and set it on the nightstand secretively, using it as a paperweight for the money. It was a pretty thing, just an inch-and-a-half in diameter, and quaintly decorated with a carefully painted blue windmill. He was the last person to just give away things, but...it was the only gesture he could think to make.

Ducking around the windchimes, he paused at the door handle, glancing back at her briefly, before stepping out. Even before he'd closed the door behind him, he felt like he was making a mistake. It would bother him, not knowing exactly why she'd behaved that way, and the only way he could ever find out would be to go back.

For once, she was glad he didn't speak. Poor excuses were even worse than the truth-- her sister had told her that. She stared at his feet as he made his way to the door with red, watery eyes, with a gaze that said they needed something to be angry at but there was nothing to blame. Though it would take her a while to realize that it wasn't consciously his fault.

She waited for the sound of his heels to make it down the outer steps before she let herself cry. At what... She still didnt know. She hated him... Did she? She had every right to. But what had he ever done to her? If she hadn't asked he would have remained what she'd thought of him previously-- sweet, silent, stoic. Nothing about him seemed inherently awful. And he listened. Who did she really have to turn to, here? The other women were nice enough but she'd heard their saying going around 'as only so much of Vesna can make it through a doorway, only so much of Vesna I can stand'. All she needed was someone to listen. And the one person that would had just left by her order. With the way she'd treated him, it was unlikely he'd come back-- and even worse, avoid her if he was staying there for a while.

After a while, the wood on the flood became increasingly unfit to be limp over, so she pulled herself up to the nightstand. Even before she stood up her hand bruised against something smooth. She picked it up and carefully brought it to the floor with her. A box...? She had never seen it before. She didn't make it. Carefully picking it up as if it would break, she inspected the outside. It was certainly something she didn't own. As she turned it over, she saw words engraved. "D. Van Der Linde..." She read off quietly (she wasn't the best at that alphabet, saying it out loud helped).

Her heart swelled with anger again. He couldn't pay so he just dropped off that tiny box? What was she supposed to make off of that? A peek inside also made her even more confused. She wrinkled her nose and shut it immediately. Not only did he not pay her but now her whole room would smell like tobacco.

Reaching to the nightstand to pull herself up again, her hands found crinkled paper. This time she stood. It was money. He did pay. But maybe the box made up for what he couldn't....? She quickly went through the bills. No. Paid in full.

He only conclusion was that he forgot the box. And it had what he put in his pipe in it and he smelled like he always had a pipe burning. He would want his box back. She wanted to withhold it from him... Some kind of indirect revenge-- but... She did want to see him again. Maybe there had been a simple miscommunication, and she could have him listen to her again.

She had to get it back to him, and soon-- the room was already starting to smell like him. The idea both comforted and disgusted her.