The maître d'hôtel made no effort to hide his disappointment, uttered a despondent and clearly heartbroken "Bien, monsieur" and left the premises. Chanteloup turned her attention back to Vertiga, and listened intently to what he said next. She had an amused smile at his comments about her friend, then another, satisfied smile when he touched upon Gallic culture. Something she was instinctively proud of, and yet had not taken time to appreciate in... Months ? At least that.
Her smile became more nuanced as he went on. More thoughtful, more knowing... more tense. She was focused on his eyes, these strange, deep eyes that seemed to conceal an ocean of unstated thoughts, desires and observations. She had never seen eyes like his.
But his promise relaxed her, and a certain gravity that had permeated the room, unbeknownst to her, was suddenly lifted. As he finished his piece, she raised her arms slightly and assumed a faux guilty face.
"You got me" she said, laughing. "I cannot deny that there is a certain taste for the dramatic among my people. We enjoy putting emphasis on whatever it is we mean to express, at the risk of entering into a performance rather than a speech. In the life of any young officer comes a test of eloquence. Competitions are organised, in which cadets are tasked to defend a position as convincingly as possible. It's not the arguments that matter all that much, it's the way the ideas are carried across. The gestures, the tone, the switches in pace... And the eyes. Oh, the eyes... So yes. An interesting observation, monsieur Vertiga, though I've rapidly come to ascertain the acuteness of your own senses. You would have made a formidable intelligence operative, assuming you aren't one already" she said, very flatly and without any hint of humour. She paused, her intense stare locked into his.
She leaned back, her features relaxed, almost soft. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show, at any rate. I'm not going to affirm or deny that what you said is true, or that I oversold Gallia, or my attachment to it. That's your headache. Plus, you're not so bad yourself in regards to acting, don't even think I haven't noticed. I don't mind. You are responsible for many lives, men and women trust you. Leadership and command are intimately tied to acting. We're taught to act like we know how to lead, until we've convinced ourselves that we're actual leaders. It's the only way it sinks in. I don't know how far down that road you are currently, but... We're quite alike, you and I, moreso than you would think. And in light of that, if everything would one day turn into a bad dream from which I could not wake up... Be sure I'd give you a call, one way or another." She was dumbfounded at herself, but then any pretense of this being just an ordinary visa interview flew off the window even before Vertiga docked with Cordes.
Always on cue, the maître d'hôtel returned with two trays, one holding two small round glasses filled with a beautiful amber liquid, that exhaled strong aromas comparable to soft leather, and another tray holding two small plates, themselves displaying a slice of tarte tatin next to a sphere of vanilla ice cream, as per tradition. The maître d'hôtel gratified Chanteloup with a rare smile and a slight bow. "Compliments du chef, amiral" he said, with more sincerity than usual. She nodded at him with equally unusual warmth and murmured "merci beaucoup". The maître left, not forgetting a slight, if very formal nod towards Vertiga. He had clearly given up on trying to engage this sullen and extravagant Sirian. That'd teach him to try and be nice to strangers, he thought with bitter haughtiness.
"It's my favourite dessert" she told Vertiga, with the Chanteloup equivalent of childish giddiness (essentially a very restrained expression of moderate joy). "What better way to celebrate this mutual support we've somehow promised one another just now ?"
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
