Apperance
Cephied Variable
Presea didn't think that she would ever acquire a taste for formal functions. People in too-prim dresses, people with tinny laughs that always sounded insincere and most of all, people with fake smiles- the kind that felt manufactured and made you ill just for having seen them.
They were the kind of people who Zelos Wilder always spoke of with carefully guarded disdain- political barracudas eager to sink their teeth into the next, naive celebrity. She'd seen it happen to Lloyd shortly after their battle with Mithos- everyone clammering desperately to be the first to shake Lloyd Irving's hand- the hand which had held the eternal sword. Lloyd, of course, was completely baffled and ignorant as to the fact that these men and women were trying to manipulate his fame for their own purposes and often would find himself chided into conversation with them until Zelos gently steered him away, a blisteringly passive agressive smile painted on his handsome face.
Presea was rather alarmed when she realized that she had become the new darling of Altamirian High Society. When she looked like a child, the sharks would coo over her- pat her head and call her a sweeheart and ask where Regal had found her, anyways. Regal simply sighed and informed them that this was, in fact, Presea Combatir, one of Lloyd Irving's famous companions. They would look a bit confused for a moment until making a vain attempt at recovery.
"Oh yes, of course! She was the one with the Cruxis Crystal, wasn't she-"
Now that she looked older, there was much simpering about her "astounding beauty" (which Presea didn't believe for a moment- she'd been crafted into a fighter, not a princess), her "lovely voice" and a whole lot of young men asking her to dance. She was not as sure on her feet as she expected she would be. There was nothing fluid about dancing, no matter what anyone said. Fighting was a blur of thoughtless, natural movement- your feet found proper footing and your body twisted back because if you didn't move in the proper direction, you would die.
There was no urgency in dancing, just the coreographed footfalls- erratic, jarring and pretending to follow some imaginary beat that Presea could never quite pick out from the music. She always ended up tripping over herself, stepping on the man's feet and once in a while she forgot her own strength and left deep, inexplicable bruises in her dancing partner's arm.
Eventually, she drifted to the back of the room and fell into a seat bonelessly. Without realizing why, she began to wonder if Alicia would have enjoyed this sort of thing. Alicia would have been good at dancing, Presea was certain of this. And she would not have grinned through her teeth- all the smiles she would have offered would have been sincere.
Regal glided through the party effortlessly, a nebula of attention and witty banter, every part the charming, intellectual socilaite he was expected to be.
"How do you do this every day?" Presea asked quietly.
Regal closed his eyes, "It's how my life has always been. I've developed certain methods of survival."
She didn't say anything- sometimes, she honestly would rather be back out in the field fighting monsters. It was hardly a good sign that she felt more comfortable with an axe between her fingers than a glass of wine.
Regal opened his eyes, sipped his wine and shot her a curious glance, "You don't have to stay, you know. You are under no obligation to even attend these events in the first place."
Presea shook her head, "No. It would look bad if I left suddenly." she knew that despite all apperances, everything she did was being watched. She'd learned as much from Zelos.
With consummate grace, Regal rose and gave her the excuse she needed, "Well, it appears that you've worn yourself, Presea. Shall you retire to your room for the evening?"
Presea noticed that there were eyes on them and with only the slightest hesitation, she took Regal's hand and allowed him to pull her out of her chair. She swayed slightly and rpelied: "Yes, I think I shall. Thank you."
He let her go and she could not have left the stuffy ball room fast enough, thankful for the fresh, Altamirian sea breeze that flooded her nostrils the moment she burst from the hotel.
Playing the "fragile maiden" card made her feel almost physically ill (or perhaps it had been the wine?). No one in that room save Regal had ever seen her swing a giant axe into a dragon's flesh. None of them had ever seen the thick, blistered callouses beneath her gloves.
Lies and deciet were not her language. She took solace in knowing that they weren't Regal's either.