World Tree MUSH

    When one purloins valuable artifacts from a particular region, it would do to sell those artifacts a comfortable distance away -- not so much that the significance of those things would be lost, but not so close as to call down the local authorities on one's head. Black markets are wonderfully subjective that way.
    So it is that there is one nice restaurant a good substantial drive out from Polyuchyn; a richer town famed for being a resort destination. The rich go here to spend their money, a little like a more local version of the French Riviera, or Monaco. Whatever they're looking for, it can be found here -- gambling, horse races that can be bet on, and, of course, fine food and entertainment.
    It's the lattermost entries that have attracted two faces; they might be familiar to the Stojespal heiress. They blend in well, though, at this exclusive place. Perhaps she's been sent here to curry aristocratic favour. Perhaps it's just a stopover for a bite before she continues on her night drive. Whatever the case, the warm light that leaks from the big, grand building's entryway is inviting.
    Inside, there is a hotel bar, and it is at this bar that those two familiar faces are seated. But they don't look quite the same. The sky pirate Balthier is wearing a black tuxedo, accented here and there with just enough gold thread to look tasteful and not ostentatious. Seated across from him is the tall viera. There's no helping the ears, unfortunately, but Fran is still dressed so attractively and tastefully in a simple black dress, accented with silver thread here and there, that nobody seems to mind too much. Her red-brown eyes scan the room from time to time, as do Balthier's hazel eyes, but for the moment nobody's bothering them.
    So far, so good, as far as the authorities are concerned. The offworlder is behaving themselves, and they don't appear to have had anything to do with the break-in a few days prior -- now that the initial furor has died down, this Earth has most likely realised that cracking down on offworlders would cripple income from tourism.
    Balthier swills his wine glass, and raises it to Fran in silent toast -- and with a light, clear /tching/ both glasses ring against one another. "Cheers," he offers, simply, with a twitch of his mouth. Fran echoes it, however subtle it may be -- it might be a smile in anyone else.

    A good substantial drive. It's the kind of thing that naturally calls to her, though in this case it's something therapeutic, in a way. Making her way with the others, returning Yumi to her own home and then herself to Polyuchyn, had been...an affair. One that had been the slightly shaky aftermath of a terrifying night, admittedly.

    He'd /shot/ at her.

    That she'd managed not to faint at it, well, that was simply steady nerves and Stojespal determination. That and a desire to land a very solid punch in the "pirate's" face. //He is not smug. He is arrogant, he is uncultured, he is intelligent, he is damnably cunning and all of those things. But he is not some smug fool.// Whoever that 'Blatherer' was, whatever his foreign name, he was a very calm customer, almost reminiscent of her mother...at least, he might hope to be considered in such high company.

    And so, this fine night ever so slightly removed from the former events, has found the silence cut by a certain Ferrari. Black as the clouded night sky, yet gleaming almost like a mirror, what lights there are streak over the sportscar as if it were a raindrop on a rocket ship. It's soothing, relaxing; her mind sharing its sense of body with the vehicle as if she had become one with it. Put them out of her mind.

    She's rewarded, eventually, with the growl of a stomach - and the warning ping of the dashboard. "Ah, you are hungry as well, Kometa. Very well; I know just the place. First dinner, then fuel...and I suppose, home." At this point, as the black machine pulls into the valet - the coat of arms on the license plate saying all that is necessary for her attendance at this particular restaurant. She's been here before, of course; not to the point of being recognized - but not someone to be thrown out.

    A long, deep breath, as she steps inside - wearing a simple black polo shirt, light colored slacks, a silk scarf, and of course her favorite driving shoes. Instantly recognizeable, of course, with the everpresent hairband and those blue eyes, Sally accepts the escort - accepting the unfortunate explanations that the restaurant was unexpectedly busy, that they failed to expect her, and that there is only the table open next to -

    Cheers, the sky pirate states languidly, and the two toast to another well-performed heist. Off without a hitch, and none the wiser to their hand in things. That's the life. Things are rarely so uncomplicated, so it pays to celebrate these small victories.
    After sipping what is doubtless very expensive m wine, Balthier's hazel eyes slide across the room again, as a familiar face materializes. Ah. The Stojespal girl, was it? His expression remains calmly neutral, so /confident/ in that neutrality, that it could almost make one question one's own recollection of events... but no. Rusalka is a smart customer, herself. And these two are far too exotic for folk of a mundane world to forget. There are some who are still discretely staring at the viera's tall ears.
    Of course the host seats Rusalka at the table right next to the sky pirates, it being the only table free.
    Something twitches at the corner of Balthier's mouth, though Fran's expression flickers to stone-cold neutral, and it never changes.
    For the moment, they wait and watch, to see how the girl reacts.

    Granted, she didn't notice the ears. Not at first. Then again, there's a headdress worn by someone on the other side of the restaurant that's almost as ornate, and if she weren't looking closely it might be easy enough to mistake as something similar. But the viera's ears have just that unique bit of style to them, and that unique memory attached to them in Rusalka, that she spots them almost immediately on arrival.

    Her freeze gets a question from the maitre d', but a simple word in her own language says enough, and he departs. Granted, she hasn't looked at the host since she spotted Fran, barely even blinking let alone taking her eyes off of the two. And with that Rusalka sits, quite ladylike yet her body clearly tense and ready to spring.

    //This is not how I intended to spend this night. Too much! Yet they will not chase me away.// She has her reputation to protect, after all...whatever it may be to him.

    After a few more seconds of a hard stare at Balthier, she breaks off and peruses the menu as if there were no one else in the room. How would her mother handle it, she wonders... As if he doesn't even exist, she speaks softly to herself - before raising her voice ever so slightly, words for just the three of them.

    "I do so pray that you are not here upon business." Accented by the local dialects, the gently slavic-tinted voice is the only thing she gives the tuxedoed man. No eye contact, not yet. "I understand that their wine selection, for paying customers, is quite excellent and an underrated secret." Here for pleasure? Or planning another heist? There's nothing like magicite or whatever it was in her world...

    ...but there are plenty of things of value, such as the watch on her left wrist. Or for that matter, whatever her family may have tucked away back home; she certainly was no slouch at that gala. Defending the rights of the nobility had been second nature, clearly an attitude only given to those born to those rights.

    The ears are certainly a giveaway, given as viera don't appear to exist in many of these worlds. They haven't even got magick. That's both a blessing and a curse; while the lack of Mist means Fran won't be in any danger, it also means she can't sense much of anything.
    It means just a little extra effort to appear normal and blend in, to look non-threatening; like ordinary rich folk vacationing for the fun of it.
    Fran sips her own wine and sets the glass on the table swilling it a bit. Her disinterest may not be feigned; she's as cool a customer as her partner, and twice as aloof. Yet she's probably watching, all the same. Little gets past those red-brown eyes.
    For his part, Balthier sips at his own wine, studying her while seeming to enjoy his vintage. It isn't bad. It leaves something to be desired when held up to the rich Archadian vintages, but it's all a matter of taste. It tastes like victory.
    "Fancy meeting you here, Miss Stojespal," he comments amicably. There's none of the stillness, the coldness, he'd shown on the job. Affable and magnanimous, like the lion recently fed. "I suppose this sort of place /would/ hold a certain appeal for you. I gather you're aristocracy, of a sort; certainly you've the attitude to match."
    "Behave yourself," Fran remarks simply, with that exotic inflection of hers. "Trouble, we seek not."
    "Fran's right, you know. We aren't even on the job. So this will go a lot better for you if you don't raise a ruckus." Balthier lifts his chin slightly, regarding Rusalka through hooded eyes. "This visit is strictly pleasure."
    Fran merely studies the girl. It's the intense, unblinking scrutiny of a warrior.

    A little extra effort, true. Then again, the vines have - while rarely traveled, here - at least become known in a distant, factual sort of way. Fran is certainly the first viera to come here, though she might not be the first non-human that's been heard of. At least the rest of the patrons aren't staring all that much, nor making any spectacle of it. For that matter, most of them are probably quite annoyed when //their// meal is disturbed by such things. After all, they may not be otherworldly foreigners, but papparazzi exist to the detriment of all life in the World Tree.

    That aloof coolness, though, Sally respects, and tries to emulate. Even if she can feel ghost sensations of the marble fragments grazing her ankle still, a long, slow breath and silent ten-count help settle her. To a point, anyway; if he can see her feet, they're just a little tucked further back.

    "'Of a sort.' I am born to House Stojespal, and my mother is its baroness and lord." Among other things. "The black wyvern of my house may not stretch so far to this place, but it is still respected and feared." Slowly, she manages to relax. If he's smart, he'll realize the meaning in her words; reassured by his comments that they're not on the job... //I may have no authority here, even were I baroness. It is not in my power to bring down the law upon you, 'sky pirate.'//

    Then again, who would believe her? No ruckus, she agrees with a nod.

    "It has some appeal, yes. The food is excellent, and typically the company is...pleasant and welcome. Without commotion, perhaps." Such as the previous night; she's not entirely sure the revolution wasn't at least partly his fault.

    She finally looks back up at the two of them, Fran first. The viera's a bit eye-catching after all, but there's something about that cool demeanor that's ever so slightly reassuring. There's no sense of urgent business like last time. Cobalt-blue eyes shift to Balthier.

    Strictly pleasure, he says. Then she can be a cultured, genteel aristocrat, polite to a fault herself. "Then, may I recommend the duck, if you are so inclined." Just here for pleasure? Just what brings them here, to this particular place? Granted, it's quite the place to eat for the well-to-do, but... //Why are you in my home, magic thief?//

    Even the bounds of Ivalice, the viera are rare, and they seldom venture beyond the bounds of their wooded home in the Golmore Jungle. They hold themselves apart from the machinations of empires and the short-lived and warring humes. All that matters to them is the spirit of the Wood, and the Green Word that only their ears can hear. Like as not she's the first viera that many, many worlds have seen. She minds not the staring and the veiled curiosity.
    "Yes, puffing and strutting, just like the rest of them. They're the same way in Archades, you know. The same in Rozarria, too. I'm certain if you dig for long enough, you'll find there are the same even in Dalmasca. Though Queen Ashe isn't quite so bad," he muses, before returning to the topic at hand.
    "As I said before, Fran and I are sky pirates," he points out in an affable tone. "We are beholden to no country, and owe our allegiances to naught but ourselves. Flaunting your status with me isn't going to get you very far, for they've no meaning to me, and even less to my partner." He gestures to indicate Fran, feigning disinterest and swilling her wine glass again. Her aloofness is almost languid; a careless indifference in her lack of scrutiny. Apparently she's decided Rusalka is not a threat.
    Balthier sets his wine glass aside, steepling his fingers and resting his elbows on the table. The slight hunch he adopts make Fran seem that much taller than he. A calculated effort to appear non-threatening, or simple indifference? It's hard to say which is the truth. She doesn't even look up when Rusalka studies her again. When she looks over to the blonde hume, however, his placid hazel gaze is already there to meet her eyes. There is an uncommon calm to him, a unique stillness, a focus not found in very many humes. Perhaps it comes of travelling with the viera for so long.
    The viera is calm; preternaturally so, even though Rusalka could very well call them out and bring the local authorities down on their head, with them apart from their weapons... although they may not be completely unarmed.
    In fact, they probably aren't.
    "I've never been a fan of fowl, I'm afraid." He'll be on her turf, but he's going to do his own thing. Sky pirates are notoriously independent like that, aren't they? "I was thinking about the soup. If they've the appropriate spices, it isn't a total loss. You know, it is true that the right seasoning makes everything better. Small wonder there were once wars fought over spices in Ivalice."
    He doesn't answer the issue of his purpose here, if he senses her question. His own silent calling her out on having to call him out. He's probably doing it on purpose, the arrogant jerk.

    First viera or not...Rusalka can't help but glance again at Fran. There's an otherworldly beauty to her; the shape of her face, the slim frame, yet the strength behind it. Those eyes, especially, as well as that pure white hair. So many bottles used for that effect these days...but she can see it's natural. No hint of darkness in her eyebrows or hairline, it's impressive.

    "Puffing and strutting...is one thing." Yes, they do. And dear god does it annoy her well, especially those who think noblesse oblige works only one way. She can't help the look of disdain that crosses her face, even for just a moment - in some ways, they have similar enough ideas. Not that Rusalka is ever going to admit that to this pirate.

    They are a bit alike, she realizes. The same sort of mindset, simply moving through...anything, as a pair, and beholden to nothing indeed. "You are here on...personal relaxation. I have nothing to accuse you of, no evidence of crime. Even if I did..." Well, she did imply that her house's power doesn't reach this far. A shrug, slight, before slipping back to the menu.

    "I will, however, trust the word-" And she glances back up, meeting his eyes again, that cobalt blue almost daring him to challenge her. "Of a man whose kindness to innocent bystanders extends to rescuing them from danger at personal expense," she adds. A roundabout way to say thank you, perhaps. "I doubt there is much that would interest you...professionally, therefore I see no immediate danger in welcoming you recreationally."

    And then half a tic pulls her cheek into a slight smile. "I see, and understand. The soups are quite excellent, and you may want to sample the potato dumplings with them. It's perhaps a bit of a traditional thing," she adds, completely not frowning at the idea, "but the spices do bring out the flavor." For herself, she decides, fish and a salad. Nothing too much; she hardly has the viera's lithe physique - but she does carefully maintain her own.

    "Wars over spices..." Hm. Not so different, perhaps.

    The sky pirate leans back in his chair, folding his arms and settling more comfortably. His head tilts very slightly to one side as he studies her. That twist of silver in his left ear briefly catches the light at the movement. "That is entirely correct. You could call me out as the criminal, if you really wanted to, but the truth is you've nothing on either Fran or I."
    "And believe me when I say it's /really/ bothersome to have to elude local law enforcement. Tedious, even. I've years of practise at evasion, and having them storm the hotel is going to do naught more than inconvenience yon guests." Balthier waves a hand at the rest of the restaurant. "That might well reflect poorly on your standing, since I do believe you must have been here on official business. Aye. It's in /your/ best interest not to raise a ruckus."
    He leans back a little further, bracing his elbows on the table before him and steepling his fingers, hazel eyes hooding as he studies Rusalka nonchalantly. "And it's /driving/ /you/ /mad/, isn't it?" Balthier drums his fingers on the table, unconcerned. A slow smile spreads across his face, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Say what you will about my ilk, but they're no more than extras on the stage. I? I'm the leading man."
    Fran is still swilling her wine around in her glass and languidly sipping at it, but her eyes have slowly turned back over to the verbal sparring match. Her ears have also very gradually pointed forward, showing without words that she's paying attention.
    "Truth be told, whether you believe me or not matters little to me." His shrug is casual. That he's here on pleasure and not on business seems to be true, at least. Why would he lie? He certainly doesn't look like he's here for a job. If he is, it must be a very hands-off affair, to be dressed like that. Even Fran's dress looks a little restrictive for an all-out brawl... although each nail is long enough to serve as a weapon.
    He sighs exasperatedly, reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck, one eye hooded and the other nearly closed. "I wouldn't fain go so far as to call it /kindness/. Convenience is the better term. It's simply bad business to let bystanders die." He picks up his wine glass, taking a sip. "And the leading man never makes bad business decisions."
    "Dumplings it is. We're half starved. I'm certain Fran will be content with--"
    "--the salad." Fran finishes Balthier's sentence without either of them missing a beat; the easy camaraderie of two people who understand one another, and have for a long time.
    "I suppose I may as well sample that as well," the hume of the pair comments dismissively. "Now, then. What brings a blue-blooded young lady out to a place like this, so far from your manse? Come back to smooth over relations, here, hmm? I imagine that the relations between locals and offworlders here have chilled, somewhat. I would imagine you would have packed your bags and returned to your own home, as I profess I've not heard of any Polyuchyn in this place." Yup. He's totally unapologetic about his hand in it. What's she gonna do about that?
    He winks. "...The leading man always does his homework before a mark, naturally."

    For her part, as Balthier settles, Sally finally relaxes a little. At least, she manages to settle further into the seat, and her feet manage to at least stretch out comfortably...even if they won't get any closer to Balthier than they must. Gunshy might be a generic term, but it's not inaccurate in its specificity.

    "It would indeed." Rusalka admits that her own reputation, and her family's, would be troubled in such an incident. "Even if...perhaps it might be a little exciting, don't you think?" Cobalt blue eyes narrow slightly, before glancing away. "That these people would know little of such things, I suppose. Not all..." Her voice trails off, but the hint of distaste smacks at more than she's willing to say. Distaste, at least at the moment, aimed at the rest of the aristocratic and wealthy crowd.

    Maybe she's underdressed, sure, but she did spy the occasional glance in her direction as well.

    "Mad? Hmpf." Now that she won't give him the satisfaction for. "And the leading man, you say?" With that, a small smile crosses her face. "I did not realize you were a comedian as well; a man of many talents indeed. I am graced in your presence, sir." Take that, pirate!

    The idea of a weapon...well, he doesn't have that strange hand-rifle cannon thing with him. Or anything, that she can see, like her great grandmother's cane-rifle. That doesn't preclude any smaller weapons, and it isn't as if the maitre d' was providing security screenings. Here? In this restaurant? Perish the thought, such nekulturny barbarians would never even deign to cross the threshold. The sheer scent of overly applied old-people cologne and perfume would drive them back to their homes in terror.

    And it's the fear of that weapon that has her still on edge, even more than Balthier's verbal jibes and ripostes. It's been a few years since she'd been shot at, and the last time...she still wears her father's watch upon her wrist.

    "Relations...to the truth, then. No, this is-" A gesture to Balthier, a slight tip of her hand to indicate his former words. "Simply pleasure. I rather prefer a long drive, and the food is quite excellent." //As is the company...typically.// Then again, she can't really find too much fault with his presence; he's not quite been the kind of smug ass she'd love to chalk him up as. Very definitely a complex and interesting 'leading man,' this one, even if the appellation makes her want to gag on its audacity.

    And then Rusalka shrugs softly. "If you must do your homework, then I suppose a little information will hardly be an issue. I am sure you could find out much simply by following me when I leave." Which, of course, he's too much the gentleman to do. "But I am very familiar with the vines, and very, very good at what I do. And what I do is drive."

    And with a sudden nod to Fran, Rusalka actually perks up ever so slightly. "As do you. Tell me...that, ah, you called it a hovercycle? Just how does it work?" The leading man can surely wait his turn for his scene after all; the supporting cast deserves a say. At least, that's what the momentarily amused glance at Balthier seems to suggest before her attention returns to the Viera.

    "Confinement is really more of a suggestion, for us. And you really don't want to see her when she's forced to bear fetters. She really doesn't like being tied up." Balthier jerks his chin at Fran, sipping her wine and looking over the other guests.
    Fran's long ears turn this way and that, as though she were listening in on what conversations she can hear from her seat. That's not to say she's ignoring the others, though; every so often one of those mottled black and white ears turns toward Rusalka.
    He sighs, arching both brows. "Really, you wouldn't want to threten us, anyway. I don't take well to threats. Neither does she. While I'm hardly one to turn my nose up at a little exercise, it's better when it's on my terms. It's a little excitement if I've planned on running from the authorities. It's a damned weary nuissance if I haven't. It will only slow me down, and more importantly for /you/, it will annoy me."
    He picks up his wine glass, regarding it through hooded eyes as he swills it around in a circle. "I'm serious as a heart attack." One rbow rises. "Or would you have preferred that I'd simply shot you and had done with it? I could have, you know. All three of you. And perhaps I may have, if I'd thought any of you constituted a serious threat to my exiting stage right. That kind of methodology, however, is just inelegant and crass."
    The wine is set down as he stares coolly and calmly over the table at Rusalka. He meets her eyes, so long as she doesn't look away. The stillness there might be unsettling.
    "I'm telling you that I already have. And you're out of your jurisdiction, Princess." The title is dryly mocking. "You could blow the whistle on us, I've no doubt of that. But the authorities here would have no grounds to hold myself. Or Fran, for that matter. It would be inconvenience all the way 'round, and I don't take well to wanton inconvenience any more than I do to threats."
    Hazel eyes still hooded, he rests his chin over a curled hand, one arm raised to lean his head against. It might seem like a calm posture, and his regard almost sleepy -- but he is anything but somnolent. What little of those hazel eyes showing are alert; intelligent.
    This is not a sloppy sky pirate.
    "It's a hovercycle," he drawls when Fran doesn't immediately answer, "and we use it when the Strahl is too much fuss. It's fast, it's reliable, and just as importantly, driving it is second nature to Fran."
    "We call it a hover," Fran explains in that measured way of hers, for Rusalka's benefit. "On magicite it runs. With skystone it rises; from the front, a pilot guides. Reliable, that. The hover heeds me well."
    "Fran is an excellent driver." Balthier tips his head to one side, casual. "I trust her with my life, you know."
    Those red-brown eyes settle on Rusalka, just as still and quiet as Balthier. She is no less threatening in her silence, vigilant for any whiff of trouble, but there is also something dismissive in her regard -- as though she, too, were confident in her ability to outwit the local law enforcement. Very slowly, a white brow rises, as though daring any further questions.

    His mention at fetters and confinement get a shake of the head, and a moment of pause as Rusalka adjusts her hairband and tucks an errant strand aside. "No. You misunderstand. I do not threaten you, I do not make promises or anything other than this - tonight, you have nothing to fear from me. As I said, I am in no place of my own strength. I simply..." She's seen Fran's ears flick back and forth a little, and can imagine what the viera is hearing.

    "The kinds of people these are, I suppose calling the police might well cause enough heart attacks and sudden unsurvivable interruptions of lifestyle that the local financial and business world would be decimated. To say nothing of ruining the reputation of a fine restaurant; I do like to come here once in a while after all." Her only speculation in favor of calling the law had been to see what it might do to /them/ after all, not Balthier and Fran.

    Definitely not someone with much regard for nobility, at least outside of her own family.

    "I swear upon my family name - and my health, as long as I have it," she adds, deciding that being shot at abrogates her promise, "that this night will find you unmolested and safe. For the restaurant's sake, at the very least." That should, she hopes, settle Balthier's concerns of any sort of confrontation. And then he points out his options their previous meeting, and she can't help but pale a little.

    "I should thank you for not exercising that option," she adds, voice flatter than before. "I owe a debt to your sense of elegance, as it were, and I exercise that debt this evening." She'll allow him that much, at least - and then forces her fingers to relax and stretch out, and takes a long breath, and then listens to their mutual explanation and nods.

    "Magicite. Skystone. Things...from your homeland, I assume? Such things..." She shrugs. Not things local to her own world. "Heeds you well...indeed. It's like a racing motorcycle, except..." Her hand holds up above the table a little to indicate the whole flying bit. "I think I understand a little of how it works, watching you that night. It is a fascinating thing, even if...I would have appreciated a little more to hold on to than a footpeg and a spare handhold."

    The last, at least, is said with a small smirk - she /had/ been screaming at some of the maneuvers the viera had pulled, clinging for dear life and thankful - one more thing on her list of things to never admit - for wearing high heels and letting them hook onto that peg. "Though I suppose I should not criticise, I do not think I would fare better if I were to ride more than one passenger myself. My car only seats two, you see. For sport, and speed."

    And then she actually smiles at Balthier a little. "It is...for being an open cockpit, straddled flying machine, a fascinating vehicle. I would not tamper with it out of respect for its builder, but...I might appreciate the chance to see it once more, up close." It's a completely insane machine, but damn if it doesn't handle brilliantly under Fran's control...but of course, her beloved Kometa /is/ faster. And probably has better handling with those big tires.

    Although he folds his arms and cants his head to one side, the hume seems to be considering the terms with all due seriousness. He glances over to Fran, and the two share a look; but what it might mean is unclear. It isn't long before the viera's attention returns to studying their surroundings.
    A regular Bunny and Clyde, these two. Consummate professionals, and cool as cucumbers each in their own way. One wonders what kind of a price must be on their heads in their native Ivalice. So, she owes him a debt, and that debt is paid in full? Sense of elegance? "As one would expect no less from the leading man," he remarks, with a magnanimous spread of his hands. Does his arrogance know no bounds? Maybe not. He seems to have enough cunning and skill to back up his claims, at least thus far.
    "I suppose that does make us even, then."
    "Aye." To the question on magicite in its various forms, both sky pirates offer a curt nod, but it's Fran who speaks. "Our bidding does the Mist do, entrapped in stone, pulled from forgotten depths. Many things humes have harnessed it for. Lights. Airships. Weapons." She tips one shoulder, elegantly. "Hovers like ours. The Mist can be harnessed--"
    "--but Mist is also dangerous stuff." Balthier finishes her sentence smoothly. "Too much of it, and things have a tendency to get messy. Volatile. There's an upper limit to how much of it can be used safely."
    "We will show you the hover, some time." Fran holds up a claw-nailed finger, both ears swivelling forward. "But not today. And touch it not."
    Their supply, after all, is limited.
    Balthier shrugs in answer to her commentary on vehicles. "The hover seats two. Certainly built for speed, too. They're standard in Archades. But you won't find any, because the road to Ivalice is closed."
    "The Mist denies us our passage," Fran comments softly, expression clouding. "Even my magick is not enough to open the way. It is as though the world wants not to be; to turn inward on itself. To hide. I know not why."
    The sky pirate looks back to Rusalka. "Builder? I've no doubt it was mass-produced in one of the Archadian manufactories." He frowns, tapping a forefinger against his wineglass with a dull 'ping-ping-ping.' "Well, I suppose the design could be a variant on a Rozarrian model, of course changed until it isn't even recognisable any more, but the differences are strictly academic." He shakes his head as though disgusted at his own derailment. "Lovely, then."
    Apparently the food is arriving, soon, and perhaps that'll put everyone in better sorts. He shifts in his chair, watching in feigned disinterest as waitstaff approaches with a big laden tray. "It's about time," he comments, half under his breath. Fran flicks him a look, but its meaning is unclear.

    She's at least made the offer, propriety - and of course, the need to protect the general situation in the restaurant and all of the patrons - requiring it. Rusalka is gambling, perhaps, but she unties the loose scarf at her neck and tucks it aside. She's not going anywhere, and getting ready for dinner...or, as late as the hour is, possibly breakfast if one was a stickler.

    And yet, once she gets Kometa to the local gas station, it's going to be a while yet before she returns home. Especially after this meeting; there's a tenseness in the pit of her stomach that hasn't completely relaxed. At least another hundred miles, she supposes.

    That cunning and skill, Rusalka's definitely seen - it's about the only thing that she really respects, though she's slowly begrudging him his attitude. //Damn him if he is not truly capable of bearing it, however. Well. We will see him as a gentleman and...// A glance down at her attire, shirt and slacks and t-straps. So...casual. //A proper maiden of noble bearing, in appropriate attire despite what others may think.//

    And then the talk turns to magicite, and she pays very close attention. Mist...magic? Something like that? "A high-density energy supply, then. Like gasoline or electricity." A glance upward at the lights, for example. The engineer starts to take over, dissecting Fran and Balthier's words to glean details. A tiny frown, or pout, at 'not today' however. It's gone in moment, the realization that she'd be hesitant to show off her own machine so soon - especially on a night that was just for a dinner trip.

    Though that does bring up the question of just where it's parked; Rusalka highly doubts they'd turn it over to a valet or simply leave it somewhere. Especially in a world like this...someone might take it for a statue and try to haul it off. It //was// a rather fanciful design, highly artistic form for all its function.

    "Archades...Ivalice. I do not know these places." She shakes her head with a little sympathy. "I have spent much of the last year learning the vines, finding the ways between them...and shortening some." Well, shortening the time; it's nice when you can put down all 570 horsepower and run flat-out between places. Doubly so when there's no local police. "If that is the case, then..." 

    Her lips purse a moment, before nodding to Fran and Balthier. "I suppose it is a difficult predicament. I would...not know what to do, if I were 'denied my passage' home." A little bit of pity, perhaps. And a little bit of fear; her whole life has been structured around being part of something. As independent as she is...that's a little too much to consider.

    "I await the day I may see such a vehicle up close, then. Under peaceable and friendly conditions, I am quite sure." Certainly better than hanging on for dear life as it floats through the sky like a psychotic swallow, and overloaded by two.

    And then there's a curious phrase from Balthier, which gets her to look up - their dinner, perhaps? No, her dinner and //their// dinner - do not think of this as a group meeting.

    "Not quite." Balthier shakes his head. "Some works do indeed run on gasoline or electricity, but those are operating at a loss. Magicite is more efficient. I suppose that has its dangers, too. Quite a bit of our societies are dependent on it as an energy source, but it's a double-edged blade."
    Archades? Ivalice? "The Empire of Archades, and the Empire of Rozarria. Bitter enemies, up until recently; they'd nearly clashed in a war that would have flattened everything that lay between them, some of which had already been wiped off the map." Balthier examines his wine glass, hood-eyed. "Landis. Nabradia. Nabudis. Dalmasca got lucky," he adds, tone one of mild distraction. "Ivalice is the name of the world Fran and I hail from."
    Fran says nothing, but she does nod once, slowly and deliberately.
    "Well, to hear the truth of it, Fran waxes poetic from time to time. The truth is, we can't set a course back because we can't /find/ it. No great loss to me, of course, although the lost profit is somewhat disappointing. I was after quite an intriguing mark, and I suppose I'll never have the chance to find it, now," he adds, with a sigh of resignation.
    The sky pirate sits up straighter in his chair as the food is delivered, raising his wineglass with a look to Fran. She raises hers, expression unchanging, and the glasses ring against one another as the two drink to some unspoken toast.
    From there, it's food time. Balthier shamelessly ignores Rusalka's further questioning, in favour of tucking into that five star masterpiece on a plate in front of him. He paid enough for it; he's going to savour it.
    In fact, half of it is gone before he answers any of Rusalka's questions.
    "Truth be told, we don't much care." This, to the issue of not being able to go home. "The Strahl is our home."
    It's the only real interruption. Both sky pirates make quick work of their meals. Used to having to flee, perhaps? Or maybe they really are hungry? No doubt it wouldn't be the first time someone's called the authorities on them and forced them to flee an establishment. It certainly wouldn't be the last.
    "A home we must soon return to," Fran adds, with a significant look at her hume partner, pushing away her empty plate. "Nono will soon be finished, and we will be on our way."
    "Right you are, Fran." Balthier looks to Rusalka, with a smile that's equal parts nearly mocking, and somewhat pleased. "Well, then, Miss Stojespal. I suppose this is the end of the road, for the time being. I've no doubt we'll be blundering into each other again in the future. The gods are fond of a laugh now and again, and that's always the way of things, isn't it?" He carefully counts out his fare, and enough to cover Rusalka's as well.
    "Now we're even."
    And with that, he waits for Fran to join him at his side; the two then proceed to stalk towards the nearest exit, elegant as any of the restaurant's blue-blooded nobles.
    As befitting the leading man...

    A double-edged blade...well, it isn't as if electricity is the safest thing to handle. Nature itself proves that with the simplest of thunderstorms; it's dangerous stuff. She supposes this...Mist, this magicite, is just one alternate solution. If it's got the energy density she's thinking, though, the way that hovercycle works...well, she'll get to see that another time.

    Details can be worked out, thinks the engineer.

    She listens carefully to the names of places, cataloguing them. Something to listen for in the future; perhaps she can find a Vine that leads there. Then again, in the last year, she's sure she hasn't heard of it - and she's found the way to a lot of worlds. Dinner interrupts, of course - and her fish, as always, is fantastic. As is the small salad that comes with it, though for obvious reasons she's limited to juices.

    The other two finish early, leaving Rusalka in the rare case of having to catch up to the leader - but it's hardly a race, really. Well. "Then for the night I bid you a peaceful farewell. Balthier. Fran." Sky pirates? Not nobility, despite how much Balthier may act like it. And then before she can protest he's - paid her own bill!? And just walks away like that, leaving her...

    Oh that is it. //You unbelivable self-centered thieving arrogant contemptible audacious - SMUG - bastard! The sheer idea!// Suddenly very robotically ladylike, Rusalka manages to finish her meal as well, ducking out of the restaurant almost as if chagrined. It takes moments to have her car returned, and mere minutes more to fill its tank as well. And muttering curses at the sky pirate and his companion...and at the gods that thought this meeting would be funny.

    It's nearly sunrise, by the time she finally returns home...almost in a better mood. Almost.