[ To say Saber is practically a social shut-in wouldn't be far off the mark. Trepidation at having a nice normal chat over tea was bad enough without then being informed shortly thereafter (by an uppity crony of Sion's, likely without his knowledge) that he was under absolutely no circumstances allowed to present himself as a big fat idealistic beacon in public a second time after the recent kidnapping attempt, so she'd better have damn well figured out where a secure place for a playdate would be.
Panic Cleaning is not the best way to spend your night before the appointment, for future reference. Even if her quarters are pretty sparse by default.
"Resigned to her dreary tea-and-gossip fate" is probably the best way to describe the look on her face while she waits by her craft for Sion to arrive.
The Avalon is no more flashy than any other spacecraft on Leith or Westerly; sleek lines accentuated with gilded trim, almost lost in deep cobalt blue paint job except at certain angles when exposed to sunlight, some areas on the hull a little more worn than others. Clearly not new, but... cared for, in a way. "Acceptable" by Saber's standards at least. ]
Director Astal. This way, please.
[ Prim, proper, unfailingly polite as always. Even without the usual impeccable suit (replaced for a more relaxed blazer/shirt/slacks combo - not quite "I'm super hella comfortable" levels of clothing but getting there, if still quite masculine in fashion taste) Saber somehow manages to keep a deathgrip on posture so ramrod straight it's a wonder her spine hasn't simply fused in place and called it a day.
And if Sion's snooty assistant makes as if to follow them up the ramp into the Avalon's interior only to get Saber effectively shutting the hatch in his face (entirely accidentally of course) she absolutely doesn't feel the slightest bit smug about it. What a silly notion.
A few minutes to get situated at the modest table setup, and-- ]
Here. [ No frickin way is she gonna let you snoop around in her quarters, my guy. The gift box gets plunked down on the tabletop, pretty as you please, after Saber fishes it out from a compartment hidden in a wall panel. ]
Everything should be in order. It hasn't been moved since it was delivered.
Love it when a full tag gets lost with accidental f5s 8'))))))
Panic Cleaning is not the best way to spend your night before the appointment, for future reference. Even if her quarters are pretty sparse by default."Resigned to her dreary tea-and-gossip fate" is probably the best way to describe the look on her face while she waits by her craft for Sion to arrive.
The Avalon is no more flashy than any other spacecraft on Leith or Westerly; sleek lines accentuated with gilded trim, almost lost in deep cobalt blue paint job except at certain angles when exposed to sunlight, some areas on the hull a little more worn than others. Clearly not new, but... cared for, in a way.
"Acceptable" by Saber's standards at least. ]
Director Astal. This way, please.
[ Prim, proper, unfailingly polite as always. Even without the usual impeccable suit (replaced for a more relaxed blazer/shirt/slacks combo - not quite "I'm super hella comfortable" levels of clothing but getting there, if still quite masculine in fashion taste) Saber somehow manages to keep a deathgrip on posture so ramrod straight it's a wonder her spine hasn't simply fused in place and called it a day.
And if Sion's snooty assistant makes as if to follow them up the ramp into the Avalon's interior only to get Saber effectively shutting the hatch in his face (entirely accidentally of course) she absolutely doesn't feel the slightest bit smug about it. What a silly notion.
A few minutes to get situated at the modest table setup, and-- ]
Here. [ No frickin way is she gonna let you snoop around in her quarters, my guy. The gift box gets plunked down on the tabletop, pretty as you please, after Saber fishes it out from a compartment hidden in a wall panel. ]
Everything should be in order. It hasn't been moved since it was delivered.