Nill shakes her head once.

=11pt“I do not have the knowing. I did not have the knowing that they were even doing the attacking until I was being here. In the material.”  Her gaze drifts downwards, hands hanging loosely by her sides.

=11pt“I am being unsure about doing the asking of Vesta.” Her wings flutter, restless. =11pt“I… have the wishing to. But it is not being yet. I must be having the way of paying back first. It is being significant, so I must be doing the paying back of the same.” Nill waits until Storm enters the vardo, then follows after her. Inside, Vesta is already moving about with familiar efficiency, setting a kettle over the small stove. The space smells of incense and vanilla. She arranges four cups neatly on the table, placing a bowl of sugar in the center and lining up spoons beside each cup with careful precision.

Nill pauses just inside the doorway, looking around, then she spots one of the cushioned chairs.

After a moment, she climbs into it, crouched on the seat, balancing on the balls of her feet. Her fingers trail over the upholstery, pressing into the fabric, fascinated by the texture. She pokes at the stitching, then traces along the wooden frame, then touches one of the small decorative metal tacks.

She recoils instantly, wings flaring in a sharp flutter as she jerks backwards, nearly toppling from the chair.

Vesta startles violently at the sudden movement, hand flying to her chest.

But Nill doesn’t cry out. She simply steadies herself and climbs back onto the chair again, this time crouching closer to the edge, careful and wary.

Vesta exhales slowly, pressing her palm briefly against her sternum to calm her racing pulse. Then, she moves to retrieve a plush blanket, draping it carefully over the back and arms of the chair, making sure the fabric fully covers the exposed metal. She smooths it down, checking the corners.

=11pt“I’m sorry. It’s the metal, isn’t it?” She offers a small, tentative smile. =11pt“I’m not used to hosting Fae.”
Nill watches her the entire time, face utterly blank. Once Vesta steps back, Nill leans forward again and resumes studying the chair, this time testing the blanketed surface with careful taps.

Vesta retreats until she stands near Tristan, waiting for the kettle to boil. Her posture is composed, but her fingers twist faintly in the fabric of her sleeve. Every few seconds, her eyes flick back to Nill, as if bracing for another sudden movement.

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