faderift | closed.

Even this small display of magic catches her attention, draws her eyes up from the contents of her trunk to smile at him. There is some quiet, easy pleasure in her expression. Yes, it's helpful, but it's also—

What she should say is I like when you do magic, but she saves that for another moment.

"Everyone's very generous with me," Derrica answers, very sincerely. Her gaze lingers on him a moment longer, before she makes another pass at the contents of her trunk. There's a crumpling, crunch of a noise, and then a soft huff of triumph as she extracts a paper-wrapped parcel.

Only a little bit flattened, but Derrica seems unconcerned by it, so the contents must be unharmed by being abruptly crammed into her trunk. Derrica raises a hand up to Loxley, imploring.

"Help me up?"

Decorations, he means, which she can probably guess. People giving her things for her hair, to hook from her earlobes, to circle her wrists, or drape about her shoulders. Loxley is very much guilty of the same, but seeing her collection only affirms to him it was a correct instinct rather than simply a derivative one—it doesn't seem possible to have too many pretty things, not when you have a room to keep them in.

One long step brings him near enough to connect their hands and pull her up. They don't feel too off-balanced from too much merriment, he thinks, but keeps a hold there while raising up the parcel in his other hand. It's quite shapeless save for the fold of the silken fabric itself, wrapping around something without any hard edges to keep a shape. Again, a soft jangle of muffled noise within.

"Happy Satinalia," Loxley says, a little like he's putting on a phrase that doesn't come naturally, but not insincere for it.

Rather than take hold of the parcel, she reaches for the lapel of his jacket to draw him down to her so she can kiss him. Loxley is tall and handsome and he is very sweet. Whatever is in the parcel will be lovely, she is sure.

"Happy Satinalia," Derrica tells him, soft against his mouth. She has arched up on her toes to save him from bending too far. (A small gesture, considering their respective heights, but surely the thought counts.) When she yields her grasp on his lapel, her fingers tap across Loxley's wrist first, before closing over his fingers, accepting the gift.

Clasped in her opposite hand is a twine-tied parcel of brown paper. It crinkles in her grip. A flicker of something (nervousness, perhaps) as she silently lifts it for him to take in exchange.

She kisses a smile, which is inevitable, and happens almost every time. Any sliver of distraction is an opportunity to surprise. It's true that Loxley has kissed loads of ladies and everything, but this is a new thing, this familiarity, the way intimacy can be so easily accessed. When Derrica ends it, there's a subtle shift like he might pursue more of that, only stayed by the touch to his wrist.

So he straightens up, relinquishing the gift, takes the other.

In her hand, it feels suspiciously like a silky scarf used to wrap up a few fine pieces of jewelry, which is what it absolutely is. The fabric, once unwound, is sheer and light, bright colours of greens and blues enhanced with silver thread in patterns popular to Antiva. It's much more decorative than practical, especially in a blustery Kirkwall winter. The items within that jingle free are two small looped chains with small round bells, a little too large for her wrists but would sit well around her ankles. Lastly, two market-place bought earrings, scallop shells of creamy orange, with golden paint brightening its edges.

Once they're in the business of unwrapping their presents, Loxley has taken a seat at the edge of her bed, undoing the twine—distracted, almost more interested in gauging her reaction than working on finding out what she gave him.

With Loxley at the seat of her bed, Derrica had toed off her boots, left them aside of the bed as she scooted up to sit against the headboard while she unwrapped Loxley's offering.

Derrica is careful with the handling of the items, unfolding the scarf in cautious turns to spread across her lap. She turns one hem of the fabric between her fingers into the light, taking in the colors before the jingle of jewelry draws her attention.

"They're beautiful," Derrica says first, lifting one belled anklet. There is a soft jingle, bells gleaming. She gives it a little shake, to hear the bells properly, before focusing her attention on him. Her smile widens as she observes him, fingers loosely circled with twine.

She prods with one socked foot at his thigh, encouraging, "Open it."

The lingering hesitation is still there, hovering around the edges of her expression. Derrica's smile doesn't falter, but there is a sense of—

Worry. It is a tricky thing, gift-giving. She'd like to have chosen correctly.

Within the wrapping, she has placed a jaunty deep orange scarf of very fine, warm fabric, with dark brown embroidery looping along each corner. A little sachet is tucked in among the folds; when opened and tipped upright, a few pieces of jewelry fall out. A bracelet of soft, dark red leather straps, worked into an intricate braid. A copper cuff of three close-welded loops meant for Loxley's ear, delicate dangling chains affixed to gold caps meant for his horns, and one last, less ornate offering: a gold pendant, stamped with an unfamiliar sigil. The edges have been worn smooth, and it has been strung on a thin leather strap.

There is a note folded on a scrap of paper, easily overlooked. Derrica doesn't point it out to him.

First, the reaction is to smile at the superior, more considered job Derrica did of gift wrapping. He twists around to spread the scarf across the covers, distracted immediately by the sachet before he can say anything. He empties the chain and cuffs and caps into his palm, delicately untangling the chain to determine the configuration.

Which makes him smile. He's picked up a couple of little jewellery items that settle on his horns, but only simple things, metal beaten into plain hoops that he can wedge into place. "These are lovely," he says, quite sincerely.

He considers saying something like, no one makes anything like this in Tassia, but instead just lifts the piece and asks, half-smiling, "Help me put it on?"

The note goes unnoticed for a second, although he's not done with it, fingers already wandering to pick up and inspect the pendant he notices glimmering next to his hand.

"Of course."

Pleased. Relieved.

It had felt right, the jewelry. But she'd wondered after, if perhaps Loxley didn't wear any because he wasn't partial to it. The expression on his face dispels the worry, and Derrica comes down from her recline against the headboard to plaster herself across Loxley's back, kiss the nape of his neck as she reaches a palm over his shoulder.

"Here," with a little beckoning of fingers. "Let me see."

Loxley passes back the cuff and cap in his open hand, leaning back just a subtle amount into the warmth she represents, being there. Other hand reaching back to smooth his palm across the side of her thigh. His head, tipped, to help with access, but it feels more like preening, showing off. It seems fine to do, around someone who's so free and sincere with her flattery.

Inspecting the pendant, he feels over their worn edges with his thumb, the edge of one near-black nail, and then brings it around enough for her to see what he's referring to when he says, "I've not seen this symbol before."

The cap is secured first, tightened into place gently in spite of how sturdy his horns appear. Her fingers drag through the curls at his nape, before her attention turns to affixing the cuff to his ear.

It looks very handsome. She means to tell him so, but puts her mouth to his newly-bared throat instead, arms cinching around his chest for leverage as she drops a trail of kisses up beneath the underside of his jaw before she can nip at the lobe of his ear. Being tucked in so close, there are a wealth of other things she might do here. Murmur into his ear, set her teeth somewhere else, put her hand over his heart, but at the question—

It brings her closer, leaning higher to examine what is already familiar to her. And now she does turn one palm to flatten over his heart as she tells him, "It's a very old rune. I had to trade one of the sailors at the Filthy Nug for it."

And first she'd had to find the sailor, but that's neither here nor there.

"It's for protection," is an overly simple explanation, but a true one. "Where I grew up, it's what we would give to people we wanted to keep safe."

closed.

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