Was it here? No . . . Maybe here? No. Tallulah had been searching for her purse for the last thirty minutes, and she was damn near yelling at everyone to get the hell out of her way, so she could look properly. The pants she'd decided to wear did not have her usual deep pockets sewn into them, so she'd kept her purse attached to her wrist by a string which had, apparently, broken. And so here she was, retracing her steps, trying to find the little white and gold-woven drawstring pouch that was probably in the hands of a thief.

As she moved between clusters of wicks and humans and gollies, she felt oddly out of place. Maybe it was the black pants, or the dress shirt and vest that made her feel rather uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the fact that she lived in her books and paintings . . . which was why she needed to find the damn purse, in the first place. One of her favorite stalls was having a sale, and she'd found a very old and beautifully bound book that she absolutely loved.

And so she searched, head towards the ground, ivory hair pulled back from her features in a loose bun, rarely warn glasses sliding down her nose every so often. God, she really wanted that book.

Artemis could hardly believe his luck- or perhaps lack thereof- when he had been interrupted in his daily activities by a blundering human thief running into him- quite literally- with a bit of a painful smack which sent both parties to the ground, vaguely winded. It was as he had gone to give the thief a proper tongue-lashing that he noticed the purse, which he recognized to belong to a certain infuriating albino golly. It had taken some persuasion, but eventually a deal had been struck and the two parted ways, Artemis now carrying a fat purse hidden away in one of his pockets, searching for the golly who would doubtlessly be searching for the precious bag of goodies. And then, after some time, he found her. And noticing her distraught appearance, he smirked, shaking his head slowly and approaching her.

He cleared his throat to get her attention, "I admit that I find it a sort of ill will on the part of the gods that fate should suffer me these ostensibly inexorable meetings with you, Miss Anatine, but for this one instance, in which I simply could not bring myself to pass up the opportunity to rub in your face your utter lack of competence which inevitably led to the appropriation of coin from your pockets in broad daylight." He glanced around to make sure there were no Seventen visible in their current vicinity, then pulled the bag from his pockets, dangling it above Tallulah's head, just out of her reach, "Am I correct in assuming this is what you so anxiously seek?"

She was still searching, brow furrowed, attention focused on the task in front of her, eyes glued to the earth beneath her, when she heard one of the last things she'd ever wanted to hear again - the voice of Artemis Diotrephes. As she stood, she noticed her purse in his rugged hand, and a smirk on his arrogant lips. God, he was the most infuriating man she'd ever met, and now he had her money - she almost wished it had stayed stolen. How he remembered the look of it, she'd never know.

Oh, how lovely. He wanted her to reach for it. How . . . childish. She crossed her arms over her chest, and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Really, Artemis, do have some maturity about you. I am not a fish. I do not jump for bait. I dropped it - my own fault, really, but if you'd give it back, I'd be much obliged." She held out her hand, her stance self assured and aloof, red eyes shooting daggers at his dark form.

He cocked his head slightly to the right, his expression smug, "I could return it to you, as I honestly have no need for such a delicate accessory as this, but you might find it to be a bit lighter than it was before you, ah... lost it. I let the thief who stole it keep half its contents for his troubles- really, it was a just cause if I do say so myself." He leaned in a bit, looking her over critically, "Yes... I could give it to you, but I should like some payment for going so far out of my way to even bother with returning it to you... a deed which, of course, involves suffering me the displeasure of your presence."

He heaved an overdramatic sigh, taking her hand in his only because he knew it would disgust her as much as it did him, and placing the purse in her open palm and curling her fingers around it, lingering almost unnoticeably, then withdrawing as if he had touched something vile. Though he did have to admit- if only to himself- that she had pleasantly soft hands, like silk, a thought which he immediately dropped as if it had burned him. Stupid, really. She was a woman who had never done a hard day's work in her life. Of course her hands would be soft.

"Consider this, then, an act of good will, if such is your desire. As for myself, I simply prefer to work for my keep, unlike some people." His lips twitched up at the corners, eyes slightly narrowed.

He was giving her the purse - willingly, too. Oh, what a good little killer. She almost wanted to pat him on the head . . . and then he just had to touch her. Why was he such a difficult little man? The light brush of skin made her flinch internally - she wasn't used to being physically connected with anyone, in fact, it was one of her greater dislikes - but she did not let through one bit of her disgust or fear, or whatever else there may have been swimming under the surface of her initial disdain.

At the mention of "work", her own eyes narrowed as well. She was willing to let his earlier comments slip past her, and give him a bit of coin for his so-called "troubles", but he just had to ruin his chances of a better opinion from her. Again. "Well, forgive me for not joining the ranks of those such as yourself, but my area of expertise is rather . . . precarious, at the moment. Hardly any of my sort would support me, and I doubt any other race would care."

She danced around the subject of her school degree - politics were, after all, a very touchy business, and one not many favored in conversation - especially brief encounters. Which was what this was going to be. A brief encounter. "And so you know, I can't pay you. Not with what I have left. Which makes me wonder," she twirled about to face him, heeled boots gliding evenly across the ground. "Why didn't you just kill the thief and keep it all for yourself?"

He quirked a brow, and when he spoke his words carried an air of dry sarcasm, "As if it would put you in a state of poverty to spare a few shills from a purse full of concords, which- by the way- you would not have back in your possession were it not for my efforts?" He shrugged nonchalantly, "Not that it's any skin off my nose, I already told you I am not interested in acts of 'charity.' This is, of course, also why I did not keep the money for myself. I may not be a pompous golly, but I do have my pride.” He inclined his head, giving Tallulah a cold, hard glance, “As for why I did not simply kill the thief, I am hardly fool enough to murder someone in broad daylight- especially not in a place like Vienda." Maybe in Old Rose...

“That aside, you seem to be under the impression that killing is my only area of expertise- that I would kill on a whim, for what ever reason I could find. This is hardly the case.” Though he was not entirely sure why he was telling her this. Perhaps it was to break the mildly awkward silence that had formed between them? Though really, he could have simply left… why wasn’t he leaving? Why did he insist upon staying here? Their last encounter had been an infuriating, painful one, and he should have been coming up with a number of reasons to be leaving her- to avoid her completely- and yet here he was, standing rather close to the infuriating golly, and not making any move to just go away. Why, he wasn’t really even insulting her anymore, they were just… talking.

((Ugh, post fail ><))

There was nothing to respond to in his first comments, so she began drifting with him - moving rather slowly, not really taking in any of her surroundings, just kind of walking along, listening to him counterbalance all of her assumptions. It was rather strange, talking with someone she barely knew in broad daylight - not to mention the fact that said someone happened to be a male. And a wick. But she walked anyway, waiting for him to end the silence that had grown between them.

She began to walk more decidedly once he began to talk - their slow drifting was getting her nowhere, and she really wanted that book, which was practically across the market. "Well, you've spoken of little else besides killing, and your past. Unless you are a very absorbed historian, you haven't told me anything else to interest." She was secretly very curious about his other hobbies. If killing was, in fact, a hobby for him.

"Quite honestly, you've heard very little from me but for witty rejoinders: I've given you very little of my past and even less of the very essence of my being," He said it with a smirk, but this was more teasing than cruel, no discernible edge to it as he spoke. It was odd. She had laid the bait, and he had, strangely enough, willingly decided to bite, "Killing really isn’t the only aspect of my, ah.. ‘career’. I am a mercenary, not strictly an assassin, though that does happen to be my most common assignment.

"I have, on occasion, been sent to protect, rather than to kill a specified target, which of course usually means killing more than just one person; while my employers in this particular field would tell you this was a more honorable job, well… as I end up killing more and generally men or women I am hired to protect are hardly worth the air they waste through breathing, I would leave that up for debate. I have also been sent to acquire information, which I have done a number of ways, and such usually ends with a lovely threat to my life should said information slip."

He glanced down at her to read her expression as he continued, "Why do I happen to kill so often in these odd jobs? The answer is really quite simple. The thirst for vengeance is a common appetite, experienced by all levels of society, and it is commonly fed through blood and violent death. It is easy to find jobs revolving around such petty desires and the pay is usually high.” As are the risks... There was a short pause, a bit of hesitation, "Does this explanation satisfy your curiosity?" He was still being civil. He wondered, briefly, how long it would take for that to change.

As he spoke, she thought - rolled the idea of him killing and protecting, an endless line of death and life. It didn't much disturb her - death was natural, no matter what form it took, and could not be stopped - so it was odd when she felt a twinge of something when she pictured him going hand-to-hand with the dark shape of a man.

He seemed fairly comfortable with his way of life, if not resigned. It was like he didn't want anything more, didn't look for anything else. Surely he was capable of doing something that made him less . . . wanted? But why did she even care? Why was she giving this so much thought? They were acquaintances, if even, and on poor terms, at that. But it seemed that their conversation hadn't been too violent thus far, and she was talking with him quite easily. It was an odd, if nice, change. But still, one question stuck in her mind, so she asked, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

"Do you regret anything?" She was honestly curious, for the second time that day, as she stepped around people going about their daily business. Despite the rather melancholy topic of their conversation, the world around them was bright and rather beautiful, and relatively cloudless for the rainy season. They were crossing over into the open-air part of Kingsway, and she couldn't help but notice odd things - the wrinkles in this woman's weathered face, the wide-eyed stare of a little boy, the arthritic bend in a fruit seller's joints, the curled tattoos on that young girl's arms. It was all so gorgeous that she began to miss her sketchbook.

Regret.... what a strange question. He faltered, his expression contorting into something not entirely unlike pain for a very brief space of time, eyes flashing before he regained control, mulling over her inquiry silently as they walked, and then he spoke, a harsh edge to his voice that may or may not have been intentional, "Regret... it's a bit of a difficult notion, really. There are many aspects of my life which I might deign to regret, Miss Anatine, and while there are certain deaths for which I most certainly feel guilt... while I am sometimes forced to ponder what sort of life a man might have led before I took it away from him with a simple swing of my blade... I see little reason to regret that which cannot be changed.”

Why was he rambling like this? What was it about this particular woman that enticed such reactions from him? He glanced down at her, eyes distant in contemplation. Of course, the past was set in stone, and could not be altered. But had this not been the case- had he the chance to go back and change things… would he? It was a question he had asked himself many times, usually directly after such inquiries of regret, and he never could come up with a straight answer.

But what of the future..? He blinked, and turned his gaze away from her curious ruby eyes, looking ahead, into the chaos of the crowded streets, “Honestly, it seems it has all become diluted… muddled in an endless cycle of blood and death.” Why regret that which could never be changed?

With a simple question, she'd struck a chord. She hadn't even been trying to make him squirm, and yet he visibly flinched - she could see and feel it. And then he was talking about death, and the endless cycle of it, and Tallulah slowly began to shake her head. He was rambling, he felt guilty for it, for something. It was so strange to see him loose his balance over something such as death, and the regret therein.

"Well, that's rather morbid, isn't it?" She smirked a bit. "Personally, I don't believe in death. That what is can sever simply stop being. It just changes - energy can't just stop. Nothing can. It -" She stopped, shaking her head, a small, apologetic smile coming to her lips. "I'm rambling, aren't I?" She sighed before pulling her cool demeanor back around her body like a cape. She had begun to tell him her theories on life and death - a thing that hardly anyone knew. Stupid, really. Impractical. He was a man, and a wick, and she had no business talking to him or walking with him. And yet she staid. Unconsciously, she rubbed her hand where he had touched it, continuing her tangent on the everlasting conundrum of energy in her head.

Then it was her turn to ramble, and it didn't last long only because she had stopped herself, and for once it was a shame- it sounded as if, for once, she had actually had something of interest to say. They walked in silence for a seemingly long few minutes as he contemplated what she had shared of her thoughts, then the silence was again broken, "Perhaps you're correct, in that energy cannot merely stop," He said slowly, "But the life that was once known on the physical plane of existence comes to an end through death... perhaps this change of which you speak is the spirit moving on from the body, but, again, this being is no longer in the realm of the physical- all that is left behind is a lifeless corpse." He smirked in spite of the thoughts this brought to mind, perhaps if he argued with her she might rise to the defense and in so doing, stumble and let loose a few more words of interest. "I think this is where your theory hits a wall."

Her brow furrowed, and she drew her bottom lip into he mouth. She did this often while thinking. He had a point, one which she had considered many times. She chose her words carefully, almost hesitantly, as she answered him. "The body may be 'lifeless' and cold, but the essence of a person is never really gone. The spirit stays, and becomes another sort of energy - in plants, or animals, or another human, golly, wick, what have you - and is always here. Everything that is always will be, even if we aren't physically conscious of it. My mother, for instance." She paused, not sure why she was telling him this. Maybe he was the only one that had ever really listened? That might have been it, but still, she wondered why. "I feel her in the wind. It's strange, I know, and maybe it's childish, but one can not simply stop. It's impossible." She looked up at him, gauging his reaction. He probably thought she was insane. Maybe she was.

She was speaking, again, sharing more of herself than he had assumed she might, even willingly bringing up her own mother, and he listened, perhaps with more interest than he would care to give any other. It was strangely pleasant having a normal conversation with her, one in which they did not try to beat each other senseless with words, "And this brings us back to the endless cycle," His lips were set in a lifeless smirk, a sort of ghost of what it had been moments before, and his eyes were like ice as he met hers, something stirring behind them, "Perhaps it would be best if life simply ended at death."

She nodded slightly, wondering what else there was that went unspoken. Their conversation was going rather nicely. They were being civil, and it was an . . . interesting change. A nice change. She was looking for a hint to his thoughts - something in the hard depths of his eyes, perhaps? There it was - flickering. "Well, in death there is life, but still . . ." Her eyes narrowed slightly - there was something she'd often thought of herself, and something in his mannerism brought it to mind. "Why not just end it? Off yourself before anyone else can, and contribute to the cycle? Give new life in your death?" She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest, looking away from his frigid eyes, her manner aloof and cold.

“You mean suicide?” Well of course that was what she meant. He searched her eyes for a moment, wondering if that was what she wanted- if she wanted him to end his life so she could forget he ever existed, but there had been no real aggression in her tone as she said it. And then he wondered, briefly, if this was what she wanted for herself- to just take the leap over the edge into the shadows of death far below- to dash herself upon the rocks- battered and broken- and be done with it. He sighed, shaking his head slowly as the familiar thoughts flooded his mind, an eternal conflict.

“I have pondered this many times, myself.” His voice was quiet, and he was no longer in Kingsway Market, but far off in the dark recesses of his mind, “I have considered spilling my own intestines and watching my blood seep from my body until I am finally met with the welcome, cold embrace of death…” He shook himself, his expression hardening, “But suicide is the coward’s way out- my father’s way out.” He winced slightly, realizing he had given her a bit more than he had intended, but also realizing it was too late to change that, so he continued, more slowly now.

“We are all born with the instinct of self preservation- the strong will to survive. It is built up and reinforced as we grow- as we live. Have you ever thought about this, Miss Anatine? About how much it takes to break this instinct- this iron will…? About what could possibly bring a man to even consider such a thing…” He was again lost in his thoughts, speaking more to himself than he was to her, “Perhaps this is why I throw myself into ever more calamitous situations. I do want to end it, but not with my own blade. If I die, I want to do so fighting for the one thing I have left…”

Something clicked in her mind - he'd mentioned him leaving his tribe over a disagreement, but she never thought . . . And so there it was and she suddenly felt something akin to respect for him. He had been through a hell that made her own problems look insignificant. And still, some small part of him wished for death. She suddenly understood much more about him, and it was odd, because she didn't flinch away from it. But this was wrong, so very wrong. They were them, and yet here they were, having a conversation about the harsher things in life. About the things that most would shy away from.

"I . . . I'm sorry." She meant it, which was a surprise. A silence grew between them - one which wasn't really uncomfortabl, but more melancholy than anything. She cleared her throat after a moment, and began to speak as if nothing had happened - as if she hadn't wished she could change something for him. "Suicide is always an odd course of action. It seems a last resort, when life has cornered you, and you can't seem to find the will to fight back. But I've always wondered - when leaping from the edge of that cliff, what happens if one suddenly finds the metaphorical light in the darkness? There's not much of a choice, then, is there?" Brow furrowed, she glanced around. They were heading back into the covered area of Kingsway, on the opposite side, having taken the long way to the stall where her book resided.

"In the darkest of times, one can rationalize that ending your life is the way to preserve it. That, by stopping the pain of living, you are, in fact preserving your greater self. Your spiritual self." She shook her head, remembering her sixteenth birthday. The darkest hour of her teenage years, as it were. Uncrossing her arms, she took her glasses from her pale face and cleaned them on the hem of her shirt, doing anything to hide her own train of thought.

Her apology struck him in an odd way, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to react to it, so he said nothing, walking in silence as she rambled about her views on suicide and self preservation, then sighed when she was finally finished, a sort of restless air about him, “Well aren’t we the morbid one?” He smirked at the irony of the statement, “Honestly, I see little reason for you to even consider death, much less suicide, being born into society with all you could ever want handed to you on a silver platter. What is there for you to complain over but for your tea being too strong, or your meat undercooked? I imagine it must be so incredibly terrible to lead such a comfy life- it might even get boring from time to time...”

His tone was, for the most part, teasing, though there was a slight bitter edge, showing that underneath it all this was truly his impression of her: she was a spoiled, pompous golly who only pushed the world away because she craved the drama. Certainly she had lost her mother, but she still had a father, cowardly as he was, with whom she could still reunite if she’d get over herself long enough to do so- hell, he’d even left her enough money to lead a cozy, unemployed life if her spending money was anything to go off of. Which again brought up the question of why he bothered remaining in the presence of one who so clearly irritated him in so many ways…

She smirked a bit at his little questioning monologue. He really knew nothing about her, and yet he looked at her with such bitterness, because of what she was born as. It was odd, being on the other side of the prejudice stick, and she didn't much like it. But he was jesting . . . wasn't he? And he didn't know what she did with her mother's money. Because it was her mothers. Her father had taken what little he had, and ignored what her mother had left for her.

"I brew my own tea, and cook my own meals, so rare meat and bitter drink has never been a problem. As for your 'silver platter' assumption - I do bring in what I spend on things such as books and supplies, as well as food. My paintings are sold in several galleries. I also do portraits, upon request." Why was she trying to prove herself to him? Why did she want him to see her in a better light? What did she have to prove to him? She had no clue, but she continued anyway. "The money and house I have inherited are both more of a cushion to fall back on. My mother . . . she was thoughtful, even while dying. Though the funds she left me were sufficient, they are relatively untouched."

Her father was a scientist, and had spent most of his time traveling during Tallulah's childhood. But he had made it a point to see her and her mother as often as possible, until the accident. His job hadn't paid well, but her mother's had, and so they were quite well off, even though they hadn't lived like it. Tallulah still didn't much care for lavish things - she found frills frivolous and unnecessary, and tried to keep only sturdy, sound things in her home.

“So you cook your own meals? Amazing. Really, I’ve never met a golly who could cook, before, so grueling a task as it is, most just leave it to their slaves- oh, I’m sorry- I believe the socially accepted term among your people would be ‘indentured servants.’” His words dripped with sarcasm, “The point is that you have vast sums of money, more than most could possibly know what to do with, and whether or not you choose to take it, you always have the option to fall back on this inheritance and live a comfortable life without so much as lifting a finger to make your own way in the world.”

He sighed and shook his head slowly, “Honestly, I suppose I should be flattered that you even care what I think of you or your daily activities, and- perhaps more surprisingly- should stoop to futile attempts at impressing me. You are a golly, are you not? Surely you have nothing to prove to a lowly half-breed such as myself.” He smirked, “That said, you are far from impressive. Amusing, perhaps, and at times intriguing, but the only impressive aspect you have shown me is that you can actually keep up with my witticisms, if only to some small degree and perhaps that you are one of the most stubborn women I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. You have, at best, piqued some semblance of interest on my part, and perhaps I should commend you on such a grand feat? Congratulations.”

He still assumed so much. She'd known only one "servant" to be employed in her household, and said woman was more of a foster mother than anything. She had also died a little over three months ago, a grievance that still weighed heavily on Tallulah. He was trying his best to drag something from her - make the competition last. Something dawned on her quite suddenly - they were arguing over who's life was shittier. She almost laughed as she let his comments slip past her, not even bothering to let them rest inside her mind.

"Yes, I do have a net. One which I am very thankful for. But never lifting a finger? That's a little much. I like working, believe it or not. I enjoy using my hands to create something new. Life would get very boring very quickly if I just sat around at parties and dances like my peers." She smirked at one of her most recent attempts at a social life which involved a mentally challenged Moa and a rather strange group of gollies.

"And what did we discuss about complements? If you are not man enough to give them outright, don't cloak them in insults to make the delivery easier. But thank you, all the same." She hated presents in ugly wrappings - it almost ruined the entire experience.

He cocked a brow, unimpressed. Honestly, he could tolerate her when she actually stopped to think before speaking, but she had just misconstrued much of what he had said, something he found strangely infuriating, and she was going to pay in full, "I must say you have a terrible memory, and your capacity for listening is no better. I believe your complaint in our last encounter involved insults in pretty packages, not the other way around. And I find it amusing that you insist upon flattering yourself by taking my words so far out of context. I was hardly paying you a complement." He rolled his shoulders back, working out the growing tension in the muscles and wincing slightly, "That said, Miss Anatine, I did not say you don't work for a living, rather that the option is there for you. Honestly, your hearing seems to be about as acute as your sense of reason or logic."

She had enough sense to be slightly embarrassed, and also enough sense to not show it. She was distracted - very much so. Everything was so colorful, and he contrasted with it so nicely. She wanted to draw this moment, exactly as it was, for some reason. It was strange - she usually wasn't this inspired this early in the morning. "It's any bit of information not given outright, really." She said this rather absently; she was busy looking at different people and colors and mapping out a painting in her head.

"You must forgive me - I am rather distracted. I get bored easily, and, well . . ." She looked him up and down rather pointedly. They were nearing the stall where the book she was so enchanted by awaited. "Reason and logic are both to be used moderately, or else their novelty disappears. I've always found the strictly reasonable to be boring, and the logical to be unadventurous." This was said with as aloof an air as possible, her cold voice holding a twinge of humor.

"If you find me so boring, Miss Anatine, why do you not simply go away? Oh, but that would take logic and reason, wouldn't it? And you're clearly so opposed to both that you wouldn't bother... unless you have some other rationale that you insist upon beleaguering me with your presence?" He wanted to see just how much he could fluster her, and he found that it was more than a little entertaining to see how she reacted- he was probably having a bit too much fun with it, “Is it some strange fascination with placing yourself in undesirable situations, or is it something else? Perhaps you are subconsciously driven by some peculiar, undiscovered affection for me? Is that it? Are you attracted to me?” Yes. He was definitely having too much fun. And while he knew that she would most likely come up with some scathing retort, he simply couldn’t help himself.

((SFSR...))

For some reason she found this rather funny. It didn't bother her as much as it would've - maybe it was because she had slept the night before, and it had been dreamless. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was saying it. But that was nonsense. He was a wick. She was a golly. She shouldn't even be his acquaintance. "Oh yes, Artemis, your gall and stubbornness are simply stunning. I don't know how I got along without you." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but the smile was still in place, and somewhat genuine. She hadn't smiled in far too ling, and she wasn't sure she was doing it right. But it felt fine, if not fully natural, and so she let it stay . . . for a while, at least.

"And, for your information, it is you who is following me. I have a purchase to make, and you've decided to vex me as much as possible, before you are forced to leave." This, too, was said with as smile, though this one was more teasing than the last. Her eyes never left the space in front of her, not even to glance at his reaction. Her proud profile was set, as if in stone, her eyes gleaming, loose strands of white hair forming a frame around her face. The smile melted into a smirk, where it stayed perched on her full, pale lips, softening her features just a bit.