Set at a night of feasting before the tournament

The week-long celebration of life is going to kill her liver, honestly. Actually, probably not, because Fleetwood isn't partaking of the fermented fruit. No, she's pacing around the party, flitting from person to person and never staying too long, because her energy is just through the roof. She's already spoken to Valeska and Nemean about potentially staying. She'll just have to talk to Arvid to confirm it's what he really wants.

But when would a good time be? Hm.

She's pondering that when her wandering shifts her to the edge of the party and a soft-colored wolf that she should have recognized. But not recognizing the rocky relationship between Elysium and Avon, she instead focuses on the sad look in the other woman's eyes.

"Aw, darlin'," she starts, "did the fruit make something come up?" Her brows knit as she comes a bit closer.

SKILL : - - - ( 1 / 5 )

She had hoped that, by putting physical distance between herself and Archon, her mind might had followed suit. Even with the help of some fermented berries, her thoughts were slow to dull; all roads led back to the man she had hedged so many hopes with.

Fable second- and thrice-guessed her actions, idly ticking away at whether or not she had done the right thing. She had believed in him, in them, enough to start a family... or had she? Had she instead been trying to resolve the symptoms of the dying machine of their union, plastering patches each time a new leak sprang but never truly fixing anything?

She hefted a sigh as the warm buzz of alcohol pulsed gently in her ears and made her skin rosy beneath the blush tones of her fur. It did little for her melancholy except to sharpen its edges further, but she plucked a mouthful more all the same. If the first fifteen hadn't done anything, maybe the sixteenth would.

It was as she chewed the fermented fruits that a voice rose, near enough that she knew the words were meant for her.

Her ears cupped toward the tricolor wolf and she offered a fabricated smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was an empty motion when she had already been seen, but she tried reflexively anyways. It wasn't polite to tell strangers about problems, was it?

... Especially when the other smelled of Elysium. Fable made a distant, echoing mental note to try and track Valeska down. She didn't want to carry the weights of Archon's grudges into her future; Fable was confident she could have smoothed matters over on her own, without Shiloh or Archon to raise the tensions at the border.

But that feeling did little to change the past and it was a thought she may as well piss away - she could only try to change what happened next.

Ye don't have t'worry about li'l' ol' me, just a lot on m'mind, Fable returned, the bow of her lips faltering into a more solemn line. Sweet o' ye t'check on me, though.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on one's viewpoint, Fleetwood is not the kind to be deterred by a single dismissal. But she also knows better than to pressure a stranger for their life stories right away. This requires a different plan of attack.

"It ain't a huge deal, really. I want to meet new people." Fleetwood takes a seat, smiling. "It's a party, you should be having fun. I'm Fleetwood, and if you don't wanna talk about it, you don't gotta."

If it comes out naturally, Fleetwood will listen, of course. "We can do something fun instead, if that'll help more." It could be something as simple as having had too much to drink, honestly. Perhaps Fleet's going to have to take those berries away.