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It was late. Someone had turned the streetlights off an hour or so ago, though she couldn’t be certain. Time ran away from her like that. Outside, the rain tapped impatiently on the window like a frustrating customer, the sort she’d pay no mind to usually, yet the storm was distracting her. Somewhere in the distance, outside the Court of Fontaine’s high walls, lighting struck the soaked earth. Thunder followed desperately in its wake, trying to keep up like a lost kitten in the dark.
The woman in the studio had long since discarded the tight hairpins and flowers that had held her intricate hairstyle in place. She’d ended up with unruly, dark brown locks cascading across her shoulders, much like a murky river after a storm just like this one. The golden fabric of her dress seemed dulled, just like the creative spark she revered so fervently. Perhaps she was just tired, the small hours weighing on her mind. Though maybe it was the incessant reminders of home knocking on her door that had her energy sapped from every inch of her bones. She’d prefer it to be the former.
The people of Fontaine called her the Thundering Seamstress, yet she saw herself more like a sudden bolt of lightning. She didn’t chase after anyone, not on the battlefield, not in a game of Hanetsuki and certainly not in the world of fashion. No, no. She was Chiori of Chioriya Boutique, fashion extraordinaire and part-time dessert chef, when the mood took her fancy at least. She was not thunder chasing fruitlessly after the light. Though perhaps they equated her with thunder because of its disruptive volume. She’d indeed made quite the splash upon arriving in Fontaine, but she was never going to sit quietly and just let her dreams pass her by. In truth, she knew the real reason was simply because she was born on the Thundering Isles. The moniker wasn’t a reflection of her character, just another label to make her stand out as a foreigner in the city she’d chosen to call home. Perhaps Inazuma was the thunder to her lightning after all, forever clinging to her coattails.
It was only when the lamp started burning low that she shook herself from her reflective stupor. The pages strewn across her desk remained either blank or inadequate. The first was sad. The second, frankly, was offensive. She let out a quiet sigh, the noise being swallowed by the storm as quickly as it was made. There was no use battling through this, not right now. So, she spared one last devastated glance towards her work and then rose from her seat. Tomorrow. She could finish this tomorrow. When the whole city would be awake and busy making outrageous noise and senseless chatter. It seemed the gods were not on her side in that regard.
She reluctantly dragged herself up the narrow staircase to the studio flat above. When she’d first shown up at the city’s gates, she’d had no intention of living in the Boutique; it was much too small, too cramped. She thought she should try to get away from work every now and then. Yet as time passed, she found herself sequestered away more and more. It often got too late for her to be happy walking the streets alone, even under the stern watch of the Maison Gardiennage and with the warming hum of a Vision at her side. It made far more sense to live here instead; all she thought about was fashion anyway, and the clothes moved from the shop floor far too quickly for them to require the upstairs as closet space. Yes, it all just made sense.
What didn’t make sense was her newfound lack of enthusiasm for her designs. That was a problem that must be remedied sooner rather than later. She swept into the bathroom, graceful despite her exhaustion, yet her reflection caught her eye for just a moment. She looked haggard. The mirrors, like herself, told no lies, and whilst she prided herself on that fact, they bluntly revealed yet another thing that must be remedied. She turned on the bathtub faucet with a huff. It had the cheek to squeak in defiance like she had at all those teachers so long ago. However, against the excessive roar of the tap, the storm outside paled, its sounds drifting away into nothingness. It was some semblance of peace, at least.
Brushing through her hair, taming the chaos like her mother had taught her, proved challenging. Yet it was another mindless chore accomplished. She dipped her fingers into the warm water of the bath and sighed. It wasn’t quite the hot springs from Inazuma, but it would do. She was precise with her clothes, folding each piece and laying it on the counter with the utmost care. Her Vision dimmed sadly when removed from her belt, as if being separated from her was too much to bear. At least someone wanted to keep her around. Though it, too, was placed on the counter, cushioned against silk.
The water felt like a warm embrace after a trying day. Something she hadn’t experienced since leaving her parents behind so many miles away. Her parents. Were they lying asleep in their home, dreaming of happy things? Or had the situation in Inazuma worsened so badly that their little house was long gone? She didn’t know. When she’d first left, she’d been writing home often. Not as often as her mother would have liked, but often enough in Chiori’s mind. Then, the Sakoku Decree came, and the borders closed. She hadn’t sent a letter since. Not because it wouldn’t make it through, Kirara would make sure it reached its destination, but she felt she had no words that could safely pass through a nation that wanted to destroy a part of her. She tilted her head to the side, focusing on the faint glow of her Vision and feeling its familiar tug on her heart. She couldn’t let go of her Vision any more than she could cease being human. She couldn’t fathom what the Shogun was thinking. Surely, her own Electro power felt far too precious to knowingly take away the power of others? Perhaps that was the point: selfishness, wanting to remain as the most powerful, wanting eternity. Chiori could relate to that, at least.
She must have dozed off. When her thoughts came around again, the water had chilled. It was times like this when she wondered why she couldn’t have a Pyro Vision. Maybe she could keep her bath eternally warm then, although, with all the fabric lying around, a spark like that might prove dangerous. She pulled herself from the tub, fending off the familiar chill that comes with damp skin exposed to the air. She drained the basin, wrapped a fluffy towel around herself and stepped into the main room of the studio with an exasperated sigh. The sun was winking at her through the window. Time to start the day all over again. So much for a good night’s sleep.
Coffee was the first thing she acquired. Flowing through the usual routine of filling her kettle with water over the stove and grinding the beans in her mortar. Coffee, much like fashion, was an art. One she never risked skimping on, especially not when acquiring the Nel Drip here in Fontaine had been a nightmare. Others didn’t quite understand her dedication to making that first cup each morning, but she felt it put her in the right mindset for the day. Implementing calm and patience to deal with all the trouble that would no doubt stumble into her boutique and cause no end of headaches. Why people simply couldn’t be polite and courteous, she’d never understand. Yet that seemed to be a highly unpopular belief, one that had landed her in unpleasantly hot water more than once. Never mind, perhaps today would be better, and she wouldn’t have to throw some blithering, tactful dope out onto the street. Only time will tell. Maybe she’d be lucky, and Chevreuse would pay her a visit; that would be a good day, indeed.