Indignity.
It was a word. No, it was the word. The single descriptor for the state of her current existence.
Indignity was in her status, the demotion from the Duch'a of Callamar to the cupbearer of a classless brute. Indignity was in the decor, the garish blend of Coruscanti excess in a tasteless tryst with Sith brutalism and Tapani old money, creating an unwanted, hideous child made of inferior marble, gaudy gold and bulky obsidian. Indignity was in the people, most of them around her of a higher rank, with a grim countenance and the social skills of maladapted, tragically brooding sycophantic orphans.
Even the lights were an affront to Cassilde's dignity. Low and ominous, so far flung from the grand, open windows and plentiful lamps of home. It wasn't enough to be humiliated here in terms of status; no, she got the distinct privilege of struggling through the dimness of his tasteless abomination with Hapan eyes.
She had sought Mercy out in anticipation of the tyrant's needs, not out of any want and absolutely never out of duty of care, but to keep herself in the proverbial good books of the woman who found novel new ways to ruin her life. Her job was to pour whatever awful swill that her Lord chose to satisfy her primitive palate with and take the first sip, the frontline against poisoners. It might have been a passable, if not completely humiliating, role were it not for Mercy's penchant for enjoying what Cassilde presumed to be paint thinner.
Poison might have been a nice change.
The only small concession offered was the clothing. She had not been reduced to the utilitarian black of the other serving staff, the gold trim on the cuffs and collars so on-the-nose that it might have caused a concussion. No, she had been allowed to pack her own Hapan finery. Gowns. Court silk. Weightless but opaque. Exceptionally made. Cassilde had opted for darker fabrics, holding no great desire to be luminous amongst the proverbial children of darkness. It was a deep plum today, narrow through the body and falling long and straight as to move with her instead of announcing her. Most of all, sleeveless. In part, because the idea of trailing a wide sleeve into a cup made her want to throw herself out of this monstrous construction, but because she had an inkling that the only reason Mercy had granted her leave to bring her own clothing was because of vanity. Look at me: I'm a brutish, unseemly thug, and a beautiful woman pours my swill for me. Or something to that effect.
However, upon entering the audience chamber, there was a distinct lack of a brutish, unseemly thug... or a different one, inappropriately sprawled across the vulgar throne like the feral spawn of an ill-mannered cat and a particularly stygian toaster.
And the toaster was very much not pleased by Cassilde's arrival.
There was not much need to read the room on this occasion; the woman spoke bluntly and with the sort of disdain that read as painfully honest rather than anything else. And also infinitely interesting. In a garden full of sycophants, here was a weed that grew away from its sun. She didn't need to read the room to see that.
Although the room, insisting to be read, was perfectly furious. Oppressive to the point of bile, even. Which was, all things considered, concerning.
However, she pushed it aside and smiled. She always smiled. The woman had spent most of her existence practising the fine art of pretending, and her own face and body were the canvas. Cassilde was warm; she was gracious, and in this environment she was deferential, no matter how sickening it was.
"Cupbearer," she replied pleasantly, with a small bow of the head towards the woman who had now, concerningly, approached her. "Though I take your meaning."
Pet. She'd privately seethe about it later, when her face could afford to crack.
"Cassilde Vortayn," she offered, perhaps too spartan, but mentioning any of the other details invited mockery. This woman didn't seem to be the sort to care about former titles or status, and Cassilde wasn't particularly thrilled about the ensuing mockery it invited. "Would you like a drink? Since I'm here." Could this woman even drink? Or had she committed the terrible faux pas of offering a walking chassis a glass of wine? "I can go, if you'd rather not be found with me."
