[attr="class","sylphie"]“Sooo— isn’t this, like... a bit excessive?” she presses relentlessly, ignoring the exasperated groan on the other end of the comm line. Annoyance has her clutching tighter to her drifblim, currently ferrying her in its arms across the sea of rooftops. “Not one, but two top rangers for an escort mission? Seriously?”

That had to be the worst joke she’d heard all year... she hadn’t aspired to this position to be assigned such menial work. She’d wanted an adventure—which to her knowledge did not involve hovering protectively around VIPs in their silly, starched-up suits, ushering them to and from whatever fancy venue demanded their presence for the evening.

From her earpiece she hears Kafka sigh, slightly garbled against the whistling of the wind. ( “Calm down, would you?” ) The mental image of him sinking deeper into his chair with the bridge of his nose pinched between fingers does draw from her the tiniest shred of sympathy—just enough to dissuade her from launching into another string of complaints. ( “I’ve been trying to explain for the past ten minutes now, that’s not what you’re going there to do—” )

She gives a hum at that, interest snagging like wool on a thorn. Oh really?

Naturally, the admission begs the question: “...‘kay, then why the farce?”

In search and rescue—what she’s used to, what she ought to be doing—there’s usually not a second to spare. Right now, there’s no immediate danger. No cries for help, no one to pluck from the grasp of some raging river, or clinging to some unspeakably tiny notch in a cliffside for dear life in need of saving. But all this effort to waste some time on Kafka’s part is decidedly odd, has a restlessness stirring in her limbs, pressing itself to the hairline fractures in her patience.

Kafka’s prolonged silence now, after he’d been so talkative, isn’t helping.

“Who am I meeting up with, exactly?” No sooner had the words passed her lips, than sounds the sharp click of a tongue.

There we go. She’s grateful for the noise the wind provides to smother her laughter.

( “...Cromwell,” ) The name is quick to dampen her amusement and twist it into something unsavory. ( “You’ll be getting the proper mission details from her in Delphi, on some poaching incidents that have been cropping up in the area recently. She’s already been informed you’re on the way, so I suggest you make haste and get there at least a day early to figure out—” )

“If it’s Darya I’ll be seeing—” she cuts in stiffly, “—then I’ll treat myself to a mental health day first. Speak to you later!” On that pleasant note, Sylphie hurriedly plucks out the earpiece, holding the device further from her person as she switches it off, so as not to have her eardrums blown out by Kafka’s indignant yelling. She’d treat him to a meal or something when this was over, as a token of apology for putting up with her spontaneous escapades. Darya Cromwell (and her haughty garchomp), on the other hand—

She rolls her eyes, mood already souring. Every instance spent in that woman’s presence was nerve-grating. Maybe a few mental health days were in order.

With the device tucked away and her ride beginning its descent, she shifts her weight forward to give the town below her a cursory once-over. It looked nice enough: cute stalls lining not-too-busy streets, a relatively quiet place compared to where she was ultimately headed—but ideal for a quick getaway.

“Getting off! Take your time to look around if you want.” She offers her drifblim an affectionate pat before pushing herself off of her makeshift seat of its intertwined limbs, dropping down—

—into what should have been a graceful landing.

Instead, she startles upon realizing she’d very narrowly missed breaking her fall with a girl and her rapidash, awkwardly stumbling forward— thankfully, her own pokemon is quick to intercept her and break her momentum.

“Are you all right?” she asks, a little breathless, eyes glittering with concern.

hyale nephelaid