Rainy days

"The media is trying to scare you," Ludko replied, despite himself. He looked up to the woman, "that's the point of them, easier to herd sheep if they think the manger isn't just the wolf playing dress up." He noted how she was dressed. Men's clothes. Old ones at that. Dirty. Wet. There was something untamed about her, though not uneducated. She was wild, but not feral, and she seemed happy about it. Well, Ludko thought, that's the Irish for you. He turned the page again, focussing his attention on the next tabloid piece, America, he noted, had a serious lack of quality paper. Where was the artistry? The critiques? With an unimpressed huff he straightened the paper, as if to knock some sense into it, and carried on reading anyway. He did his best to ignore the two of them, though the paper man seemed to hold a sort of fake grudge. He was feigning a hatred for the woman to cover some sort of affection, and not at all masking it well. Though it could be considered endearing to some, Ludko simply found it annoying. It lacked interest, depth, and at the end of the day must feel unfulfilling. 
With another glance at the woman, Ludko closed his paper, throwing it back onto the man's heap and handing him a few coins. 
"You shoe is untied and you left a few buttons undone at the bottom of your father's shirt," Ludko said in a dry, unimpressed tone of voice.

He cleared his throat and kept his gaze on hers. "Babycakes," he replied, no hint of a joke in his voice. His umbrella popped as it's breadth grew to accommodate his outstretched hand, awaiting a handshake. He placed his free hand into his trouser pocket and straightened his back, perfecting his posture and watching her with mild judgement, as he did with near everyone. Thus far, he could surmise she was anti-societal norms, and this he enjoyed, hence why he continued speaking to her instead of just leaving as he would have had she been a normal woman.

"Eriks," he appreciated her strong grip and returned it with one of his own, letting go a moment later, examining his palm for any filth that could have been transferred and then wiping it with the handkerchief in his breast pocket while he continued his introduction, "Ludko Eriks. Pleasure, Kyra." He gave her a courteous smirk and watched as she examined him. Replacing the handkerchief to his pocket and then allowing his mind to wander to where she had come from, these woman of the wolds seemed all too out of place in a city like this one. He knew the immediate connection to jump with with the Irish, but he knew better than to mention it. Mimicking her own examination of him he performed his own on her, carefully assessing each inch of her as if she were a rare butterfly pinned in front of him for inspection, beneath the mud and men's clothes was a woman with a blooming femininity diminished only by her personality. Should she brush her hair, bathe, grace her face with some make up she would be dainty, easily, but simply, that wasn't who she was. Her eyes had a wildfire inside them, a playfulness reminding him of a newborn dragon, full of curiosity, power, and temptation. He settled on the collar of the shirt, stained with sweat and coffee, and then back to her face.

He cocked his brow at the question and her phrasing of it. "I suppose that's the simplest way to explain it, yes," he replied, glancing at the news stand once more and the nodding his head down the road. "I'm going for coffee, you're welcome if you can afford it." He began to walk, not waiting for her reply as he started on his way. He didn't like the newspaper man, but he didn't mind her.

He didn't look back as she followed and replied to him, keeping his head level and his strides in a perfect, unchanging pace. "I don't doubt you're well off, but I am not aware of how you handle your money or any debts you may have - especially considering the story of this city," Ludko gave her a sideways glance and saw something flicker inside her, a hint of something he wanted to explore. She was interesting, though somehow, he felt, she was also naive. "If you're at all interested in your appearance though, which I doubt you are, start wearing a belt around your waist with the trousers and tuck the shirt in. It will accentuate your waist. You're petite but you hide it in those shapeless bags, give yourself a bit of shape though and I'm sure you'll marry soon enough. Not that you want to."

Ludko stopped mid-stride and turned to her, his face as monotonous as ever as he silently stood before her. His suit was expensive, clearly tailored to fit perfectly and likely lined (in fact it was) with fine jurogumo silk, a dangerously expensive fabric woven from the threatenting threads stolen from the japanese monstress. His handkerchief, unusually so for the unemployed, was an obvious accessory. Of little use to anyone for anything more than something soft to touch or beautiful to look at, his tie matching in perfect coordination and his collar prim and starched the evening before. After a moment more of allowing her time to completely observe of important he deemed his appearance he spoke again. "Pride," he stated in a simple matter of fact statement. "I believe you get the respect you look to deserve, and as a proud man I will not be belittled, or needlessly argue, which I would if I dressed in less than I'm worth and was treated accordingly."
He carried on his walk, turning to face forwards once more as he did so, "You are a woman though," he continued, "and no matter how you dress you will be belittled." He turned a corner and opened a large, unlabelled, mahogany door. "And for that, Kyra, I whole heartedly apologize."