Ithi'Ka doesn't respond outwardly except to smile faintly, demurring with a subtle inclination of her head.  Cerebrally, she knows the woman's charms.  She knows that Nightshade can spin hearts like plates, keep them aloft for days, weeks, years... until she's ready to let them drop.  But the niceties aren't necessary, nor advantageous, when dealing with a cutthroat Drow from the Karnathi military 'deniable operations' division.. so Ithi'Ka appreciates them all the more.  She keeps her dusk-dark face still, her silvery eyes impassive as the gold and mithril construct in the midst of the room, but inside the shell of black scales and steel, a small part of her turns to water... warm water... and begins to seep throughout her core, making her feel the frivolous, dangerous<i>desires</i>she keeps at bay with a soldier's vigilance.<br/><br/>She betrays her self-consciousness with the most subtle of hip shifts, a twitch at one corner of her ash-colored lips.  Her gaze creeps up alongside where she stands, taking in Hawk's features, feeling a little sting of-- what, pride?-- at his utter professionalism, his lack of corroboration of Nightshade's flattery.  Resetting her mouth to a dry, stony smirk, she nods politely to the madame.  "It is good to see you again..."  When Nightshade flutters away, Ithi'Ka looks at Hawk's offered arm and, hesitantly, accepts.  The gesture is as alien to her as most<i>societal</i>customs, thought she manages to execute it with a meager degree of self-respect intact.  She finds its... well, more enjoyable than she'd have expected, but less enjoyable than if there hadn't been so many about to see.  Luckily, most were enthralled with their hostess' appearance as she swept through the entertainment parlor with the casual grandeur of a dancer on stage.<br/><br/>One last glimpse of the exquisite, murderous construct, one more glance at the watchmen, and they've receded into the recesses of the bordello upstairs, where panels of velvet and glimmering, indigo tiles line the way that so many have trodden with youth's inexperienced anxiety, with degraded shame, with cold empty resignation, or drunk with amorous passions and needs that cloud reality.  Ithi'Ka finds her hand itching for her bow, but somehow, in the myriad of colored lights and the pools of welcoming darkness, she feels shameless.  "The construct," she says softly, fighting back the reeling of reality that hems at her.  "Is she alive, or merely... automated?"  She says discretely, adding her outsider tinge to each vowel of the word.