Kenna Ewart and the President have known each other since years past, back when she served on the council and Camford pulled the Republic through Helic's death and messy rebirth. She's retired now, but doubts Camford ever will follow, despite being a mere four years her junior. The woman knows only her family and politics—and they will get her out of this chair only by popular vote or death.
Death seems more likely, with the Zenebas re-uprising breathing down everyone's necks and the news from Nyx that the Guylos capital is ablaze. To put it in Louise's carefully guarded understatement, things are not going well. "Not well at all," she says, and the stress is evident in the way her brow furrows on the 'well'. Kenna offers an afternoon out, some time spent with old films and chocolate. The President is far too confident a woman to consider politician and girly mutually exclusive, but still declines. Politely, as is her way.
"I haven't the time, I'm afraid. Meetings. All afternoon." Even as they talk, Camford pages through reports, pen in one hand taking notes in the margins.
"Have you got fifteen minutes?" she says, raising Camford's gaze up from her papers and her eyebrows over the rims of her reading glasses. There are many forms of stress relief, but few you suggest in a tone of voice that implies "and does this door lock?"
"I might," Camford says, already clearing her desk. She's far too classy for swept arms, far too clever for chaos; things are moved aside and to the floor in the most organized of rapid restackings, held down with a half-empty biscuit tin and paperweights. The last folder is set down with a flourish and a final tap, and Louise beckons. On the desk?
Well, then. On the desk.
It is a while later when Kenna's fingernails scrape the finish, and Louise interrupts to scold with surprising coherence. She's always articulate, even out of breath. It probably comes from giving speeches and shouting down renegade Zoids, but the thought of Louise doing either while in this position...well, if anyone could pull it off, it'd be her.
"That was my uncle's. I'll not have anyone ruining it."
Her uncle's? How gloriously awkward. Kenna ignores the sigh that comes with her pausing, lets Louise play with the back of her hair in an increasingly impatient manner.
"Helic's desk...that would make it old Republican, probably Wind Tribe. Are you sure, with the current political climate, that you're not...hmm, claiming it?"
"I've done this on it plenty of times," Louise says, and while Kenna can feel her laugh her hand is far more insistent a guide. Your tongue has better things to do than talk.
"If you say so, madam," Kenna replies, and says little more.