contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[bouchonne]

[ ????????? ]

Are you and milady having a fight?

[elegiaque]

( bewildered— )

What? No. I missed the fucking ferry. ( a sharp exhalation— ) It's whatever, Rutyer, I'll find somewhere else.

[bouchonne]

[ ???????????????? ]

No; there's no need. [ Or even - ] I'll likely be working late tonight. You may take my bed, if it suits you. If it does not, I've a divan in my office for you.

[elegiaque]

( there's a long delay, and then, bearing a more than passing resemblance to gratitude,, )

Hardie's very well behaved, he won't bother you.

( and the sound of rain in the background decreases, closed behind a door back into the keep proper. )

[bouchonne]

I've no doubt.

[ Gratitude? In her voice? Is this some sort of demonic possession situation? ]

Whiskey shall enjoy the company, I should think.

crystal to action.

[elegiaque]

He's good with other animals.

( both the cat and the nug have a slightly disturbing tendency to ride on his enormous befurred back, so, you know.

gwenaëlle leaves it at that, until a short time later — about as long as it takes to wind all the way up from one of the garden courtyards up to the top of the central tower and then debate knocking on flint's door and then decide she's come this far and also that he might be annoyed about it which would be crushing in a way that she's ballasted against with byerly by presuming his general disinterest in the inner workings of her head in the first place.

she doesn't actually knock, because she's not mysteriously become polite in the past hour or two, but lets herself in; hardie first, because that's how he likes them to enter a room, and gwenaëlle a beat behind him, over her arm a black shirt with a needle jabbed through half-finished skull embroidered in also black on the back of it and in her hand her sewing basket. her skirts sway, pulled ahead by hardie's body, and she takes her reading glasses off— )

Thanks.

[bouchonne]

But of course. Even a scoundrel must answer the desperate cry of a damsel in distress.

[ There's still confusion on his brow, a quizzical set to his mouth. But he doesn't ask. Asking, he has no doubt, will earn him a profane rebuff and a great many unkind words about his character, parentage, appearance, et cetera, and it's been a long day that's going to turn into a long night. ]

Do you wish to use the bed? My chambers are through there.

[ Whiskey - the hound sleeping, as is her wont in hot weather, on her back, back legs splayed, forepaws sticking straight up, like a furry dead cockroach - stirs at the scent of other-dog in the room. She flops over onto her side, and blinks at Hardie, too powerfully sleepy to go to him but clearly wanting him to come to her. ]

[elegiaque]

( the hem of gwenaëlle's (certainly expensive, even at a glance) skirts are damp and dirty, but the rest of her is presentable enough, still; she has cut herself bangs since he last saw her, and developed a perpetually tired look that seems lived in.

it is probably better not to ask. it didn't go great for jim. the question he does present her with is fairly reasonable and she looks between the divan and the door to his chambers like she's doing some kind of math in her head while hardie whuffs past her to investigate the new flavor of small animal that he can probably become affectionately in charge of.

gwenaëlle indeed qualifies as such an animal. she watches him pad placidly over to put his entire head into whiskey's business; it is quite a lot of head. )

If you're going to be up for a bit anyway,

( she tilts the shirt she's carrying. )

I might work on this a bit first. Over there.

( it is not precisely asking for company, or if he'd mind hers. she stands in the middle of the room, and eventually, )

I figured no one would look for me in the diplomacy office. You know.

( what with her — personality. it's not not a joke. )

[bouchonne]

[ To be fair, Whiskey herself is a lot of dog - a long-limbed, well-muscled hound, nearly eighty pounds, with sleek fur and slightly drooping lips and liquid eyes. No small beast, this, though there's still a puppyish sort of softness about her. Her tail starts thump-thump-thumping on the stone floor. ]

Of course.

[ And then, because he can't not ask after an opening like that, even if he anticipates he'll be cursed at for his nosiness for daring to ask - ]

Is it...likely that someone would be looking for you?

[elegiaque]

( what humor there was in it fades, and gwenaëlle arranges her skirts around herself, sitting on the divan, as hardie investigates the full extent of dog currently expressing sleepy interest. at about a hundred forty pounds, most animals are smaller beasts and his tendency to consider almost every person he meets someone to be herded must be accounted for — but he lays down alongside, stretching out.

he's still keeping an eye on byerly, but it's much less unfriendly or suspicious than the way gwenaëlle herself tends to eye people. alert in a new place with new things. )

Probably not.

[bouchonne]

[ Well, that's not exactly helpful. Why the hell are you here, Gwenaelle? ]

Well, sit, then. Do you have enough light for your - [ Skulls. ] Embroidery?

[elegiaque]

( she sits. she puts her glasses back on, and she says, wryly, )

Well, it's more light than I was working by earlier.

[bouchonne]

Where were you earlier, then?

[ What the hell is this conversation. ]

[elegiaque]

( she makes a vague downward gesture— )

It's nice by the garden when it's late. I had a lamp.

( and a convenient overhang to sit underneath not to get rained on, and hardie, tolerant of her recently unhinged whims. )

I lost track of time.

[bouchonne]

I didn't know you were so keen on embroidery.

[elegiaque]

I literally made you a jacket for last Satinalia,

( though in retrospect, she's not sure byerly actually knew she made that rather than simply purchased the pieces, and the reconsideration shows as plainly on her face as most things tend to. )

I've always—I made Aura Hardie a little purse out of a scene I made, with Yngvi and Gunnar standing on each other's shoulders dressed in a bearskin to fight her brother. Anyway, everyone always needs shirts.

[bouchonne]

[ Well. ]

Except some qunari.

[elegiaque]

I'd need more fabric.

( challenge accepted!!! she could make a shirt a qunari would want to wear, she's very talented. )

[bouchonne]

You'd need three leather straps and a codpiece.

[elegiaque]

That's not exactly difficult to put my hands on.

[bouchonne]

A giant codpiece. You have little hands.

[elegiaque]

We don't employ giants to make siege engines, either, just sufficiently ambitious artificers.

[bouchonne]

Yes, but the artificers don't actually assemble the devices.

[elegiaque]

No, we get smiths like dwarves to do the hard parts. Or Lord Luthor, ( a dwarven-trained markham noble, whose name she recently lent to provost stark to make connections in orzammar, ) who's not that much bigger than I am.

[bouchonne]

Is that your secret, then? Your diminutive size?