faderift | ( open ) every girl’s got a moon inside pulling tidal waves to her heart

It's stunning, how quickly a mostly serene courtyard can go from— serenity to screaming horses and brawling women. Well. One woman and one elf. Everyone else seems to be watching the fight or frozen, and he's standing, moving, shouldering his way through the circle gathering around them.

He grabs the back of Gwenaëlle's dress- and a good chunk of her hair, given how her elaborate hairstyle had been shredded within seconds. He'll apologize for the faux-pas later, not that she'll care- and hauls her up. The elven woman comes with her, her tiny fists still swinging and clawing. Getting between two fighting cats is a terrible idea, but he does it anyway, using his free hand to press against her collarbone and shoving himself in between the two.

He turns to Gwenaëlle, first, considers the sight of her, bosom heaving- bosom dangerously close to escaping her corsetry- face scratched up, hair ruined, clothes ruined- though his aren't in a better shape, now, one of them has probably bled on him.

"What is wrong with—" he gets out, before sharp little teeth close down on the hand he looked away from.

It's very difficult to decide between trying to protect what virtue she makes a pretense of having and trying to claw Sabine's eyes out past Thranduil's shoulder, so she doesn't choose and instead clutches the untrustworthy hand with the shard in it against her bodice, lashing out with the other one still free, pain and adrenaline and indignance combining to undo the common sense part of her brain screaming about how mortified she's going to be as soon as she slows down enough to realise what's happened. They're all limbs and hair and suddenly the biggest elf Gwenaëlle knows, unexpectedly -

"What are you doing!"

is an unfair question, coming from one of the small creatures trying to tear each other apart for no discernible reason.

Red-faced and not unaccustomed to being forcibly separated from a drag out public brawl, Sabine is mostly in anguish that she couldn't properly show Gwen how it's done. One hand flung out drives to deliver a final slap, but strikes air as Thranduil's hand very firmly pushes he back.

Immediately, sharp little teeth close on that hand, thankfully nowhere too sensitive, just that swell between where thumb merges into palm heel, but it's hard and quick without being completely skin breaking. Bruising, maybe.

The bite still hurts sharp and shocking, and he turns his head to look at the object of Gwenaëlle's little tantrum. He closes his hand into a fist, then unfolds it, shakes it once or twice to rid himself of the pain.

"Good afternoon, my lady." And then back to Gwenaëlle. "—keeping you from getting your fool teeth knocked out from the very capable—" back to the elven woman. "My apologies. Your name is?"

It is with very few ulterior motives that he drops his arms, slowly, considers the state of Gwenaëlle's dress and the crowd, and pulls off his tunic over his head, tossing it to her.

(Very, very few. He remembers what she said about Halamshiral.)

"Cover yourself." As if it's her fault. Best keep her distracted from the little spitfire. And the crowd is starting to mill at the edges, seeing a shrinking opportunity for drama.

Her outrage is palpable, drawing herself up to her full height of 'still solidly two inches smaller than Sabine' - as if any of this is her fault, as if Sabine hadn't kicked her down for no reason whatsoever, as if she set the horse upon them or her hand unleashed, and -

The response she is preparing herself for is somewhat cut off by having to put her hands up again to catch Thranduil's tunic, and that he took it off at all takes her somewhat aback. Her brows furrow a second time, if her dress is a mess it's because of his stupidly overlarge hands, unnecessary for an elf, she is sure, and -

Gwenaëlle clutches it against herself and, upon consideration, turns on her heel and makes to push indignantly through the crowd. "Go away," she snaps at the first person to make it even slightly inconvenient.

Sabine's teeth are still more or less bared by the time Thranduil turns to her, which is when one of two things happen: she sees that he is an elf, in spite of his unlikely proportions, and the other thing being that he says good afternoon. Teeth baring twists into a lip curled look of confusion, sapping the energy out of her anger as she catches her breath.

She is covered in mud, more dirt than she is okay with having on her, and she flaps her hands once to rid them of the excess of earth and spilled cornmeal, even as that twist at her mouth resolves more into a smuggish smile as she considers the mess she's made of Gwen. The mess Gwen's made of herself.

Mollified, a bit, that the big tall rifter elf has indeed acknowledge whose teeth were being knocked out at the time.

"Sabine," she finally offers. She turns her head to spit at the ground, once, brisk like punctuation, as Gwen starts away. "Her rift shard hand was exploding."

Edited 2016-06-26 05:18 (UTC)

He fully has the intention to quip 'was it?' and then look to Gwenaëlle to pull out a confession like removing a rotted tooth, but she's off, and it's only a lunge that gets his hand around her wrist that should prevent her from making her exit quite so soon.

Ignoring protests, he flips over her shard hand to look at where the light still flick-flickers. He's not an expert, but they have one.

"You must go see Solas." He had made the general request that anyone with a shard that felt pain or any sort of oddity should come to him and that- whatever that was- fits the order neatly.

Of course, that assumes Gwenaëlle will follow good advice, given by an elf, and requiring that she acknowledged an elf exists and has general knowledge on a subject that will help her heal. Token effort: "Please."

He won't ask for an apology from either of them. He doesn't want those nails turned on his face, even for a moment.

(The bruise that was? On his hand is gone as if he was never bitten.)

Gwenaëlle knows Solas. She's met him; went to him of her own volition at that aforementioned request, her concern for her shard outweighing in that moment her wariness of a strange elf mage, though she had not been thrilled to do so. She'd been courteous as she's capable and it had not been unproductive.

Nevertheless-

Thranduil can probably see the moment she digs her figurative heels in, for all that there are no protests beforehand for him to ignore - she doesn't bother embarrassing herself further by struggling in a grip she knows she can't free herself from - and certainly Sabine knows the expression well, the moment something closes off behind her eyes and nothing said to her is going to be useful for some time.

No. None of this. She's had enough.

"Remove your hand," she says, frigidly Orlesian, the accent thicker for the increasing undertone of her distress, "from my person. At once."

For someone with tact like a battering ram, Sabine is also particularly sharp eyed, notice gravitating on a delay to check if the big elf is bleeding after all. This inspires only a quick glance up at his profile by the time he rounds on Gwenaëlle. Either Sabine didn't bite as hard as she felt in her jaw, or this is more rifter nonsense afoot.

But the little lady is twisting on the end of his grip, and Sabine shows teeth in-- a smile? Probably a smile.

"When she takes that tone," she volunteers, suddenly helpful, "there's no talking her."

Edited 2016-06-29 12:47 (UTC)

Oh, he likes her.

He releases Gwenaëlle with a loosening of his grip, letting his hand linger. He manages a softly murmured: "As my lady wishes," before turning on his heel to address the much more amiable Sabine. He offers her his arm, Gwenaëlle forgotten, neatly dismissing her as she dismissed him.

"Does she, now?" he says, nearing conspiratorial in his tone. For all his years, he still loves gossip, doubly so if delivered with witty quips, and he suspects Sabine able to provide.

"Might I escort you to the tavern this evening, Sabine? Purchase you a glass of whatever you favor after bribing someone to draw you a hot bath?" The cornmeal and mud will wash out, he suspects, but the bright copper of her hair would be even fairer once washed.

Unhappy and ungracious, Gwenaëlle pulls her hand from Thranduil's as quickly as his loosening grip allows - back straight, chin up, turning on her heel and stalking away without looking back. It's slightly more difficult than she'd care to admit to; she can think of few people she'd like to speak to one another less than Thranduil and Sabine, a stab of anxiety at the thought of what the elf might say to him -

Sabine's intolerable pride will likely serve, she supposes, however offensive it is that she thinks she should be ashamed.

A bath, then. A bath, and wine, and no one bothering her. She doesn't linger.

See that? The more amiable Sabine. An occurrence that could get marked on a calendar. Maybe Gwen allows her to be her best self.

She stares past the Big Elf towards where the Little Noble is stomping away, sharply assessing, a quality that lessens once she steers her attention back up, a look at that arm as if considering its intent, before she curls a hand in the crook of its elbow. A sound of amusement from her face, channeled through nasal passages, a crooked smile. A bath--

--isn't a bad idea, granted.

"Oui monsieur," sounds affirmative, anyway. "But I'd have your name also first."

He'll pay for this later, he knows. And he had been doing so well with gentling Gwenaëlle, but- everything has a price.

"Thranduil," he says, and leaves it at that. "I do believe I heard your name in the midst of- that- but could you fault me for seeking a polite introduction to a lady?"

He deftly steers them through Skyhold proper, aiming for backways and servants routes to get them to the bathing area unseen. That it leaves them time to speak is only a bonus.

"Might I ask what happened there? I am afraid I entered the fray late." He opens doors for her, and the politeness is not feigned. His manner, though purposefully pompous, mostly for her amusement, is still based in routine, in habit.

( open ) every girl’s got a moon inside pulling tidal waves to her heart

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