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

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin + YOU.
WHAT: A catch-all to get acquainted.
WHEN: During this month.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Starters (open + closed) in the comments - PM or matriarchal if you'd like an individual starter or feel free to just pop one up of your own!

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[elegiaque]

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."

[glandival]

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."

[rowancrowned]

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.

[elegiaque]

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.

[glandival]

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."

[rowancrowned]

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.