faderift | i tried to write your name in the rain

Any sound that's not common to the environment would do it; usually he's capable of regulating those to background noise, but there are still variables he can't account for, so in this case the loose, messy waves hiding his face do come up before he's actually spoken to.

Immediately thereafter the raise of eyebrows. It's Lord Luthor, is it, meaning he either comes recommended by his own staff, or any of a handful of other uh...less savory sources he has perhaps had contact with, and consequently made highly illegal things for previous to this day. Either is an interesting prospect.

"Lord-anything is unnecessary," is. Like, how he chooses to greet this. Notably if she appeared to be a servant he probably wouldn't correct her, because uhhhhh a lot of the time nobility engenders inherent dickery that way. He pushes the hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand and promptly gets soot on his forehead; if he notices this it's irrelevant. "Since I don't see anyone holding a cheese plate. Is there something I can do for you?

"Alexander," she corrects herself, which is possibly more presumptuous than the wide variety of substitutions she could have gone with; if he's as used to certain dwarves as advertised, he'll live. "Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin."

He didn't actually ask who she is, just what she wants, but it seems both polite and necessary to establish that she isn't immediately inviting him to ignore her title. Even if she does sort of tilt her head when his arm comes up to push his hair back. (You don't see nobility in Orlais with biceps like that. Or at least not with them out, covered in soot.)

If the name doesn't give it away, the accent as she continues makes it fairly plain where she originated from; "I've been looking for - I need something ... 'smithed'." There's another little uptick; this is not exactly a vocabulary she's often called upon to use, is that the right word? You talk about 'smithing' things, so ... 'smithed', yes? Probably. She continues without waiting for him to weigh in on that - if it is the wrong word then it shouldn't be, it's very obvious what she's asking. "Yngvi and Gunnar recommended you to me. It isn't for the Inquisition - I can pay very handsomely. And for all the materials. Can you make a dragon with joints?"

At this point, Gwenaëlle mimes a dragon flapping its wings.

"A little one. Not too heavy for a child to move."

Well, if that wasn't the actual last thing he was expecting to hear it was certainly low on the list; surprise makes him look both younger and like if he were wearing spectacles he'd be lifting them to peer at her. (Guess who fully intends to have reading glasses in this universe, by the way, because Lasik doesn't exist.) That he's sidetracked here is one reason he doesn't react more strongly to 'Alexander' rather than say, 'messer' as a midpoint; it's audacious, but not in a way he feels immediately obliged to hit back. (That audacity is 75% of the way he, personally, gets anything done, is completely immaterial.)

Really though, absorbing 'I was recommended to you by two of the Carta's more fascinating members, which has led you to believe I am the person to consult for a mechanical child's toy' takes up a lot of anyone's brain, even Lex's. Perhaps especially his since there's all this ...personal...ness ...happening. His life would be easier if people just gave him neatly organized lists of specs he could then ignore. But! He's never made one of those, and while the Inquisition can keep him as busy as he'd like and then some, he does have off-hours he could abuse.

"Could you repeat that? Your name, not the commission." He pronounces it carefully, but definitely like a Free Marcher. They go through this another three times before he's satisfied and repeats it back to her as perfectly it's going to get on the tongue of a Notlesian, adding, "The sampler platter of information you seem to have on me suggests you probably know I don't need the money. Does this child have material preferences, or can I do whatever I want?"

He's going to do that anyway. Also, pretend narrative earlier contained a reference to him putting down whatever he was making and stepping out of like, the path of any incoming sparks.

Edited 2016-08-13 04:49 (UTC)

The time he takes to correctly pronounce her name is sufficiently gratifying that she makes a mental note to possibly let him use it; he carries on too quickly for her to remark on it, but that's - fine, since he is carrying on in such a way as to indicate he's going to do what she wants him to. And that he doesn't need her money was a consideration, and potentially a problem, but as she says in verbal shrug when he points it out; "It was worth a try."

Maybe he'd have been greedy enough?

But no, she can interpret 'can I do what I want' as 'I will make your child toy', and here they are -

"It's to be a surprise, Kieran doesn't know it's going to exist. I thought I'd defer to the expert on what would be the most suitable thing. I don't." She pulls a face; "I don't know metal things."

The flicker of polite disinterest - more acceptable than ignorance - that crosses Lex's face says he has no idea who Kieran is, so ...that won't be a problem. Not that Skyhold is home to so many children he couldn't make a decent guess, at least. Meanwhile, in regards to while it is probably giving him too much credit to declare him free of avarice, it's not for money. "No, that does lend itself to the top of the list when dealing with ~lords, as a rule. That's just not why I'm here."

Go on, tell me he can't tilde vocally. Put up your dukes!! ......uhhhh. Anyway. He's already mentally complying variables--durable enough for a child, soft enough for fine detail work, flexible enough for joints...hm. The nice thing about asking someone like Lex for this is that he finds the unknown fascinating, as a rule, the possibilities points on a path to knowing more than you did yesterday. "How old? Does he break toys like so much dry tinder?"

Most of those that do call it home are refugees of war - some of them little mages from the Circles, following their former Enchanters about like so many ducklings, others children from villages that simply aren't there any more - but Kieran is fairly singular. And probably the only one regularly found using the voluminous skirts of an Orlesian noblewoman as a cushion while he reads in the library.

"He's ten," she supplies, moving closer - not too close - to investigate what it is she's interrupted and the space he's working in, holding her skirts close to her with one hand and not for an instant pretending to be doing anything other than being nosy while she's here. It's

not exactly a welcome distraction, per se, but it is a distraction. And she is nosy.

"He doesn't break things, really, just gets muddy."

Upon consideration; "Why are you here?" Which is irrelevant, but she's multitasking.

Edited 2016-08-15 09:36 (UTC)

"Noted. I'll keep an eye out for mud-resistant materials."

Possibly that's a joke; if so it might be like ...less than the countable fingers on one hand that he has made since he got here. The question is nosier than being in his space even if he doesn't particularly want anyone there, either, but--it's an easy question, even if the answer is sort of multipronged. He tilts his head, messy hair trying uh, some more, to escape. "To save the world, of course. Aren't we all?"

Okay no, that's. Ah, he entertains himself. "More specifically, if you like, some of the Inquisition's publishing suggested - strongly - they were short on craftsmen. And presumably money; one imagines that's the root cause of entropy in any infrastructure. I am one and have the other." He shrugs one lean shoulder, gestures over to a cleared spot in his work space where apparently at some point he was sketching. "The pamphlet's over there somewhere."

"I'm here because this is the only place with rift mages that might know how to keep me alive," she remarks, tartly, gesturing with the hand that bears the shard; she's already got a hint of a suspicion as to what he's talking about as she moves toward the table, holding her skirts out of the dust, but waits to confirm -

Her own face looking up at her. Does she really look like that? It's the same thought she has every time she sees the final copies, and...yes, probably. In the picture, though, she's solemn; when she turns around, holding it, she's trying not to smile.

"It isn't an official Inquisition publication," she says, careful of preening too obviously - Cullen is absolutely going to hear about this - and gesturing with the paper. "But I do have the sanction of the advisors and they do approve my drafts. For the record."

He is here because of her. It works. If she weren't starting from such a low place, she might dance around the undercroft, it's so pleasing.

Edited 2016-08-18 05:11 (UTC)

Lex's eyes light up--not at the pamphlet, but the shard; of course he's interested. In the intensely clinical fashion shard-bearers probably do not appreciate, because also of course. Although perhaps mercifully he is then distracted by the actual pamphlet, the quality of his interest changing.

"Truly." Deeply dry, on the faint line between question and statement. "That's reassuring. I'd hate to hear my interest had been piqued by anything unsanctioned."

Like. Yes, everything about him virtually shrieks of doing things by the rules! A lot! (No.)

Almost certainly it would be impolite to suggest that she doesn't believe that assertion in the slightest, however dryly he said it; regardless, her expression quirks and probably because she's thinking of exactly who recommended him to her. Yngvi and 'things that are sanctioned' feels like a remarkably complex intersection. At very least.

"I think," she says, not critically, "that you would have found it in you to survive."

Somehow.

"Really." Dear Maker, what could possibly have given him away? "What makes you say that?"

It's interested, in a way that is on this total weirdo probably the equivalent of mildly flirtatious, since like. He's not doing a particularly strong version of his Person Impression here, he knows good and well how he might have given that impression in approximately an infinite number of ways.

He's going to start sketching little dragons while they have this conversation though, no use wasting time. Or more accurately nebulous skeletal structures he could mold a dragon over.

"I could answer that any number of ways," she says, a little more airily than she thought she was entirely capable of right now (so there's that), "but as we've only this moment met, I will say that I got your name from Yngvi and that is a - singular recommendation."

That's a very diplomatic way of putting Yngvi.

"He and Gunnar have very particular opinions."

It doesn't even occur to Lex to try to clarify if these are Those Brothers because with that description how could they like, possibly fucking not be. He does look heavily considering now though, tilting his pointy chin up from his work. "Mm! The interesting part of that revelation is that he's recommending me to you."

Not the talent part, but the part where someone like Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin is maintaining any kind of passing acquaintance with Gunnar and Yngvi's uh...singularness.

"I'm exceptionally charming."

She delivers it so neatly - and, to be fair, it isn't as if Yngvi is going to dispute that as an explanation for why he tends to give her things she asks for. There's a very short laugh, though, and she tucks a stray twist of hair behind her ear as she takes the opportunity of his looking up from his work for her to look down at it, inquisitive.

"Asher Hardie-" and despite her very best efforts, her expression does falter, tellingly, "-is an old friend. Yngvi and Gunnar's - leader. In the Boneflayers. They're fond of me."

Lex is just so glad Yngvi and Gunnar have found employment in something that is, apparently, called the Boneflayers. Or at least he's amused, which amount to the same thing. He also doesn't dispute this claim of exceptional charmingness, which like ...really, he hasn't kicked her out of the Undercroft, that amounts to the same thing as well.

The expression faltering he catches though, and that's--there's something very personal, vulnerable going on there; he wonders distantly if she knows that note in her voice just slipped through, but probably no torture devised in Thedas could get him to comment on it, and, if he could make a terrible guess of how she might feel about that, she wouldn't want him to. "I see."

He extends the rough beginnings of his ideas to a better viewing position, in lieu of like. Prying, thank whomever. "Your life must never be dull, in that case."

i tried to write your name in the rain

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