VII. CLOSED.

[glandival]

WHO: Alistair and Sabine
WHAT: Puppy killing in disgrace.
WHEN: At a point in Kingsway.
WHERE: Orlesian wilds!!!
NOTES: No actual killing of puppies, probably.

[ They'd asked her where she got such a handsome wolf-skin cloak, and she'd told them the truth; that she slew one, mad with red lyrium, in Emprise du Lion. That's how they wind up here.

In woodlands turning golden with the changing of the season. Dry leaves crackle underfoot. There aren't any spikes of red lyrium pushing out from the earth, nor are there any rifts that haven't already been closed, but the presence of overly aggressive, Fade-touched wolves have been reported by numerous travellers. Sabine had taken the task for promise of gold, and she might have even mentioned this reward to Alistair when she recruited his help.

It's becoming cooler as the afternoon begins its retirement. Her cloak staves it off, wearing light leathers beneath, and while she is cautious, and attempting to track the signs of the forest around her, she isn't moving in the way she would if she were hunting prey animals. Likely, there's little point in trying to sneak up on a wolf.

Eventually, Alistair will hear; ]

Alistair.

[ --in such an understated and quiet voice that it's probably like that for a reason.

And he will see her belly down on the forest floor, peering into the open hollow of a fallen log. Without waiting for him to look too or lend advice, she is reaching a gloved hand inside, and when she pulls it back out, she has a fistful of the scruff of a squirming wolf puppy, one that squeaks weakly, dangling and feeble. ]

Comments

[glandival]

[ Her grin in the waning light is bright and easy, straddling its own line between her usual edged mirth and being actually compulsive in sincerity. ]

Ah well, [ she says, ] then I would have to find ways to ensure you do not regret your treachery.

[ But perhaps that hedges too closely to-- something. Whatever it is she finds herself only joking about when Alistair is right there and digging in her heels about when he is not. She takes the opportunity to speed up a step so as to climb up over a felled log first, going carefully with the animal in her hands. ]

Like fucking, [ she says, over a shoulder, just in case anyone ever accuses her of coy. ]

[byblow]

Wou-- [ Alistair is saying, the beginning of would you?, and then, in all likelihood, something to veer away from the obvious--tiny cakes, maybe?--because if anyone ever accuses him of being coy that will be totally fair.

Sabine is their only hope. And what well-placed hope it is.

His open mouth stays open for a moment while all the air he'd been planning to make words instead escapes in a soundless stream of vapor. But he doesn't drop the cubs to their deaths! And he doesn't fall down and crush them, also to their deaths. And he doesn't give into the urge to cover the cubs' innocent ears with his hands, so. Fuck you, he's doing great. ]

Well.

[ Probably he should keep walking. Probably he should not permit or encourage Sabine to leave him behind in the cold with puppies and never speak to him again. He stalls a moment by considering the log, then gracefully follows after her by sitting down on it and swinging his legs around for minimal puppy-crushing risk.

Then, still flat-voweled but otherwise improved over his usual awkwardly-careful faltering, and very far from the intentional butchering he inflicts on Orlesians he doesn't want to ever see naked, he adds: ]

Si tel est le cas.