As much fun as it is to talk about how circle mages don't know anything -
all good things must come to an end, and best if they do so in order to let another good thing start. It is with no small relief that Margaux finds her way to the hot springs as promised, to see if Sabine has started without her; she has already taken off her boots and her vest when thick red curls come into view, carrying both, dark blouse loose over soft leather trousers. (The rest of her is as soft as ever, too; she has not become a thing of more practical applications than last Sabine saw her in Halamshiral.)
"Remind me to not comment on anything, perhaps ever again," she says, instead of a greeting. "I will be very mysterious, everyone so--" a hand to her forehead, swooning.
Said thick red curls have been gathered up and pinned in place, messy but diligent, loose spirals just damp enough to stick to her face and the nape of her neck as Sabine has a go at washing away the smell of horse and hay. She is waist-deep in water when she hears Margaux's voice, turning just enough to see.
"The crystals," Sabine says. "It is only a means for people to make arses of themselves more swiftly than usual. I did not listen to all of it," she adds.
As a hint.
Fill her in, would you.
There is wine, too. She even brought a couple of earthenware mugs, sitting beside the pools along with the corked bottle of red.
"The dying Dalish want to swell the ranks of their clan of lesbians with the awful Dalish who sent to Skyhold only their cast-offs and I think cannot look very favourably on having taken a city elf," Margaux supplies, tugging her shirt off over her head.
There's a pause, which is mostly the time it takes her to get her hair free as well.
"Also there is an elf king who has come to teach us pride--"
a hand over her heart. Well, her bare breast, close enough; not for long, in any case, because she needs both hands to divest herself of trousers.
"So we are saved, obviously. For it is pride, you know, that is the problem. If only we all held our heads up, soon they would stop beating us for doing it, no?"
It is a small and salty elf that joins Sabine in the water. She'd kept her temper, for the most part, retreated into passive aggression and wariness, but here she is among friends - friend - and has far less compunction in speaking her piece.
"But it is very hard to be king. I would like to try it, I think, to see, I think I would be very good at being king. Oh, wine!"
It will become swiftly evident that Sabine has started without her. One of the mugs has a mouthful of wine in it, and the bottle is definitely not as heavy as it should be.
She sinks low into the water as she listens, her smile going crooked. Fierce, a little, at the idea that she, that people like she, lacks pride.
"Ah yes, it is us who perpetuate the cycle of our inferiority," and she speaks in Orlesian, using words she has been taught, "and not the shems with their blades and beatings and executions. If we were a prouder people, they would not feel so invited to violently subjugate us."
She idly splashes the water. "Imagine what they would do to an elf calling himself king."
"I will call myself King Margaux if you promise you will cry very pretty over my body," is delivered flippantly in return, pouring more wine into what she can only assume is Sabine's mug and pushing it to her, taking her own and sinking lower into the water. "You must wear sad colours and say: King Margaux, she was so beautiful, so kingly."
She cannot possibly have caught up so fast, she is just - in a mood.
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sabine.
all good things must come to an end, and best if they do so in order to let another good thing start. It is with no small relief that Margaux finds her way to the hot springs as promised, to see if Sabine has started without her; she has already taken off her boots and her vest when thick red curls come into view, carrying both, dark blouse loose over soft leather trousers. (The rest of her is as soft as ever, too; she has not become a thing of more practical applications than last Sabine saw her in Halamshiral.)
"Remind me to not comment on anything, perhaps ever again," she says, instead of a greeting. "I will be very mysterious, everyone so--" a hand to her forehead, swooning.
no subject
"The crystals," Sabine says. "It is only a means for people to make arses of themselves more swiftly than usual. I did not listen to all of it," she adds.
As a hint.
Fill her in, would you.
There is wine, too. She even brought a couple of earthenware mugs, sitting beside the pools along with the corked bottle of red.
no subject
There's a pause, which is mostly the time it takes her to get her hair free as well.
"Also there is an elf king who has come to teach us pride--"
a hand over her heart. Well, her bare breast, close enough; not for long, in any case, because she needs both hands to divest herself of trousers.
"So we are saved, obviously. For it is pride, you know, that is the problem. If only we all held our heads up, soon they would stop beating us for doing it, no?"
It is a small and salty elf that joins Sabine in the water. She'd kept her temper, for the most part, retreated into passive aggression and wariness, but here she is among friends - friend - and has far less compunction in speaking her piece.
"But it is very hard to be king. I would like to try it, I think, to see, I think I would be very good at being king. Oh, wine!"
Excuse her while she puts her face in it.
no subject
She sinks low into the water as she listens, her smile going crooked. Fierce, a little, at the idea that she, that people like she, lacks pride.
"Ah yes, it is us who perpetuate the cycle of our inferiority," and she speaks in Orlesian, using words she has been taught, "and not the shems with their blades and beatings and executions. If we were a prouder people, they would not feel so invited to violently subjugate us."
She idly splashes the water. "Imagine what they would do to an elf calling himself king."
no subject
She cannot possibly have caught up so fast, she is just - in a mood.