OTA | isn’t it a pity?

[limier]

WHO: Wren Coupe + Herian Amsel + You!
WHAT: Investigating the Inquisition's shady neighbours
WHEN: Backdated to the beginning of the month.
WHERE: Kirkwall - Hightown, the Gallows
NOTES: Feel free to jump in even if you haven't signed up, but please remember to sign up if you do choose to do so! ❤

When a squall blows in, Kirkwall could drown for it.

Hightown rain starts sea air, ends up somewhere around piss by the time it trickles into the lower city. Over rooftops and through gutters, every drop acquires the particular taste of the streets it crosses. Here: The mineral grit of old stone, the sour spill of new money.

Someone with a better nose for filth might trace each cocktail back to its source. But this is the Inquisition. If you want to know something, you inquire.
 

Comments

would eat a ham circle for sure

[faithlikeaseed]

This is so far outside Myr's experience that his own idiot fearlessness is failing him. He's stuck as close to Wren's side as seems proper (that's to say, not very) throughout their admission to chez Vauquelin, maintaining his silence and keeping his ears open. Being hustled off with the servants is one uncomfortable thing; being passed into the presence of a titled Lady and presented to her as a guest is another, and it makes him acutely aware of how small and damp and bedraggled he must be.

But-- He's a small damp bedraggled thing that's a part of the Inquisition, and all men are the Work of our Maker's hands--, so act like it, Myrobalan. Shoulders square, back straight, head up, no leaning on the staff-- He isn't sure whether he ought to speak or not on his own behalf and so elects for not, though he ducks his head graciously in Gwen's (presumed) direction as he's introduced. Lacking the precise protocol for such an encounter he'll have to fall back on simple politeness, and hope that's enough not to embarrass the Inquisition.

[elegiaque]

"Imagine that," Gwenaëlle says, dryly, of the neighbours. Her appraising look for Myrobalan will mean little to him, but his effort doesn't go unnoticed - even if mostly in the context of isn't it nice at least some of them will bother trying, where'd she dig this one up, he must be new.

She sits, in a rustle of skirts, and because she dislikes Wren Coupe she does not invite them to do so as well.

"No one wants to hear my opinion on your latest public relations clusterfuck," because neither of them are the sort of person she might modulate her tone for, especially not the fearless (maybe one fear) leader. "If the Chantry's trying philanthropy in Kirkwall, I recommend donating some common sense to whichever apostates clearly haven't got enough to fill a spoon. Osterhaus didn't let you in?"

And her motivation for bothering with this becomes clear.

(Two maids enter, quietly, bearing towels and hot tea. She's not an animal.)

[limier]

"You've not yet fallen over his wall, then."

Are they doing this in front of the children? Why not. She collects a towel (a quiet note of thanks), passes it out to Myr.

"Cracking your skull is one manner of introduction, but I cannot think it the most effective." She waits until the maids have retreated before adding: "There is a chair to your left, Shivana."

They've temporarily something the girl wants. No reason to make the boy stand. She doesn't move to claim one herself.

"We were not answered. I've still no notion what the man brokers, but Maker knows he's a hand in enough deals. Little doubt one of his has spoken to one of ours." A dismissive gesture: Merchants. "None were sent to welcome you?"

That's unusual, she has to think -- if only on his end. Neither the Inquisition or Orlesian nobility lack for useful contacts; for angles that might be driven beyond present circumstance.

All trade's about information, in the end; who and what you know. There's a great deal upon Osterhaus, but thus far, it's proved a shallow pool.

[faithlikeaseed]

"Thank you, ser," for the towel and the directions alike. He locates the chair and seats himself, securing his staff before setting about to remove as much of the rain from his hair and face as he can. It's a bit of a fraught thing with the blindfold (and not removing it), though he manages as best he can; sodden as he is, there's only so much one towel can do. When it's finally soaked through, he refolds it neatly and lays it aside, then resettles himself with fingers laced before him and forearms on his knees.

He rapidly gets the feeling that only half this conversation is being held aloud, and not in the usual sense all context of mannerism and facial expression are lost on him. This isn't the place for a sheltered Circle mage; he's in well over his head-- But when the waters are closing on you what else can you do but swim?

So, then, he listens (what else are those pointed ears good for?), face turned toward Gwenaëlle in a thoughtful eyeless regard. The underhanded doings of merchants aren't anything he knows much about, but he can surely pick something up from this--find some way to be useful, even if only as a memory aid later.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle stays what looked like it might've been the beginnings of a roused objection when Coupe fails to herself take a seat; just as well. Fine, Shivana can sit, his most pressing fault being only that he's trailing her least liked Templar. And Yngvi does that, too, damn him--

Nevermind that.

"He welcomed me personally," she says, choosing to ignore everything she doesn't feel like dignifying with a response as is her right as an aristocrat, a young woman, and a royal pain in the arse. "Over-familiarly, if you ask me." No one did, but that's rarely stopped her from offering an opinion regardless.

Now, bearing in mind what she has in almost this very breath said about the Inquisition (her voice itself ought to be memorable enough for one who can't appreciate the unsubtleties of her expressions, touching on the lower register for a woman, youthful, musical, distinctly Orlesian and as distinctly expressive as every other part of her)--

"I didn't care for his tone."

[limier]

I didn't care for his tone. There's a shock.

"How so?"

Asked with a patience she feels little of, one which she expects will do nothing to fool those present. Not when her tongue's already slipped free.

What does overfamiliarity even mean to a self-styled hermit? (One who'd still bristle, she expects, to be ignored.) It would seem odd to think it a matter of class, when Gwenaelle surrounds herself with such varied company — but all those outside aristocratic norms. A climbing trade might not qualify.

"There has been some talk of late deliveries. Have the staffs spoken?"

Would Gwen even know? She's been involving herself enough in their business lately that the possibility can't be discounted.

[elegiaque]

"No." Confidently said; in some ways, her disinterest in her lady's maid has served her well.

Ever eager to distinguish herself, Yva is diligent in attending to whatever request is made of her - and Yva is Orlesian, before all else. The games of status she played in the Gallows won't serve her if she doesn't want the kitchen to quiet when she enters it; she has cultivated gratitude and trust, ensuring Mistress Baudin's lessons are learned and taking no credit for it.

The information she's passed to her mistress has been good, and Gwenaëlle trusts it this time as well.

"His household is shut up like a puzzlebox. You hardly see anyone except who he has attend him, and he's as much a social butterfly as I am. But he liked that I was uncomfortable."

A frank, matter of fact assessment. It can't have been blatant; no rumors of sadism dog the man's heels. Gwenaëlle, though - she prefers to be ignored, and has never sat high enough in Orlesian ranks to habitually expect otherwise. She's too familiar with what the attention can mean to wish it, and she's seen that look too many times to mistake it now.