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

[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.