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

[dashing]

"I am not surprised. Cosima has the type of countenance to win friends wherever she might attend." Such are her charms and wonders. That Coupe is fond of her is hardly shocking. "You imagine me a danger to her."

It's not a question; it does not need to be.

"I assure you, I have no intention of harming her in any manner." Ah, the tavern. She holds the door open for her delightful companion.

[limier]

"It is not your intentions which give me pause."

Only history. But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? For all her thoughts — feelings — of the matter, for all the blithe indifference of their little enclave here, for all possibilities past three years have opened,

Chantry law existed to reason. There was practical purpose behind the discouragement of relations: To avoid abuse of power, true. To avoid bloodlines, of course. And as with so much else of the Circle, to avoid risk. Waking, sleeping (alone, together).

She presses her own hand to the door, waits in place to catch Herian's eyes, and blocks the frame like a total dick. A passing drunk bumps her elbow and into the other direction without seeming to notice.

"Has there been anyone?"

Since Vipond, she doesn't say —

[dashing]

Not her intention; the nature of her, her being. Mage and disappointment, which she suspected were interchangeable words in the vocabulary of Knight Lieutenant Coupe. Herian's intention weren't the concern, only Herian herself.

"I fail to see how my engagements," a word deliberately chosen for ambiguity, "romantic or otherwise concern you any more."

The nature and degree of the love and the entanglement all rather depended. "Will you move?"

an ok place to wrap this maybe?

[limier]

For a moment she looks about to refuse. At last, peels off, within.

There was a suicide here, She almost catches herself speaking — repeating, and the story dies on her tongue in a little smother of doubt.

She's said that already. She's said these things already.

"So be it." It's distracted, where else might it rise to anger. Her frown tips elsewhere, distant. "So be it."

sounds good to meeee

[dashing]

She is surprised that Coupe relents. Moves, at least; has Luwenna Coupe relented a single day in her life? Herian watches her, brow furrowing just faintly, as she tries to assess whether that was a victory or a loss.

No matter. It was done.