let the day begin | closed

[aforethought]

WHO: Melys, Luwenna Coupe, Casimir Lyov + Atticus Vedici, Freddie Longlastname, Cosima Niehaus
WHAT: Catchall for closed prompts this month.
WHEN: Waves my hands about.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Will edit as appropriate.

Editing these in as I go. HMU on plurk if you want one. ♥

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FREDDIE

[aforethought]

If there's one thing you've got to do before making a promise, it's figure out how to skive off it.

— So she may have been making a few too many of those lately, without paying enough attention to an exit strategy. It was easy for a while. Inquisition's run too thin to spend time nagging, and if this hand's been good for piss-all, it's been for making sure no one tells her to piss off. So she's had a nice racket: Collecting tasks like dominoes and stacking them all up against each other any time the wind blows. Can't do that, serrah, got responsibilities to see to.

Wind finally blew a little too hard. She's up to her knees in the stables now, and not the paying ones uptown, neither. That'd be alright. That'd just be horses.

But the lunatics down here keep deer and dracolisks and whatever these giant bloody nugs are just penned in with the rest. It unsettles them all. It's a recipe for disaster.

It's what sends her lunging to intervene when Freddie gets close to one of the biters.

"Don't move an inch if you value your fingers," She warns, inching up beside a tall roan stallion. The horse blinks, eyeing Freddie with with the innocent, contented curiousity of a two-thousand pound herbivore. "He's been stroppy all day."

[aventuriere]

"Has he?" Freddie asks, halting where she stands, hand still half-outstretched but not quite in easy biting distance yet, thanks to Melys. She flicks a glance toward the other woman before looking back to the horse. "What a shame, he's such a handsome fellow. And he doesn't look like he's in a mood. An unusually clever fellow then too, pretending to be calm to lure me in. Thank you. I rather need my fingers." She clicks her tongue in reproach.

Her long coat is split at the back for riding but long enough to nearly sweep across the dusty, straw-strewn floor and the dark blue fabric is already spotted with dirt around the hem. So are the toes of her riding boots, the heels clicking on the cobbles as she backs away from the roan's stall and turns toward Melys.

"How about this one?" she asks, turning again, this time to indicate a dark grey gelding a few stalls down. "Has he been behaving himself?"