A fashionable walk.

[hwaaaitsme]

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Loki swans about and harasses his ex-girlfriend.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: Hightown.
NOTES: Loki gonna be Loki.

Loki was not, in any sense, the sort of person who generally asked permission to do things. Whether he believed he was permitted to do them or not was irrelevant--frankly it was usually easier to ask for forgiveness. So, on this fine Bloomingtide day, when he found himself unable to tolerate the renovations to his estate any longer, he invited himself to Gwenaëlle's home and strode in like he owned the place.

He all sashayed into her drawing room, or whatever one called the room just past the foyer in the South, and sent a servant to both announce him and summon Gwenaëlle. He draped himself across one of her sofas, casually as he pleased, and snatched a book from the table to occupy him as the servants scurried forth. He assumed she was in and, honestly, even if she wasn't, this house was far quieter and easier to think in.

He would be staying a while, regardless of her presence, but the promise of it was preferable to being all alone.

Comments

[elegiaque]

“I wouldn't call it out of the question.”

Ideally, even, something that doesn't end with anyone under arrest. She points at him— “Don't do anything I have to explain to anyone while I'm gone. I won't be long.”

In her wake, a maidservant comes with offerings of tea or wine while he waits, and Gwenaëlle does not linger upstairs too long—perhaps not as long as she'd like, to be more satisfied with her own presentation in a first outing, but leaving Loki unattended in the house seems...

At best, unwise.

The dress she returns in is light enough for the changing weather, and if the rains come there will be no shortage of places to wait them out. Stockings tied, shoes nothing that water will badly stain, and hair loosened, only pinned back lightly; far more acceptably ladylike, that illusion of the ingenue she does such a good impersonation of.

“And what has been occupying your time, so far?” picking up easily where she'd left.

[hwaaaitsme]

Gwenaëlle returns after a brief absence, briefer than he had expected if he were being honest, and spares him having to wave off her servants. He has done quite enough of that in his own home, of late, and it is truly exhausting. She is clad in an outfit of sylph and floral accents, respectable by most standards and nearly opulent against the normal Kirkwall affairs.

He regards her light clothing a moment and, with a sigh and a flick of his wrist, alters his own to something a bit less...contrasting. His black silks and green accents shift to something a bit more beige and brown, a little subtler is the cut of his robes, but the gold remains ever-present. She had never been fond of his magic before, he can't imagine she is now, so he doesn't give her much time to reprimand his flagrant abuse of power. It is only an illusion but, frankly, he cannot be bothered to explain that much.

"Minding renovations and searching for what belongings were lost or perished when they were moved to this estate." He shrugs as he steps alongside her and motions for the door. "All terribly boring and each requiring my presence at every step I fear."

He offers her his arm out of habit.

[elegiaque]

Magic unsettles her far less than it once did; no objections die unspoken because none were forthcoming, a shifting ease from many sources. One might imagine it to have something to do with the anchor-shard she bears (the powers in it that she wields), but a wiser observer might think to themselves: she wears her hair not unlike the Lady Morrigan, these days. And that, perhaps, would speak to it.

Not irrelevant, either, that she had warmed Loki's bed and not his heart—that she thought he was probably approximately trustworthy in the five minutes after orgasm, and other than that, to be treated warily, a live serpent coiled under her hands. Considering her own proclivities, their entanglement had been more reason to beware him than not; Gwenaëlle was never unaware of her tendency to self-destruction. What this is now, of course, is harder to parse...and somehow easier to navigate, a little, without the pressing distraction of his tendency to press her to things.

She thinks she sees him a little clearer, now she looks him more often in the eye instead of admiring the line of his shoulders. Not that they aren't lovely; she lets him have her hand in his elbow, and if they're five different kinds of a scandal walking sedately through Hightown, at least they make a pretty pair.

“I saw your brother, at least, has successfully attached himself to the Inquisition. They're putting you to work, as well?” Or...?