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a woman like that is not ashamed to die.
WHO: Petrana, Julius, Melys.
WHAT: Nightmares, of a sort.
WHEN: Concurrent to the rifter arrival.
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: Per this.
WHAT: Nightmares, of a sort.
WHEN: Concurrent to the rifter arrival.
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: Per this.
( petrana wakes abruptly, a start—
a heartbeat. another. her hand presses to her chest and in the dark, nothing makes sense; blinking through shadows when she had been (falling) in broad daylight, the psychosomatic ache in her head, her shoulders, her neck. a second body, warm and heavy with sleep beside her, a comfortable bed. thaïs—
thedas. she is in thedas. this is julius's bed. she is in the gallows. she is (thirty-five) twenty-nine, and has never borne a second daughter, and is going to be sick. she doesn't mean to wake julius but it seems unlikely he will somehow sleep through being climbed over, suddenly, scrambled over in her haste to find the basin and empty the meagre contents of her stomach into it, clinging to the edges of the table beneath. heaving great, ugly breaths.
i have died, she thinks, and then, no, and somehow, that's worse.
petrana de lammorraine is dead. alone and afraid and having known no life but the one stolen from her. and petrana de cedoux is—
weeping. )
no subject
(He has a brief, uncomfortable moment of picturing some man turning up out of a rift and announcing he was Petrana's husband. He puts the thought aside as intensely unhelpful.)
Regardless, the tone was fairly neutral, besides the ongoing worry. He pays, possibly for three because he's not paying attention (or because he'd prefer Greg not complain about this later).
"I'm not bothered by heights, especially. Quicker is probably best. Lead on."
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(Mentioned, and it might be the polite shrug-off it could be for anyone, but two can do that, and it's an awful wide space for words to play. How much has she mentioned, exactly? How much of it nothing she didn't want him to know?
At least he can keep his temper.)
It’s not a short walk to the docks — particularly to cut a path wide about Darktown — but shorter than it might be, shivering another few hours in the dark or purloining a pair of oars. Empty chatter spills to fill the silence, a sprawling narrative beneath her breath about this ratfucker or that. Their steps wind out between boats, beyond the merchant vessels and on towards the Inquisition’s array of cramped warehouses.
They’re well into the compound, past another tired guard on shift, before Melys relinquishes Julius at last to shove two fingers in her mouth and whistle. The creak of wood, rustle of — canvas?
Nothing happens.
"C’mon, you great pisser," She mutters. Another whistle, impatient. "Fuck's sake."
A huge shape unfolds itself from the roof above, turns heavy eyes down to reflect lamplight through the gloom. Weight scrapes on shingles, and Melys shoves off Julius at last, paces back. The reason for this may become apparent when several hundred pounds of white feathers and extended talons vaults into the street directly in front of him, to lift its beak in his face and scream.
no subject
Julius is not a man many people have seen visibly surprised, much less off-balance. But he definitely takes at least two distinct steps backward before he catches himself and stops.
"...Maker," he says, faintly, to no one in particular.
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Under other circumstances, Julius’ face might be hilarious. But the contrast of restraint, or rather, its memory — of Kit sprawled flat on his ass —
Tonight eats at her belly, leaves impatience behind.
"Oh, give it a rest." Maybe it’s familiarity — or a side effect of having fewer fingers to lose — but Melys reaches over without hesitation to scratch Monster's fluffy throat, neatly avoids the irritated stomp of lion’s paws. "Know I’m late."
She waves a stump at Julius.
"'S alright. She won’t take nothing y’won’t miss." Reassuring?? "Harness ’s in the trunk inside. Think there’s some fish too. Chuck her that, and she’ll warm right up."
There is, in fact, a bucket of fish guts. It’s pretty old by now, so the flies are delighted. There's also a saddle, tack that's peculiar in make, and stamped in griffin seal. These are a bit heavy, so it’s probably super helpful to shout at him to hurry up.
By the time he returns, Monster will be rolling on her back in the puddled muck, enthusiastically getting her belly rubbed. Melys just looks tense.
"Julius, yeah?"
That is his name, yes. There's a caution to the slur of words that only succeeds in emphasizing it.
no subject
Julius is, at least, adept at following directions. He has no experience with griffins, and so the best way forward is clearly to listen to the woman who is petting this one like a large and winged mabari. And, to his credit or otherwise, he doesn't hesitate to take the fish guts, for all he gives the impression of a thoroughly domesticated man.
"She asked me to fetch you."
And for all everything since has been... deeply not what he expected, he trusts Petrana. He trusts her to know her own mind, and in her ability to read others.
no subject
It's not pleasant, but those are pleased sounds. Probably. When she's finished, she pulls back, butts the side of her feathery head hard against his chest.
"She doesn't," Petrana. Grammar slips, unpleasantly, awkwardly correct. "She doesn't do that."
There's an unspoken question in that, one she knows better than to expect he can answer. Maybe there's some admission to it too: It's bad, he came, he didn't need to know. Speaks to a certain decency, maybe, or just how hard he's whipped.
He's a man. How different could it be.
"Ask. For people, for — dunno, shit. She don't ask." It's a few minutes hauling on the saddle, arranging the harness. Monster watches him from wide hopeful eyes, gaze tipping occasionally back to the bucket. Is it somehow full again? No reason. Just curious. Melys hauls herself up, hand extended down to him. "You oughta know."
"Hold tight. There's straps for cargo." Her own look a bit more securely fastened. A breath, she recollects the previous thought: "You do know?"
Someone's going to have to soon.
no subject
"I knew she didn't ask me." And it hadn't been long enough yet to be sure whether that was him or anyone, regardless of his suspicions. Then again, he could hardly blame her for being self-contained. It wasn't as if he were any better.
no subject
Heavy wings beat down, brush the surface, dip and make to drag under. A close moment, and then they're properly aloft, surf disappearing beneath black. The night grows thinner, colder for the distance: Breath stretched into stars like those above Skyhold's frigid expanse. Free of the crowd of buildings, the press of the streets, one might forget that it's summer at all.
"Way I see it," At last, coughing out (a fly? something) swallowed on the way up, "Pressing it, that shuts folks down. And if you give something first,"
A sucked breath through her teeth.
"Ain't no saying you'll get it back. But being there, you see things. You got eyes," She's rambling again now, disjointed, and it's a little easier to remember that an hour ago she was sitting in the drunk tank. "You'll see. And you see more. The more you... See."
no subject
When he does, though, he gives her a serious answer. "I am hoping she'll let me stay long enough. I intend to try, at least." A pause, then: "You two are close?"
It's not accusative. Of course she wouldn't have mentioned. That's what they're discussing, in a way.