WHO: Gwenaëlle Baudin, Nell Voss, Marcoulf Ricart, Lakshmi Bai & possibly another. WHAT: An escort mission in southern Orlais. WHEN: This month. WHERE: Halamshiral, the Dales. NOTES: Sub-headers in the comments.
[ She'd heard the call for some help and gladly went for it. It was better than standing around, drinking in misery to drown out the bad taste in her mouth this place gives her.
Rather be working, and it was after some time of waiting around getting frustrated, that she finally gave in to beg a maid to give her something to do. Didn't give a damn if it was nothing but sweeping the floors, she set herself to it gladly. Her undershirt pushed up to her elbows, the leather over vest tied up around her middle. Slowly getting stained as she worked with the dust that inevitably got kicked up in clearly out great old houses.
( A twinge, aching, short, of just this same process, but for far different reasons that - at least is old enough now that it only pulls, no longer bleeds. )
Until there are less and less servants and she is given more tasks with the surety she didn't ask questions and did what she was told - 'not so bad for a rifter' is the easily ignore comment - before she hears Gwen call her just the same, and she finishes up what remained of her task to got see what was needed. ]
( but it's a distracted murmur when as she'd been walking into the suite of rooms she'd called out with more easy certainty, the lingering derision that seemed part and parcel of touching anything her father left behind; swept away, now, by what she finds in a room she hasn't set foot in for more than a decade. almost two. it is a fine space; gwenaëlle's good eye and tasteful restraint having clearly been got honestly from a father whose fingerprints are all over this house, but the master suite most of all. it is deep shades of vauquelin green and rich wood—the bed massive, the multiple liquor cabinets still well-stocked. it looks like a room its master might return to at any moment; his robe a puddle of fabric in the armchair near the window, the fire burned down, a half-empty glass remaining on the table near it.
above the fire, there's a portrait.
the woman in it is elven, youthful; the room recognizably within this house, mostly by what can be seen through the window behind her, the clear continuity of aesthetic of emeric's private rooms and his study. her legs are bare, and the man's shirt (his shirt) that she wears slips down to show one shoulder as she rests her chin in her hand—yet she meets the viewer's gaze with cool, calm authority. it is not a demure show of availability but an elven lover portrayed with affection and admiration, a jewel she could never have been permitted to wear outside of these rooms hanging between her breasts.
the resemblance between this woman and gwenaëlle is all the more marked for their similar ages, young oil on canvas and woman in the world. her fingers curl around the same pendant, hanging at her own throat.
her shoulders tighten with the awareness of a second person, though, a person she had called for, and she straightens; drops her hand. )
I have an inventory to take from here, ( abruptly. )
[ There is that creeping sense, about all this dust - that is familiar at least.
She is somewhere terribly private that was never hers to see.
Granted, usually, she couldn't give a damn. Whether she was tearing apart United India building or sieging a Fortress. She took as she needed, she pried out what was important, and she never stopped to look behind her. But there was this sensation, as she stood in this darkened room, the same as all the others before it. That this woman, with her cutting gaze, the intimacy of bare skin and clothes, it is more than just warm. It is devoted. To her, to whoever she was. Some understanding, perhaps, between the shape of the ears - pointed, and knows now to call that elf - but more, the eyes, the directness of her, the turn of her mouth. Ah, this was her father's estate, if she remembered all the details correctly and more importantly.
This was a shrine to something that was no God of hers. She could make as many assumptions as she liked, and they would be no more than that. But reverence had a taste, and she could breath it softly off that canvas.
She hesitates, almost on the back step ( she might tear things apart, and often, but only when it had a purpose, not for simply the sake of it ) before the order cuts across it and she opts to say nothing. Rather more than that, looks at nothing at all particularly. Pressing on with the instruction. ]
( the uncomfortable sensation of intruding settles between gwenaëlle's shoulderblades; not lost on her, either, the style of portraiture. the placement of it, dominating the space—guenievre had never asked for such devotion, but in emeric's absence their daughter is forced to finally admit that perhaps she had it. she remembers, unwillingly, the weight of you did this and watching it strike him as a body blow.
she had wished him in pain. she doesn't, precisely, not wish that. she doesn't know how she feels, confronting evidence that he is. assembling this moment and that one and his hands in her hair at the tourney and how tightly they had gripped her shoulders, assembling context and it is unfair, how many things can be true at once.
he deserves this, she thinks. it doesn't bring her any more comfort than the last time she thought it. )
I'm going to rifle through his desk, ( she says, because—well, that's what it's going to amount to, she could dress it up with purpose but that's how it'll be done, ) for some of his writings.
( to keep; to burn, so this next sentence is not a non-sequitur at all, )
I'd like you to start the fire. And to start separating the clothes worth preserving from those that can be easily repurposed to charity.
( ah, and that explains why she had asked lakshmi, and not someone else. )
[ She moves then, exactly to her task and the smile is small, pleased. There is not very much she likes here, approves of, is set against her own life. That is not this places fault, even so, but to do something glad as that? That is an easy task.
So is starting a fire, for that matter. To which she busy's herself with first. Taking from the modest supply of wood that seemed to have been shut up here. At least it was dry, an idle bemusement as she begins to stack it. Dropping onto one knee, reaching for kindling, at the base, then the logs she arranges into a tower. Looks like there was plenty to burn, after all. But for the moment, she takes out her own flint and strikes the stones against each other. The sprawl of sparks dazzling in the dark room. Once, twice, until the spray catches the twigs, and she leans to blow hard over them, feeding the flames. Watching them, attentive to how needy fires could be to start.
The flame catches, and out of absent habits, when she pulls back, she touches the ground with her fingers, then her brow, before she straightens up. Watching to make sure the job was done before she was done. ]
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4 Gwen
Rather be working, and it was after some time of waiting around getting frustrated, that she finally gave in to beg a maid to give her something to do. Didn't give a damn if it was nothing but sweeping the floors, she set herself to it gladly. Her undershirt pushed up to her elbows, the leather over vest tied up around her middle. Slowly getting stained as she worked with the dust that inevitably got kicked up in clearly out great old houses.
( A twinge, aching, short, of just this same process, but for far different reasons that - at least is old enough now that it only pulls, no longer bleeds. )
Until there are less and less servants and she is given more tasks with the surety she didn't ask questions and did what she was told - 'not so bad for a rifter' is the easily ignore comment - before she hears Gwen call her just the same, and she finishes up what remained of her task to got see what was needed. ]
You called for help, Mademoiselle?
no subject
( but it's a distracted murmur when as she'd been walking into the suite of rooms she'd called out with more easy certainty, the lingering derision that seemed part and parcel of touching anything her father left behind; swept away, now, by what she finds in a room she hasn't set foot in for more than a decade. almost two. it is a fine space; gwenaëlle's good eye and tasteful restraint having clearly been got honestly from a father whose fingerprints are all over this house, but the master suite most of all. it is deep shades of vauquelin green and rich wood—the bed massive, the multiple liquor cabinets still well-stocked. it looks like a room its master might return to at any moment; his robe a puddle of fabric in the armchair near the window, the fire burned down, a half-empty glass remaining on the table near it.
above the fire, there's a portrait.
the woman in it is elven, youthful; the room recognizably within this house, mostly by what can be seen through the window behind her, the clear continuity of aesthetic of emeric's private rooms and his study. her legs are bare, and the man's shirt (his shirt) that she wears slips down to show one shoulder as she rests her chin in her hand—yet she meets the viewer's gaze with cool, calm authority. it is not a demure show of availability but an elven lover portrayed with affection and admiration, a jewel she could never have been permitted to wear outside of these rooms hanging between her breasts.
the resemblance between this woman and gwenaëlle is all the more marked for their similar ages, young oil on canvas and woman in the world. her fingers curl around the same pendant, hanging at her own throat.
her shoulders tighten with the awareness of a second person, though, a person she had called for, and she straightens; drops her hand. )
I have an inventory to take from here, ( abruptly. )
no subject
She is somewhere terribly private that was never hers to see.
Granted, usually, she couldn't give a damn. Whether she was tearing apart United India building or sieging a Fortress. She took as she needed, she pried out what was important, and she never stopped to look behind her. But there was this sensation, as she stood in this darkened room, the same as all the others before it. That this woman, with her cutting gaze, the intimacy of bare skin and clothes, it is more than just warm. It is devoted. To her, to whoever she was. Some understanding, perhaps, between the shape of the ears - pointed, and knows now to call that elf - but more, the eyes, the directness of her, the turn of her mouth. Ah, this was her father's estate, if she remembered all the details correctly and more importantly.
This was a shrine to something that was no God of hers. She could make as many assumptions as she liked, and they would be no more than that. But reverence had a taste, and she could breath it softly off that canvas.
She hesitates, almost on the back step ( she might tear things apart, and often, but only when it had a purpose, not for simply the sake of it ) before the order cuts across it and she opts to say nothing. Rather more than that, looks at nothing at all particularly. Pressing on with the instruction. ]
Then by all means, I am at your service.
no subject
she had wished him in pain. she doesn't, precisely, not wish that. she doesn't know how she feels, confronting evidence that he is. assembling this moment and that one and his hands in her hair at the tourney and how tightly they had gripped her shoulders, assembling context and it is unfair, how many things can be true at once.
he deserves this, she thinks. it doesn't bring her any more comfort than the last time she thought it. )
I'm going to rifle through his desk, ( she says, because—well, that's what it's going to amount to, she could dress it up with purpose but that's how it'll be done, ) for some of his writings.
( to keep; to burn, so this next sentence is not a non-sequitur at all, )
I'd like you to start the fire. And to start separating the clothes worth preserving from those that can be easily repurposed to charity.
( ah, and that explains why she had asked lakshmi, and not someone else. )
no subject
[ She moves then, exactly to her task and the smile is small, pleased. There is not very much she likes here, approves of, is set against her own life. That is not this places fault, even so, but to do something glad as that? That is an easy task.
So is starting a fire, for that matter. To which she busy's herself with first. Taking from the modest supply of wood that seemed to have been shut up here. At least it was dry, an idle bemusement as she begins to stack it. Dropping onto one knee, reaching for kindling, at the base, then the logs she arranges into a tower. Looks like there was plenty to burn, after all. But for the moment, she takes out her own flint and strikes the stones against each other. The sprawl of sparks dazzling in the dark room. Once, twice, until the spray catches the twigs, and she leans to blow hard over them, feeding the flames. Watching them, attentive to how needy fires could be to start.
The flame catches, and out of absent habits, when she pulls back, she touches the ground with her fingers, then her brow, before she straightens up. Watching to make sure the job was done before she was done. ]
- shall I items to keep somewhere particular?