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.
( 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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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?