OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie, Evie, Loki, Thor, Fifi, Gwen, anyone else who wants to deal with this actual mess of a woman (special shout out to anyone who has a four letter (nick)name apparently)
WHAT: Late nights, early mornings, a bunch of processing the horrible things that happened!
WHEN: Post return from Tevinter (so... mid-month?)
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: cw: a nice violent nightmare, general mental trauma. hmu if you want something special, will do brackets or prose as desired.

I. The Apartments (Day)

When Alexandrie is home, much of her time is spent laying on the chaise out on the balcony staring into nothing and hardly seeming to care about the oppressive heat that so irked her the month before. Her hair, if it is styled at all, is woven into a simple braid and pinned up, a far cry from the way she used to wear it. Sometimes she is a fury of diplomatic paperwork, sometimes she is repetitively and grimly throwing a knife into a target that is a new fixture in the area. Sometimes she will, all of a sudden, snap into the light and cheerful woman she was, although her laughter is harder to come by. Whichever it is, she is still welcoming of callers.


II. Hightown (Night)

She haunts the streets like a ghost; all loose hair and pale wan skin and simple white dress, dressing gown layered over it against the slight chill that still manages to cover Kirkwall by second or third bell despite the heat of the day. Often, she is in the memorial garden, sitting and watching the fountain or pacing the paths repetitively. Sometimes she makes her way to wherever the sea can be best seen. Like a spectre, too, she is gone by the time the sky begins to lighten.

Anyone else out and about in the dark hours?


III. Loki/Evie:

Smell. Noise. There's so much of it. The screams of panic, the mortal ones unlike any other, some far too high to have issued from fully grown throats. The ozone of magic ripping the air mixing with the choking char of burning stalls, the metallic smell of blood. Blood. Far too much of it. How can there be so much. The visceral nigh-unbelievable revulsion at how thickly it drips. It clings to her hands, sliding, sticking. The wink of sunlight on silver. The noise he makes around it is so desperately wrong: liquid, bubbling. The same thing, then, on a far slenderer throat. Sudden. Silver again, but streaked with red. Silver where it doesn't belong. Cannot belong. Disbelief. Overwhelming horror that grips so hard she is frozen and the sound, the sound that comes from them.

She never quite screams. While there is noise that accompanies Alexandrie's gasping terrified surges to consciousness, the shriek in her throat never truly makes it past the hands that fly reflexively to cover her mouth to fiercely stifle it as her knees shoot to her chest, her heart pounding like something is trying to fight its way outside of her. Sometimes they are clapped flat against her face; sometimes it's the side of her hand between her teeth, her jaw clenching hard enough to bruise, even to draw blood, although that is more rare. Always it is a desperate bid to prevent her horrified shuddering panic from waking her bedmate.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not.


IV. Thor/Fifi:

There is a small disturbance in the kitchens. The pour of water, the clink of metal, of china, rummaging through dry goods. Investigating will reveal Alexandrie, wrapped in a white silk dressing gown, her hair finger-combed and tied around itself in a simple knot, quietly looking through the selection of tea as the glyphs on the kettle do their work of setting the water to boil.

She looks tired and subdued—she often looks so, recently—but she manages a small smile all the same.

“Pardonnez-moi. Did I wake you?”


V. Gwenaëlle:

[ she has come looking for Gwenaëlle for a reason she can't really fathom. Perhaps it is because there is precious little in Kirkwall that is familiar and they had walked the same streets and halls, seen much of the same art, known many of the same faces, have the same mother tongue. Perhaps it is because Gwen too had been abruptly thrown from that world into one that so immediately included brutal violence and death that stood close enough to feel the hot splatter of it. Perhaps it is both things.

Whatever the reason, Alexandrie is knocking now on the door to the Provost's rooms in hopes of finding the small, concentrated, dark-haired woman, wearing a simple summer dress with her hair pinned up just as simply, the neck of a bottle containing something substantially stronger than the wine she'd offered at the Tourney in her fist. ]

Comments

[rathercommon]

[ Second bell. Honestly. Kitty didn't think she'd ever be one to miss the ways that the factory system kept them all enslaved to the demands of get up now, start work now, but things really would be easier if she could just look at her watch and know that Lexie was referring to - you know - ten fifteen AM or something like that. So - second bell. That means, what...? ]

Isn't that when it's still dark out?

[coquettish_trees]

Quite.

[ the plums appear at this point, pitted, cut, and plated attractively around some cut summer wildflowers. Alongside them on the tray is the lemonade, which has been transplanted into a cut crystal pitcher and is poured now into two glasses that match it before Eloise withdraws.

Genteel instinct has been pounded enough into Alexandrie over the years that she draws herself up from her prone position to retrieve one of the two small forks that rest on the plate to spear one of the slices. ]

Thank you for these.

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty looks down, fairly scandalized, at the pitted plums. As if half the joy of them isn't getting to make a bit of a mess when you eat them. Oh, well. She pointedly reaches past the fork to snag a slice with her fingers. ]

Right, well, I'm sure you know what I'll be asking next. Why go out at that hour?

[coquettish_trees]

Why does anyone go out at any hour.

[ it is not quite curt. Lexie chews on the fruit for a bit, stubbornly enjoying it less than she should for how ripe and juicy it is—Kitty had picked them out well—before letting a breath out through her nose and relenting in a way she would do for precious few others. ]

Because it so happened that that was the hour at which I could no longer bear to be lying down staring at the ceiling counting the whorls in the molding, and pacing about in the apartments had begun to feel truly dire.

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty relaxes just a bit at that answer. All right. Good. Not good that that's the answer, necessarily, but good that she's willing to be truthful (Kitty's pretty sure that was truthful, at least; admittedly, her track record on sorting out lies from truths isn't the best, but she feels like she can read Lexie). ]

Have you been out into the sunshine, though? I mean, getting out, that's good, but getting out into the sun is better.

[coquettish_trees]

[ that nets an arch look. Alexandrie hasn't been 'out in the sunshine' for over a decade—or at least, not in any way where its rays might touch her skin directly. she chooses to assume that Kitty means in a less literal manner. ]

I have not, and I dispute your claim. It is truly dreadful out during the day.

[rathercommon]

What, and it's not dreadful in here?

[ A shrug. ]

It's just as stifling in this room as it is out there. But at least out there there are things of interest. [ Then - ] I did a thing you wanted to do, right? With the spa.

[coquettish_trees]

[ darkly: ] It is dreadful everywhere.

[ everything has been a little greyer, since that day. there is little she genuinely enjoys; even erstwhile favored pursuits cannot hold her interest, her reactions to any suggestion ranging from listless to the swift snap of sudden anger at the simple suggestion of frivolity. People are dead, their bodies perhaps still lying in the streets of Minrathous for the rats. The man she loves and his brother whom she has grown fond of are near consumed by grief and acidic hatred of both themselves and each other and their mother lies cold in their home. Honestly, fuck lawn games.

Is this how Kitty has felt, all this while?

The other woman says something about the spa to which Alexandrie is only half listening. ]

Oh?

[ that inquiry ought to cover whatever it was. ]

[rathercommon]

[ You know, Kitty gets the distinct impression she's not really being listened to. Undaunted, she forges on: ]

So I want your help with something. As payment. Come help me with research.

[coquettish_trees]

[ wryly, as she spears another slice of plum: ] Ah, research. Every bit as enjoyable as sitting and being pampered.

[ honestly, right now, it may as well be. she sighs gustily and gestures with the fruit. ]

Research into what.

[rathercommon]

[ That's a little encouraging - a real response, rather than just a vague grunt. A bit of humour. Honestly...Kitty doesn't know how much of a research asset Lexie will be. Probably, once upon a time, some bastard filled her head with rhetoric like reading will give your pretty forehead wrinkles, my dear. But Lexie is clever, and after what she's witnessed she's probably looking to do a bit of damage. If nothing else, it might provide an outlet. ]

Corypheus. What we need to completely destroy him and all his allies.

[coquettish_trees]

Yes.

[ the reply is immediate, vehement, with the kind of venom behind it only truly borne from a desire for vengeance that has struck down through someone and taken deep root. the dark kind. it is incongruous with her appearance, the smooth daintiness of her actions, her pretty smiles and words, the white and lace of her wardrobe; or perhaps it isn't. Perhaps the highborn in Orlais, coaxed and grown around the trellis of the Game, all carry the seed of this kind of blistering hatred within them. ]

[rathercommon]

[ Like speaks to like; Kitty nods in recognition of - and appreciation of - that rage. Good. When the grief's too much, when misery takes over, action is really the only way to see to it. Especially when that action has the potential to wreck someone deserving. ]

When'll you be ready to go? I'm ready now.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Lexie hates to waste the plums, to leave the lemonade untasted in its entirety, but she hates the grey more. the helplessness that weaves through it and bursts out erratically in directionless anger. Kitty's offer burns through the fog, though. Provides almost uncomfortable clarity.

so she gets up, already smoothing her skirts. ]

Now is agreeable.

[rathercommon]

[ Lexie must be in a bad state, if she's not even stopping to have her hair or make-up touched up. Well, that's not good, but Kitty likes not wasting that time. So she pushes to her feet herself, and nods energetically. ]

Right. We're headed to the Gallows, then. I copied down a few things from the libraries up in Tevinter - do you read Tevene?

[coquettish_trees]

[ She might, if the woman who did such things for her were not conspicuously absent. Lexie will, however, retrieve both her parasol and the light shawl Resa had given her on her birthday on the way, as well as securing a wide-brimmed hat to her head with a pearl-topped pin neatly thrust through her hair. ]

I do. Although I am only versed in its ancient counterpart in the most cursory of manners. If that is needed, you may wish to submit inquiry to Lord Loki.

[ she's entirely sure that Kitty does not wish, but perhaps a shared desire for the downfall of the corrupted Magister will temper their perennial fighting a slight.

And Loki might want for the distraction as much as she. More, perhaps. She calls back over her shoulder: ]

Marceau, I am going out. If Evie returns before I, or I receive any other callers, you may tell them I have gone to the Gallows library.

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty, bare-headed, bare-armed, and as brown with the sun as any city girl can be, watches this process with a bit of bemusement. But she doesn't comment. Instead: ]

I'd prefer you, thanks. I feel like a joint research project with Lord Loki would end with me shoving paper down his throat till he choked to death. And I wouldn't want to do that to the poor books.

[coquettish_trees]

[ With Loki under the manner of strain he is at the moment, that fight would likely end with someone dead, although she would lay odds that it would not be him.

Lexie would rather avoid that situation all together. ]

Noted. I shall, then. If we come to a need for it.

[ The door to the apartments is opened for them as they approach it, and out they go into the heavy oppressive heat and humidity of Kirkwall ]

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty lets out an ill-contented little grunt of acknowledgment. She doesn't want Loki involved in any way, shape or form, but...She knows that Lexi has this weird fondness for him that Kitty doesn't understand and that she definitely doesn't like. But it's not a time to fight. She hopes there'll come a time when they can fight about it.

As they emerge onto the street, a dog falls in behind them. Massive, broad, and phenomenally ugly, it's recognizably one of the famous Ferelden mabari. Kitty shoots it a look that contains a bit of bewilderment but no surprise; the dog's been following her around for a few days now, and she's gotten used to it, even if she doesn't fully understand it. She doesn't comment on it, either, because she feels a little bit embarrassed by its clear devotion to her. So, instead - ]

What other languages do you know?

[coquettish_trees]

My own, of course. Trade. Enough Antivan and Rivaini to be able to take easy part in society, and I write near as well as I speak. Enough Qunlat to perhaps get by without embarrassing myself terribly, but I understand more than I speak, and am so minutely literate as to hardly have it count at all.

[ a litany, although said offhandedly. With a slight more interest: ]

Whose mabari is that? They do not run stray, that I know of.

[ Maker preserve us from that ]

[rathercommon]

[ That's...a lot. As for the latter question - ]

Oh. Mine, I guess.

[coquettish_trees]

[ with actual amusement: ]

You guess.

[rathercommon]

It just started following me.

[ Kitty looks behind her at the dog, who wags cheerfully at the attention. ]

Someone at the Gallows - he said that they imprint. Whatever that means. I guess she decided she liked me, and now...

[ A puff of air. ]

Don't suppose you know anything about dogs?

[coquettish_trees]

[ dryly: ] Hardly.

If you wish knowledge of mabari, may I direct you to any given Fereldan? Most of them will wax what passes for poetic in their country for hours about the breed.

[rathercommon]

[ Well...Okay, Lexie going all Thedas-nationalistic isn't necessarily Kitty's ideal vision for pulling her out of her funk, but...at least it's not a funk. ]

I mean, to be fair, this dog seems really...Well, it's, like, really smart. Like, here -

[ Kitty says to the mabari - ]

Walk in front of us.

[ And the dog, obediently, trots out front instead of trailing behind. Kitty looks over to Lexie with raised eyebrows, a very well? so? sort of gesture. ]