Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coquettish_trees) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2018-08-09 04:45 pm
coquettish_trees) wrote in faderift2018-08-09 04:45 pm
OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets
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.
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. ]
no subject
Alexandrie accepts the basin with some alacrity, holds it in her lap gripped fiercely by the hand that is not pressed to her face, and continues her shallow erratic breathing and struggle for control while Anders speaks.
And his words? Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and her shoulders shake slightly. With her hand still over her mouth, it could easily be taken for sorrow.
“Merci.” The first expression of gratitude is quiet and hoarse. She breathes deeper, more regularly, clears her throat—the danger of her being sick having blessedly passed—and the second has actual tone to it, is accompanied by the reveal of a shaky but inarguably present smile of immense relief. “Grand merci.”
no subject
"You're welcome." It's nice when he's genuinely able to help. The tears look like a mix of sadness and relief, but he's fairly certain he's responsible for the relief alone this time by the look she's giving him.
"Take your time and rest in the chair, please. You didn't look well for a time there and Darktown can be violent enough toward those that look healthy." He cares about Darktown, but there is no denying its inherent risk and dangers. Best to take precautions. Especially with nobles, as they don't tend to really understand the underbelly of a city.
no subject
It's a few moments before she can make herself reach for the mug, and a few more before she can do more than hold it cupped between her hands and breathe, but eventually she takes an experimental sip of what turns out to be a sort of herbal blend she can't identify but is nevertheless soothing even in the oppressive damp heat of Darktown.
"Forgive me," she says, quiet and wry, "I was not intending to become a patient."
no subject
Anders picks up his own mug and leans back against the desk, sipping slowly. "On top of that this means I'm taking a short break from working and hearing that will make my husband happy. Old habits of overworking are hard to break."
Old habits of being possessed by a spirit intent on working every second possible, more like, but he really doesn't need to be reminding people that happened. Instead he can embrace the downtime and give her time to recover, so long as no rush from a new fight down here comes in.
"I have to admit I'm curious to know why you came to Darktown to ask your question rather than seek me out in the Gallows infirmary."
no subject
“When I thought of asking, this is where I was told you would be.” It is matter-of-fact. “With the possibility of alleviating any anguish hanging in the air, sitting and waiting for your return to the Gallows seemed akin to cruelty.”
She will be on her way back to Hightown as soon as she can trust her legs again. As soon as she does not give off the scent of a wounded creature easily picked from the herd.
no subject
"And there's no telling when I'd come up, as there could have been an emergency, of course."
He looks around. There aren't any patients left, the classes have wrapped, and what isn't done he can done during lunch tomorrow if he brings food down. Anders shrugs and washes his hands in the basin.
"Would you like company on the way back up, when you're ready?"
no subject
She is so very unused to being alone.
The basin, no longer in danger of being used, is set aside, and her focus redirected to retaking control of her body with the subtle—but certainly noticeable to a healer—series of exercises she had been taught long ago. Breathing, heartbeat, tense and release of musculature, shift of posture to something uncurled and straight again. She will take up the tea again after, with a long exhale, and sip at it further.
“I shall be ready in a moment, I think.”