WHO: Kostos/Alistair/Jehan/Silas & Various Others WHAT: Miscellany WHEN: Kingsway WHERE: Probably Kirkwall NOTES: See comment subject lines! And if you would like to do something feel free to just drop it in here.
All business suits her well enough, and Yseult spends the journey listening as Alistair catches her up on the story so far, interjecting only occasionally, during obvious breaks in his narrative, to ask a few questions that make clear she's paying close attention, targeted to flesh out key details or clarify some nuance of Warden politics. Otherwise she's content to ride in silence.
Content to continue that way once they reach the tavern, too, not much acting required for them to play the parts of road-weary travelers just here for a quiet drink after a long day's ride. She's watching the room with the flat, open gaze of someone bored and lost in thought, though in reality she's keeping a careful eye on the door and the stairs. She turns back slowly at Alistair's question,one brow arching.
"Not that I recall." Her head tilts slightly, and her mouth does too in subtle amusement. "And you?"
“Has anyone told me—oh, sure. All the time,” Alistair says. “That’s how people point me out in a crowd. That one, over there, with the kind eyes.”
It’s not the most outrageous lie he’s ever told. His eyes are as kind as they can be while also being perpetually smirky at the corners. But he isn't drawling the way he usually would, voice pitched lower and quieter than even his fairly quiet usual, because his voice might be more distinctive than his face, and he can't guarantee he's never met this man before. He's met a lot of Wardens.
He has his back to the door for that reason, but he can see vague shapes moving behind him, like spirits, in the cloudy, dented reflection on the side of his mug. Enough that no one is going to walk up behind him—not that anyone would be able to anyway, with Yseult watching the room, but he doesn't trust her with his entire back just yet.
So she can see it, but he can't, when a man in plain clothes who matches the description, down to a distinctive handlebar mustache, comes down the stairs and pauses to have a word with the barkeep on his way toward the door.
"It's because I've never done anything wrong," Alistair is adding in the meantime, "in my entire life."
"That is what all the stories say," Yseult replies, teasing tucked into one corner of her mouth, a crooked little smile.
She's looking past him, though, eyes over his shoulder and then sliding away, focus softened so it's less obvious. "I think this is him leaving," she says as she's raising her own mug, quiet words hidden behind it before she sips, half her face, too, just in case. "Huge dark mustache waxed to a curl, pock-mark scar on his right cheek. He's talking to the barkeep."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Content to continue that way once they reach the tavern, too, not much acting required for them to play the parts of road-weary travelers just here for a quiet drink after a long day's ride. She's watching the room with the flat, open gaze of someone bored and lost in thought, though in reality she's keeping a careful eye on the door and the stairs. She turns back slowly at Alistair's question,one brow arching.
"Not that I recall." Her head tilts slightly, and her mouth does too in subtle amusement. "And you?"
no subject
It’s not the most outrageous lie he’s ever told. His eyes are as kind as they can be while also being perpetually smirky at the corners. But he isn't drawling the way he usually would, voice pitched lower and quieter than even his fairly quiet usual, because his voice might be more distinctive than his face, and he can't guarantee he's never met this man before. He's met a lot of Wardens.
He has his back to the door for that reason, but he can see vague shapes moving behind him, like spirits, in the cloudy, dented reflection on the side of his mug. Enough that no one is going to walk up behind him—not that anyone would be able to anyway, with Yseult watching the room, but he doesn't trust her with his entire back just yet.
So she can see it, but he can't, when a man in plain clothes who matches the description, down to a distinctive handlebar mustache, comes down the stairs and pauses to have a word with the barkeep on his way toward the door.
"It's because I've never done anything wrong," Alistair is adding in the meantime, "in my entire life."
no subject
She's looking past him, though, eyes over his shoulder and then sliding away, focus softened so it's less obvious. "I think this is him leaving," she says as she's raising her own mug, quiet words hidden behind it before she sips, half her face, too, just in case. "Huge dark mustache waxed to a curl, pock-mark scar on his right cheek. He's talking to the barkeep."