open

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly and Kitty and thou or even you
WHAT: Open post!! open post
WHEN: The month of KINGSWAY
WHERE: EVERYWHERE but mostly in Kirkwall and in the Gallows
NOTES: Warning: chatterboxes

[ Starters in comments!! Feel free to tag in or start your own thread it's groovy ]

Comments

Byerly's starters!!

[bouchonne]

manly swimming

[bouchonne]

Hold that boat!

[ It's early afternoon. Yet Byerly, pelting after the ferry back from Kirkwall to the Gallows, clearly just rolled out of bed, if his stubble and mussed clothes and general air of dissolution are anything to judge by. He also seems to perhaps still be somewhat drunk, given his stumbling scuffling step.

He's not, unfortunately, fast enough: the ferry pulls away from the dock when he's still a few meters away. He comes to a halt at the end of the dock...And then takes a look at the boat, takes a look at the water - and then strips off his stained and rumpled shirt and dives into the water. With fast strokes, he draws up next to the boat and then slows, flipping over onto his back to look up at the boat's occupants and keeping pace via an easy backstroke. ]

Hello, friend. Haul a shark from the sea, won't you?

[heirring]

[She'd meant to catch an earlier ferry, but it had taken all morning to strike the right balance between carefully put together and too studiously dressed. Wysteria had spent what felt like the entirety of the quarantine imposed on her thinking about how best be suitable when she was finally allowed to go over to the city proper, and yet on the day of had found herself trying two different borrowed (well, hers now) dresses and a number of different hairstyles. She's still fussing absently with the pins in her hair when the ferry kicks away from its slip, struggling to pinch back a section that's fallen out of place and cursing under her breath with such concentration that it isn't until the splashing beside the ferry that she realizes there'd been any commotion about leaving the dock at all.

There's a man in the water alongside. She blinks at him under the line of her arm.

Wysteria promptly drops her hands away from her hair. Not quite spluttering, she searches her immediate surroundings for a rope.]

What on earth do you think you're doing?

[bouchonne]

Largely appreciating the view.

[ He grins up at her. It is fortunate that the ferryman is a lazy sort. The boat isn't moving along at much of a clip, so he can keep pace well enough without having to interrupt his quipping. ]

A merman cannot resist lovely young ladies with absolutely fetching hairstyles, you see. It's a known weakness of ours.

[heirring]

Well-- Oh, pass me that rope would you? [said breathlessly to the aforementioned disaffected ferryman] --How reassuring it is that some things are the same everywhere.

[How is it that the exact same breed of man exists absolutely everywhere? Now there's true magic for someone to write a dusty dissertation on.

A line is passed to hand. Wysteria hurls the coils at the merman with perhaps more strength than is strictly necessary.]

[altusimperius]

[Chamberlain business brings Bene to Hightown more often than not, and he was looking forward to a nice relaxing cup of tea when this day-drunk imbecile flops into the boat and ruins his whole day.]

I would-- honestly rather die, [Benedict says quickly, before he can stop himself. Maker, look at this creature, he's a disaster.]

[bouchonne]

How lightly he values his life.

[ Byerly, flat in the bottom of the boat, sprawled broadly out, reaches out to touch the toe of Benedict's boot. Mournfully, he traces his fingers along the leather, crooning: ]

Dear fellow. You have value. I know it doesn't seem it, I know it seems you're worthless, but you should live.

[altusimperius]

[Benedict quickly yanks his boot back out of the man's reach. There is a crazy person in the boat with him, and he needs to just keep it together until they reach the Gallows.]

I beg your pardon? [he snaps, unable to keep from taking offense. Come to think of it, there's something familiar about this man's voice, though he can't place it.]

horseback riding (for gwen but not closed)

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly is dressed to ride...sort of. The man has impeccable taste in clothes, and knows how to dress himself, but, well - he is the disinherited son of a penniless family. He doesn't really have the funds for a new outfit. So the one he's cobbled together is a bit second-hand, not quite up to his usual splendor.

Still, you wouldn't know it by the way he saunters down to the stables like he's a bloody prince surveying his domain, like he owns the damn place. One hand in his pocket, the other pushing his hair from his face, he looks at the horses and nods, as if to say that'll do. ]

Here we are, then.

[elegiaque]

( we is right, guilfoyle a shadow only an arm's length back from gwenaëlle when she joins him—you can take the girl out of the aristocracy, but she has not yet been levered from all of its privileges and her riding habit doesn't speak at all of the sort of injuries hidden beneath it. velvet-trimmed (only trimmed, in this heat) and tailored to her very fine waist indeed, hair a rope braid tucked beneath a matching hat, she looks every bit the lady vauquelin that she isn't.

it's been some time since she rode side-saddle, but it'll be easier, probably, so she'd sent for it from her grandfather's hightown residence and for a groom, presently preparing her mare, persistence, who has a rather martyred air about her— )

Percy got lazy, ( she says, absently affectionate, ) all the time I wasn't venturing out.

( you know who doesn't look lazy? emeric's assassin. still, he is probably not actually coming with them. probably. )

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly looks askance at the man. Hadn't trusted him before, doesn't trust him now - in his experience, such stolid retainers tend to disapprove of fellows like him. And such retainers tend to slip a knife in the hearts of those they disapprove of. ]

Enviable animal.

[ By sighs, and reaches out to touch the nose of the horse. Earnestly, he says to the creature: ]

Maker grant me the good fortune of being like you, someday. A beast of burden with an indolent master.

[ And then he looks over at Gwen, and smiles. He's a man with a disreputable air, but he's cultivated that air to serve him well. His lovely eyes, his leanness and fine bone structure, the sweep of his hair - he's a handsome rake, indeed. ]

I had feared, my lady, that my weak arms would not be equal to lifting you. But my, that is a trim waist you have.

stargazing (for Lakshmi)

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't have a hat to tuck a plume into, so instead he binds it to his head with a bit of ribbon. The lady he'd spoken to over the crystal seemed so fierce and so serious that he simply cannot resist a bit of ridiculousness - he will see her crack, by the Maker.

He waits for her out in the courtyard, sitting atop the plinth of a particularly gruesome statue, staring up at the stars. ]

[shri]

[ He might want that - but he will have his work cut out for him. After all, for when she says veils. She means to be covered and all. The way she preferred when she was at her own leisure rather than at the Inquisition's end. But at least, as she said: all bright green. A hand lifted to keep it lifted that little so she could see where she is going.

So if she's smiling at the man with the feather tied to his head, he cannot see. But her, at least by the faint chine of bangles and anklets. Calling out to him. ]

Byerly, is it?

[bouchonne]

The same.

[ What an odd sight before him, the woman swathed in cloth. He wonders, idly, if she is indeed fantastically ugly, that she goes around hiding herself like this. If she is, it's a smart way to go about things. An air of mystery can make up for any number of physical flaws. ]

Come sit beside me, Lakshmi Bai.

it's too late the dice have chosen

[coquettish_trees]

[ The weather outside having become tolerable for longer and longer times, Alexandrie has resumed her customary hours behind the easel, although rather than being attended by a lady's maid holding a parasol to shade her she has foregone company entirely in favor of the protection of a white wide-brimmed hat adorned with summer flowers not native to the area, a delicate white lace shawl bordered in gold wrapped securely about her shoulders, and gloves that she has managed to keep equally white despite her paint mixing. Although she has recently come to prefer being alone with her work, there is still a chair to the side for anyone who might want to visit with her for a while or simply watch the process.

This particular painting of this particular portion of the memorial gardens in Hightown requires the light of a late afternoon at summer's end filtering through the trees of the grove off to her right, and so it is then that she is there, adding leaves to canvas, and seemingly entirely absorbed in doing so. ]

i am most pleased

[bouchonne]

[ Unfortunately for her...Byerly spies her. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, without so much as a by-your-leave, he marches up, grabs the spare chair, and moves it so that it's sitting right in her sightline. And then, without so much as a how-do-you-do-or-by-your-leave he sits upon it, firmly. And then without so much as a how-do-you-et-cetera, he reaches up and starts unbuttoning his shirt - appearing ready, for all intents and purposes, to shuck himself of clothes right there in Hightown's lovely gardens, as unselfconscious as he would be if he were modeling for her in a closed studio. ]

lmfao byerly pls

[coquettish_trees]

[ If she is surprised— which she is— Alexandrie shows it not a whit. The graceful lift of her eyebrows as Byerly appears and immediately makes a nuisance of himself is entirely detached, although her gaze does linger on him for a moment.

He looks older. Older and far more rumpled than he had, in those early days. So, she supposes, must she, although she is certainly not rumpled. Despite her continued efforts in her war against time she is not nineteen any longer, although she is oddly inclined to thank the Maker for that small mercy. He seems also to have come upon more languid ease of movement, although he still retains the barely contained energy that drives it.

His eyes are the same. No. They have greater depth even then they had, and she had rather exuberantly lost herself in them before. Although there is something...

Tsk tsk, Lexie.

She shifts her eyes back to her work and primly resumes her addition of careful green in practiced curves to the landscape. ]

Byerly Rutyer, you know very well I do not paint portraiture no matter the quality of the model.

[ What degree of quality she has deemed him to have is left unspecified. ]

Kitty's starters

[rathercommon]

dogs

[rathercommon]

[ Mabari are, of course, war dogs. Mabari ought to be trained as war dogs. They are a valuable resource to the Inquisition, fearsome on the battlefield, worth three human warriors in skill and ferocity.

But training a mabari seems like so much work, and it's such a lovely day. So today, Kitty is lying out in the sunshine with a book. She's draped over her mabari, using the dog like a great pillow to prop her up as she reads. The mabari is snoring with astonishing volume, breathing heavy enough that Kitty bobs up and down as she sits absorbed in her book. ]

[degenere]

You know, that is a war dog.

[Val, with his satchel laden down with books from the pathetic Gallows library, stops to make this observation of the girl using the mabari as a pillow. He does not sound disapproving, exactly. More amused, and using chastisement as a vehicle.]

Has any Fereldan seen you yet?

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty looks up from her book, blinking at the man standing there. The voice is familiar, and she's fairly certain she's seen him around; can't place a name quite yet, though. Then, firmly, even though she knows he's joking: ]

She is a dog who will be whatever she pleases, thanks. What, am I going to offend a Ferelden?

the gallows courtyard

[vorbratta]

"Byerly Rutyer!"

The voice rings out from behind him in a tone of delighted surprise. Of course Sonia's been looking for him, now that she's more less settled in. She didn't come to the Inquisition for Byerly -- what a frivolous idea -- but he was the one who put the idea in her head in the first place. That, and it's been some time since they last saw each other; Sonia is absolutely dying to catch up.

She's wearing somewhat plainer clothes than she usually does at court -- much easier for travel. But her smile is as sunny as ever as she catches up to him with a hop-skip, her hands clasped behind her back around a bottle of wine.

"Fancy meeting you here," she chirps, her smile going a few shades more impudent. "I hear this place is all the rage these days."

[bouchonne]

It has been some time since he's heard that voice. Quite some time. It's been long enough that he ought to have forgotten it by now, that he ought to have had some trouble placing it, but for the fact that it rang through his head whenever he read the letters she'd written him, keeping the tones fresh in his head. He knows it at once, in spite of the distance, in spite of the absurdity of seeing in here, in the bloody Gallows, where Sonia has no place being at all -

When he turns, his smile is only a little bit strained. Just a touch. There are just a few too many teeth in it. Aside from that, he manages an expression that's the spitting image of delight.

"Sonia Titania," he says. "I did not know you would be traveling."

[vorbratta]

Something's just slightly off. Sonia's known him long enough to know a tell or two of his, but it doesn't quite occur to her why. She's too pleased to see Byerly to think much on it anyway, because it's been far too long, and letters are only so entertaining a substitute for the real thing.

"Oh, how neglectful of me -- I completely forgot to send the fanfare ensemble ahead," she says glibly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Whyever would she send word ahead when she could surprise him? She's aware that this isn't a pleasure journey, she knows that this is serious and dire and dangerous, but she always has permitted herself levity whenever the situation affords it. Sometimes more. She produces the bottle from behind her back with a grin. Straight from the Barra vineyards, of course. "I came well-packed, though -- all the essentials."

[bouchonne]

The sight of a Barra red would soften the heart of even a drunkard less committed to debauchery than Byerly. He takes it, and smooths down the label - purses his lips in appreciation - and then returns his attention to the situation at hand. His dearest sweet Sonia, here, traveling, when there's a damned war on. When Tevinter to the north is in flames, the Anderfels to the west are threatening vicious bloodshed - dear Sonia should be firmly in the south, thank you very much.

"How charming," he says. And then, far more direct than is his wont, he follows that up with, "And will you take my letters back with you when you return?"