faderift | open

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?

[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?

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.

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.]

[ It misses his head by a mere few centimeters - fortunately so. That rope might well have been flung with enough force to knock him unconscious. Dear girl. He's fond of her already.

He wraps the rope around his hand, braces himself against the side of the boat - and then looks at her, sighing wistfully. ]

Dearest. Have you the strength to haul me up?

[Has she the strength? Honestly.]

I would appreciate it - as would everyone I'm sure would everyone who has minded their time - if you didn't unbalance it as you come aboard, sir. So please mind yourself.

[The ferry is far too wide and flat bottomed to be much affected by his weight of course, but nevermind that. As for the matter of hauling him out of the water-- she passes the rope directly to a square faced gentleman beside her.]

I would do it myself of course, but these are hardly working gloves. [She cheerfully shows him her palms as he's wrenched up out of the harbor. The dark gloves she's wearing are indeed far too soft to be pulling on ropes.]

My respect to a - hm, careful there - [ He warns as he's jostled against the side of the boat. ] My respect to a young lady who knows the appropriate garb for every occasion.

[ He comes up over the side of the boat and sprawls, sopping and rumpled, on the floor of the boat. Then he rolls over to beam up at her from down below - his face dangerously close to looking up her skirts. ]

You've saved my life.

[She draws her feet very close in under the bench seat and arranges her skirts with a deft twitch to avoid the puddle he's creating in the bottom of the boat.]

My, however will you repay me?

[Said with all the enthusiasm of wringing out a wet sock. Subtly, mind you. She'd hate to seem rude.]

Oh, though-- Pardon me, but hold still just a moment. [She reaches down and plucks a long string of something aquatic out of his hair. It's flicked over the side with some difficulty.] There. Now you look much more respectable.

[Ha ha ha.]

Savior of both life and dignity. You're a proper hero, Mademoiselle...?

[ He cocks an inquiring eyebrow. And makes no move to rise from his position flat on his back. ]

Miss Poppell is completely adequate, Messere...?

[Cue a quirked eyebrow, clearly marked Return To Sender.]

Rutyer. Byerly Rutyer of Ferelden. Whence do you hail?

From much farther than you, as it just so happens.

[She waggles the fingers of her right hand to emphasize the point. If he can't put two and two together from there when she's headed away from the Gallows and so many of the Rifters seem to have chunks of strange magic stuck in their hands-- that's hardly a strike against her.]

Tell me Messere Rutyer of Ferelden, is swimming a very popular past time where you're from? I've heard the part about dogs of course, but I'll admit your paddling doesn't much resemble one at all. The insistence on lying at the bottom of a perfectly good boat however--.

[Well.]

Woof.

[ He makes faux paws, and paddles at the air. ]

Were you impressed, then? By the quality of my swimming? I am quite fetching, aren't I. What do you think of my musculature?

manly swimming

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