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[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2018-09-15 21:18 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

And I had hoped that had changed.

[ His fingers play with the button just above his navel, as though they're still tempted to continue his little impromptu strip-show. ]

You're so talented, ma cherie. If only you could paint something with real beauty.

[ He wonders, looking at her, when she'll get married. She's pushing the upper bounds of an acceptable age. And that's a funny thing, isn't it? He hadn't ever thought of Lexie as someone who could...well, look grown up. Who he could look upon and think of marriage, of children, of moving on with her life...Especially since honestly, Lexie is as lovely as she was back then. He's haggard in comparison, aged by drink and things stronger, aged by his work and hunger and poverty, while she looks lovely as ever...

He pushes his hair from his eyes, shoots her a a look from under his long thick eyelashes. ]

Perhaps some day you shall have the confidence to commit this gorgeousness to canvas. You'll get there.

[ She purposefully hesitates for a moment, setting her brush down exactingly, and leans slightly to the side of the canvas to investigate him more fully with a painter's eye rather than that of an erstwhile lover.

(Ignores the look.)

It's not necessary, of course, but she goes through the entirety of the motions of such an investigation. Proportion, color, the play of light and shadow, the lift of her hand to check him against the location of the trees, the banks of flowers and topiary beyond. Then, a dramatic sigh as she 'gives in'. ]

Perhaps just this once, since you are so very encouraging of my continuing to challenge and better myself.

But [ she lifts a finger to add her condition, ] you shall have to indulge me and move a few steps backwards. The light is better there and we cannot have you immortalized at less than your most transcendent.

I serve your wishes, my lady.

[ He presses a hand to his heart and bows, deeply and gracefully. Then, with a foppish elegance, he rises to his feet, moves the steps back, and settles down once more. Then he lowers his chin and directs a dramatic, hammish, would-be sexy pout at her. ]

How's this?

[ Alexandrie makes an approving noise to begin with, but then clucks her tongue at him once he's settled again. ]

You have changed your pose, you terrible man. The light is no longer right. Now you must move a few more steps backwards.

[ Hey now. ]

You're going to send me over a cliff, aren't you?

[ Alexandrie laughs delightedly, that particular silvery sound that’s very nearly the same, although refined by the years of practice. ]

Ah, my exceptionally clever assassination plot, foiled so quickly.

[ She stands and briefly spares an eye to the light on her actual subject, judges her window for today’s work nearly finished in any case. It can change so quickly this time of year. ]

Come and help me bring everything to the apartments, and I shall take you to what passes for a nice café in Kirkwall for a cup of coffee to apologize for my shameful murderous intentions. [ Her eyes sparkle with amusement.] I would be willing to upgrade to some manner of sherry if you will button your shirt.

[ A small groan. ]

You're asking me to carry things? Where are your servants?

Marceau shall send someone in half an hour or so, as I instructed him to, if you wish to keep me company while I wait.

[ She hadn't carried all of this out herself, of course. ]

Although if we do so, I may fail to regret my attempt to kill you in cold blood, thereby causing you to risk your sherry.

[ The palette and brushes are already being cleaned and closed away in the case she keeps for such things. Whether or not he's helping, Alexandrie imagines she will not be allowed the quietude she desires to continue. ]

I may reconsider if you return my chair and provide me with some manner of amusing story about the intervening years. Trails of broken hearts, daring exploits, a foray into piracy. The time you escaped your no doubt exceptional gambling debts with only a rakish smile and a song.

Shall I stand as I tell you the tale?

[ He does button his shirt back up. ]

If you demand your chair back...

You may borrow it again once you have returned it.

I am, after all, a magnanimous woman.

Ah.

[ He stands and brings it back to her. Then, with a lift of his eyebrows, he indicates it once more - may I? ]

Edited 2018-09-16 01:42 (UTC)

[ With a genteel sweep of her hand, she gestures towards it - you may. ]

[ He sits. And he taps thoughtfully on his chin. ]

Now, what story shall I tell you? The tale of my cousin Donna's third marriage is a possibility, though that involves me not at all. So perhaps I should tell you of the Arlessa's violin.

As terribly interested as I no doubt would be in your cousin's matrimonial escapades, [ Alexandrie closes her painting case with a neat click and turns towards him, rearranging her skirts about herself and tucking one foot behind the other at the ankle as she lowers her hands to rest in her lap. She is the very picture of attentiveness. ]

I am far more tempted by your mysterious framing of the latter.

Ah.

[ He leans back in his chair, and crosses one long leg after another, and lets out a breath. ]

Well. All of this takes place two years ago, in the month of August. As you well know, travel through Ferelden has become rather easier of late. In my youth, to move from one city to the next was as fraught as to gamble your entire fortune on the prospect of rolling a twelve. [ He mimes the act of rolling dice, then shakes his head. ] But Queen Anora, long may she reign, has been going forth and personally - I'm fairly certain this is the case - personally murdering bandits by ripping out their throats with her ferocious teeth, and personally stomping down all the mountains that stand in the way of travelers. Powered by rage, it is said. She is a most gorgeously angry woman.

But two years ago, there was a bit of a problem. You see, travel between the Arling of South Reach and Denerim happens along the Drakon River. There are these barges that sail up from South Reach - bearing considerable wealth; fruits from the farmlands to the north, rubies and iron ore from the mountains to the east. And sometimes bearing noble passengers. You see, these barges move slowly but smoothly, drawn by oxen and asses, which makes them a most pleasing mode of transport - no jostling and bouncing along in a carriage along the West Road, bruising your tail on a hard wooden seat; instead, a luxury cabin on a sailing-barge. Most pleasant.

Of course, you see the problem with a slow-moving transport loaded down with jewels and turnips. Bandits. Because as we all know, bandits could take or leave jewels, but they've never been able to resist a turnip. So one fine summer day, the Arlessa of South Reach is sailing along, when her barge is set upon by...You know, I had been thinking of them as bandits, but they are raiding ships, so let's call them pirates, as per your earlier suggestion. I quite like that. They make off with the most valuable things on the ship - the gold, the turnips, and...the Arlessa's prized violin.

How does this tale find you so far? You're not shivering from terror at the beastly twists and turns?

Oh, I am quite overcome, can you not tell?

[ she draws her shawl more tightly around her, eyes widening In an affect of breathless captivation as she retrieves her fan and flutters it at her chest. ]

Do continue at once, I cannot bear the suspense. I must know the fate of the turnips.

[ Mournfully: ]

This story does not have a glad ending, my lady. The turnips do not make it out alive.

[ Then: ]

Well. The Arlessa escapes with life and virtue intact, but now unable to make sweet music. So she posts a reward for the return of the violin. As you know, I am occasionally a bit hard-pressed for money myself, so I smell an opportunity - especially since I am, as you know, such a lover of music and the arts. [ That much is true; he plays the violin with the skill of a maestro, though he tends to do so in sleazy bars rather than in salons, as perhaps he ought. ]

So I formulate a plan. Tell me, dear Alexandrie, what sorts of people would look at a fine instrument like the Arlessa's violin - and it was fine - and know it has value?

Ah, non. May they sit always at the Maker's side.

[ A brief solemn bow of her head for the poor turnips.

As far as the music, she does know. There are a great number of lovely pieces composed for violin and piano forte, some of which they'd had occasion to play once she had found out his skill at it. It had been rather lovely. As, she recalls, had the nimbleness of finger that tends to arise from such—

—in any case, Alexandrie adopts a thoughtful expression. ]

Surely not pirates. Pawners and fences, I expect. Other violinists and cultured aficionados of their music. [ She smiles mischievously over her fan. ] The destitute dregs of Fereldan society.

Edited 2018-09-16 17:23 (UTC)

Just so. [ He taps a finger on his knee twice, as though in applause. ] I did not know at once which it was, so I put out a call to the pawnbrokers and fences I knew, to the musicians, and to the dissolute wrecks like myself. It was a man of the second class who answered me, who told me a truly heartbreaking story - a fellow from Denerim's orchestra, a rough and rowdy sort, who'd acquired some gambling debts and who'd turned to a life of crime. The flautist told me that the dear violinist had left the city a few months before, off to join a band of - you might well guess it - pirates.

So I ask the flautist if he's still in touch with the violinist. Well, as it so happens - this is seven shots of aquavit in, incidentally - the flautist is still in touch with the violinist; he is keeping his ear to the ground in case the orchestra-master has it in his head to forgive the violinist for his poor choices, tendency to start brawls with the percussion section, et cetera. "Can you set up a meeting?" I say. "What for?" he says. "It just so happens," I say, "that I have some intelligence indicating where the next score is going to be."

[ hahaha 'score'.

She closes her fan and presses it to her heart with a small sweet sigh. ]

So kind and thoughtful of you to aid our wayward violinist away from his life of crime.

Why, by the Maker, do you assume that was what I did?

[ He blinks at her in mock-shock. ]

The reward was doubled if I could ensure the Arlessa could also get her hands on the fellows who had so offended her.

Well, a life in jail is hardly conducive to a life of crime, [ she replies innocently. ]

it's too late the dice have chosen

i am most pleased

lmfao byerly pls

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