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Percy would quite like a return to that good fortune, too, ( drolly; not without a touch of easy humor. gwenaëlle may not quite have her father's natural knack with other people—and, so long as she lives, likely never will—but she has a certain charm of her own. if you like that sort of thing.

she favours him but a little in the face, high cheekbones and that nose, gold-eyed where he had been green, small and slight where he was tall and broad. the sort of waist that invites one to attempt to span it with one's hands, and the sort of sharp tongue that discourages one from accepting invitations. pretty disgraces make curious mirrors—he reminds her less of her father than of her ostensibly-unrelated brother, if a cover up had gone a little less well and if he'd been a little better prepared to weather it.

just like the comte to favor some backwater troublemaker over the son he would never trouble himself in taking the slightest responsibility for. hands upon her own waist, then: )

I did decide to thump you if you groaned at the weight.

Ooh.

[ Flirtatious, salacious, he shoots her a wink. ]

Now I'm tempted to effrontery. I expect I'd enjoy that.

You look the type.

( that isn't flirtatious or insulting, that is a factual observation about his face. )

[ He steps to her and offers his hand. He's the picture of politeness and chivalrous, even as he says - ]

A fellow who doesn't enjoy a woman's strong hand is a man who fails to truly embrace the world.

( she is very briefly piqued most of all to think that she can't actually find a reasonable way of disagreeing. and that her elves would probably agree, too. she may never persuade thranduil to lay hands on her the way she used to be accustomed to, but she suspects he wouldn't object to being stepped on now and again. )

Noted, ( is what she settles on, primly, retreating into old familiar awkwardness in the face of someone who knows what he does in the game and does it much more deftly—not gwenaëlle, a sparkling jewel of court, but determinedly dull when she is anything on purpose.

she is easy enough to lift, and well enough not to wince. only the thinnest tightening at her jaw. )

[ And - perhaps surprisingly, given his rangy leanness - there's real strength in his arms, and real gentleness in his fine-boned hands. It would be hard to find a better touch to lift her into the saddle. And once she is there, his hands linger - not in a way that takes liberties, but in a way that speaks of real care and real caution. His face, mind, stays ironic and detached, but the hands have a bit more honesty in them. ]

A fine beast, my lady. I shall be following you on an ass, as befits my station. Groomsman - [ He turns, calling out - ] Where is my donkey?

Edited 2018-09-16 01:55 (UTC)

Someone's going to overhear how you speak to me and I'll be throttled for failing to adequately learn my place in this world, ( which is, perhaps, an exaggeration, but the very real thread of discomfort keeps her mind from lingering too much on his honest hands. )

Whose hands do you fancy about your neck, my lady?

[ He turns a sly smile up at her. ]

Your empress'? I don't think she has reach sufficiently long for that.

That cunt is not my empress.

( she says it so calmly; too calmly not to be white-hot with rage that comes so quickly when called. too angry to remember to be dull, and not to speak out of turn. she had, barely, managed to hold her tongue so long as she'd been in orlais and within celene's easy grasp, but she's got a mouth on her all the way in kirkwall. )

But it's been my experience that no one likes to see uppity little things step out of place. I'm sure you're familiar.

Not at all.

[ The groomsman brings, of course, a horse. One of the Inquisition's - poor impoverished Byerly who suffers so immensely cannot afford a steed of his own; she's a solid, even-tempered mare who rarely goes above a trot. Quite to Byerly's taste. He'd been partial to wild reckless gallops along crumbling trails and through unfamiliar woods when he was younger, but...Well, frankly, these days, he has something to live for. That's the key difference.

As he swings into the saddle - competent, if not brilliant - ]

Indeed, on the contrary, there are a few who quite enjoy watching it. Your esteemed lord, for instance. His amusement at my effrontery may well have saved my life, you know. I might have starved without his intervention.

[ Not a lie, though it's said like a joke. It's not likely that he'd have been unable to find some scraps to live on, but...he'd really worn out his welcome in Orlais, back then. And the trip back to Ferelden isn't one that ought to be made on an empty stomach. ]

You are new to shame and disgrace, it seems - and welcome; the society of the disgraced is a charming one, despite our bad reputations. And your membership is - [ He mimes the checking of membership papers, doing a very passable imitation of a fussy clerk. ] Ah, you're a permanent member; this is not a temporary joining, this disgrace will not go away, how altogether pleasurable. We do not normally see permanent members with faces as fair as yours. Usually they are drunks with bulging noses, or the deformed, or hungry sons of no family at all. Tell me, my lady, how are you finding the membership in this charming society? Have you been treated well?

Exceedingly.

( emeric had perhaps liked many of the same things in them; he jokes when he doesn't, she is dry when she means it. when she knows it's true, even if it's an ugly sort of truth: gwenaëlle has had, much like her esteemed lord, a cushioned fall from grace. the duke de coucy's name and fortunes have softened her landing, as have her assortment of singularly violent partisans—her connections to and within the inquisition, her ability to squirrel away gold against this possibility and to weather the storm so very far from its eye.

it has been a wretched experience, and a freeing one. )

It piques a woman to be told she can't do something, even if she didn't want to do it.

( it was one thing to choose for herself, of options. quite another to have the door firmly shut in her face. )

But I've never been so successful at anything before, so who am I to complain.

( gwenaëlle clothilde decima baudin. accomplished complainer. complaints for all occasions. )

[ And, indeed, Byerly presses a hand to his heart and says, earnestly - ]

Dear lady, I am fully confident that it will be your complaints that prevent the Maker from returning to Thedas. All other voices will be raised in the Chant - all but yours, which will be commenting most irritably on the quality of the voice of the fellow to your right.

[ He drops his hand, then, and urges his mare into a sedate walk off along a smooth and pleasant road, one that leads past a lovely pond a little ways down. ]

So you are angry at the Empress. You are angry at your father. You are angry at yourself. Yet you bow quite willingly towards the system that fucks the elf-blooded. I find that curious, given your...predilections.

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Do I? You're the first person to accuse me of it.

( there's a mild curiosity as to where he's going with that, tempered by suspicion; the assumption that wherever it is, she won't like it. it seems like a safe bet. she hasn't disagreed with every single thing he's said, but she hasn't liked much of it, so far.

if he thinks she's angry at the empress because of her inheritance, let him. )

Very much so. I can recognize it quite well. You see - there was a time that I was like you. Right after my disinheritance, when I first came to Denerim. I couldn't see my way out of the trap I was in: I could envision no way to live with honor and dignity as a proper nobleman, but to take my own life would have been to give my enemies too much satisfaction. So I sought death a more appropriate way. I tried to be rude enough to be challenged to duels - but ah, though I was rude enough, I was so dissolute and low that for the other fellows to duel me would be beneath their dignity. So then I tried to drink myself to death, but I simply am too good at drinking. I barely even gave myself a hangover.

You understand the problem here, of course, perceptive as you are.

[ He smiles over at her. Throughout all of this, his voice has been light and wry - like telling an amusing anecdote. It is true, though, all of it. Her position as her father's daughter has won her a bit of honesty and sincerity; her position as a member of the Society of Disgrace has won her quite a lot more. He can count the people he's told all of this on a single hand. She's receiving a truly dubious honor, here. ]

My desire was to live with honor and dignity. As a proper nobleman. The codes of propriety had fucked me, and yet I still wanted to honor them.

You're doing the same. Bowing your head. Calling yourself Mademoiselle. You're no Mademoiselle.

( it's a startled laugh and she regrets it, not for her own sake but for his when he's given her this and she understands what it is—because she does understand the problem. she understands very well what he is saying to her, he isn't describing her present but her very near past. it had been ironic, probably, to realise that she finally wanted to live when it seemed least likely that she fucking would. her father dedicated so much of his life to protecting her and she worked just as hard at making it impossible for him to adequately do so; there were so many dangers he never knew to shield her from, herself chief among them.

he had never wished to see a mirror of his own broken heart in his daughter.

gwenaëlle is usually honest. selectively so, though, and she selects this moment on impulse, a more than able enough horsewoman to gracefully rein closer, to give to impulse and reach out to press her hand over his wrist at his reins. )

No, ( warmer, quieter. ) I'm not.

( but she is doing something right if he thinks this is what she needs to hear, and what lingers where a knot of tension in her shoulders has loosened now is relief. she's getting away with something, if he thinks so. if the implied concern is earnest, maybe he'll find that comforting, and if it isn't maybe she's just exposing herself in a different way, giving him a glimpse at something else that can be twisted to use against her—

but fuck it, she's got this far by her nails and her teeth and her own softness. she'll get further yet, whoever looks. )

Edited 2018-09-16 12:45 (UTC)

[ There's just the quickest flicker of a glance over to her, trying to read her expression when she touches him. Warmth and laughter can hide quite a lot. But he doesn't see anything in her except for that laughter...

Well. He smiles back at her in return. ]

So why act like it, dear lady? You don't really think someone would murder you here merely for claiming your old title. Especially not here, where we might as well all be ruled by elves and mages and Rifters.

( emeric had been opaque, when he wanted to be; destructively charismatic, he was rarely ever seen to be anything but what he wished to be. he appeared at almost all times as careless as orlais would never truly allow him to be, the calculation behind it both constant and invisible. it becomes clear—and rapidly—that this is not a gift shared by his daughter, that even beneath an orlesian mask (and how quickly she had shed those, in skyhold) she would be as easily read as an open book that someone is reading aloud to you.

she wears her heart openly; all its hurts and hates and these moments of terrible loveliness. there is nothing to see but the ease, except perhaps how unfamiliar ease is to her. she always seems to relax like it's an entirely new experience. )

Oh, not as far as that. They grumble, and maybe if I were still in Hightown they'd do it louder. I know there was talk the Warden floozy should have tried harder to hit me in the mouth.

( there had been some precarious days in hightown, where she had truly not felt safe, but she'd been alone at a delicate time; she'll never know how much was fair to fear and how much was her own anxious heart eating itself. also, she shouldn't have provoked the warden in the first place, which she knows but will ignore as irrelevant where it suits her.

eventually: )

It's always benefited me to know how I'm perceived.

( it's always benefited her for that perception to underestimate her; to dismiss her, even. she's always found it so much easier to get things done when no one is looking closely at what she might be doing. she doesn't wish to honor propriety; just to wring use from it. to keep her head down, yes, because when she's looking down she might see where everyone's hands are. )

[ They're an odd pair, perhaps. The honest Orlesian and the duplicitous Ferelden. He cannot help but search for underhanded intent - not simply because he knows that she was raised in the Game, but because he cannot do otherwise. He looks for it in everyone. ]

And it benefits you to be perceived as humbled and shuffling and low?

I'm not nearly good enough to believe anyone is going to think me humbled. But cautious. I'm cautious.

( sometimes. in certain ways.

not cautious enough to hold her tongue on just what she thinks of celene, granted, but the discomfort when my lady is bandied about is real, too; not that it disrespects the sanctity of the nobility (she has known too many too well to think there's much of that) but because it seems as if embracing scandal requires a flair she doesn't really think she has. she doesn't enjoy playing with it, and it's easier to wear that discomfort one way than another; to be perceived as a little bit more afraid than she really is.

she knows how to be afraid. she spent so much of her life that way; her father pushing her forward while she struggled, desperately afraid that what he'd done would be discovered. terribly, constantly aware of how quickly it all could be taken from her, afraid of how much worse it could be—

well, the worst thing has happened and it wasn't that bad. now she could do anything, probably, if she set her mind to it. but maybe it's better if no one is looking for her to. )

[ He arches an eyebrow at that. She seems more likely humbled, in his opinion, than she does cautious. A girl with a mouth that foul and a fury that raging, who openly calls her empress cunt - such a beastly word, that - is not cautious.

But he bows his head a moment later, and agrees: ]

Your lowly ass can do naught but agree, dear lady. If you see yourself as a cautious woman, I shall not contradict you.

[ Then he lifts his head again, and says: ]

But perhaps it is the Ferelden in me that compels me to point out: you can leave the Game. I hope you'll forgive me when I point out that you are truly a piss-poor player. So you needn't focus on duplicity in the way Orlesians do. You needn't be cautious and try to fool people into underestimating you. You ought to lean into your strengths.

You're not pointing out anything I don't know, ( and while she isn't above taking offense at someone else saying something she has said (frequently, frankly and at length), this is not one of those moments. ) Or anything that I'm not in full agreement with.

It's not a question of—the point isn't that I want to crawl back, it's that if they think that, that's fine. If that's the prism they look through what comes next at, fine.

Leaning into my strengths doesn't mean playing my hand before time.

[ He hums, noncommittally. And then he asks: ]

Then what is it you want, milady?

I want Corypheus to win, ( very seriously, ) wasn't that your conclusion?

( the pond coming up in the distance is picturesque, inasmuch as gwenaëlle is prepared to describe anything in the free marches generally and near kirkwall specifically in as kind terms, and persistence at least seems pleased to be approaching it. )

I'd have liked to be entirely free of politics, but that's not going to happen.

( for tall blond reasons, more than anything else. )

And consequently I still wait to hear what you want.

[ His posture is perfectly relaxed. His eyes are on the view. And he murmurs, pointedly - ]

How altogether lovely.

You strike me as a patient man.

( well, no. but he does seem like someone who must be, or who consequently has been obliged to become so, and either way, he doesn't strike her as someone who should be confided in too readily. )

What do you want? Besides your nose in my personal affairs.

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cw suicide

∞

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