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

[elegiaque]

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.

[bouchonne]

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

Then what is it you want, milady?

[elegiaque]

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. )

[bouchonne]

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.

[elegiaque]

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.

[bouchonne]

What any simple cad wants.

[ His gaze shifts from the countryside to her. His smile is quite pleasant. ]

An income steady enough to keep me in wine until my insides give out. Charming companionship. A bit of mystery now and then.

[elegiaque]

You've come to the right place.

( wry, then, a moment later: ) Maybe too much the right place. What about a lot of mystery, all the fucking time?

[bouchonne]

Are you talking about the Inquisition, or yourself, milady?

[elegiaque]

( she starts to say the inquisition, her mouth shaping the words, and then she laughs.

she is so like her father, when she laughs; emeric had always made brittleness lovely. )

I don't think I'm very mysterious.

[bouchonne]

Ah, thou art woman, and therefore a riddle.

[elegiaque]

Regrettable that so many of those were written by semi-literate children unaware that riddles are supposed to have some kind of meaning, which sort of takes all the poetry out of being grouped in with every idiot with legs to spread.

( god, she's charming. )

[bouchonne]

Dear lady. Do you consider yourself a meaningless riddle, then?

[elegiaque]

I don't consider myself a riddle at all. I think you just haven't met enough women.

( she squints at him. the thought that can't possibly be right is so visible it's all but actually written on her forehead. )

Have you considered speaking to one or two of them sober? The novelty.

[bouchonne]

I make it a policy never to speak to anyone sober.

[elegiaque]

I'm starting to understand why you might find women difficult to follow.

[bouchonne]

I find everyone difficult to follow. I am, I fear, a foolish man.

[elegiaque]

You know that bad at the Game and gullible aren't the same thing, I hope.

( a lazily said thing, rather than a push, because the thing is that she is (as he so ably observed) bad at the game. and she knows it. which means, first of all, that she knows better than to think it's so extraordinarily clever of her to realise he is probably at least as clever as he is drunk. she is a sledgehammer, not a scalpel, she thinks it unlikely she's caught him out.

the best of them always seem to be up to about seven different things at once, artfully layered. a keen eye for other people has never translated into knowing how best to handle them, so she circles. she studies. she observes the absences, the shape of the whole. she hoards knowledge, both because it might become useful and because she can't help herself.

if she could, she'd not have answered him, or spoken to him so long the first time, or come today—but what she can and can't see sparks her interest, brings her back to prod at the puzzle. )

[bouchonne]

Then you think I'm not foolish? My dear lady. I never thought to hear a kind word from your mouth. If I can tell the truth -

[ He purses his lips. ]

I'm a little disappointed.

[ Indeed, the trouble with Byerly is that he doesn't even make a secret of his lying. No one could possibly trust him. He does not seem trustworthy to anyone but the most gullible of fools. It's just that he's so slippery - impossible to get a hold on, his persiflage so incessant and so chaotic that reading him takes someone impossibly perceptive. He's more than a riddle, himself. ]

[elegiaque]

I can be extremely kind, I'll have you know. I could kindness your arse off if I wanted to.

( logistically puzzling and in general not very convincing about her temperament (which is all impulse if it's anything, as thoughtlessly generous as carelessly cruel), but— )

But I don't know that that was it, really. Don't you think lackwits seem a lot happier, by and large?

[bouchonne]

[ With an arched eyebrow - ]

I'm a very happy man.

[elegiaque]

Yes, ( lightly. ) That's what drives men to drink. Happiness.

[bouchonne]

Ah, but you've the wrong end of it, my dear. Even if drinking grows out of unhappiness, it makes one happy. So I do not have any unhappiness any longer. What is your drink of choice?

[ He slips into the deflection easy as breathing. ]

[elegiaque]

( her nose wrinkles—

he does, and it's not that he isn't good at it, it's just that it's so familiar. it's just that it would work a lot better if she liked talking about herself; if she weren't inclined to do exactly the same thing. )

This is like tennis if the aim were to hit each other in the face, ( she complains. )

[bouchonne]

[ Innocently: ]

I have no such desire, my lady. All I wish is to serve your happiness.

[ Not a complete lie. ]

[elegiaque]

You're not going to get there being so boringly repetitive.

( the mimic of his accent is extremely bad, but she nails the cadence of his speech, the way he holds his head, the shift of his expressions and that very guileless look that isn't at all: ) What do you like, Gwenaëlle, what do you want, what are you interested in, you, you, you.

( all gracious orlesian ladies mime gagging, they just do it behind fans, probably. )