faderift | open

I suppose I am irredeemable then.

[ that sounds almost, almost, like the ring of crystal rather than glass. ]

A monster of the first order. I shudder with horror over the fact that I am close to you.

[ bright again! ]

For the preservation of the sanctity of your spirit, perhaps you should move ...a few steps backwards.

Ah - a fine thought.

[ Guilelessly, he stands, and takes the steps. ]

Perhaps a few more. I may be a vile beast, but I am still quite concerned for my effect on your pristine soul. I think my dreadful aura extends at least— [she leans to the side to look behind him "surreptitiously", her lips moving silently as she counts something out in her head, ] —oh, thirty paces or so.

You ought to take them while facing me, lest I seize you with my savage claws while your back is turned.

You do always look out for me, ma cherie.

[ He continues taking the steps, one after the other. A small smile plays on his lips. His eyes don't leave her face. ]

And I always shall, mon cher!

[ Her eyes dance with mirth and mischief as she cups her hand beside her mouth and pitches her voice so as to feign calling to him from a greater distance than is currently between them, producing a lace-edged handkerchief from her skirts to wave delicately at him as one might at a departing vessel. ]

[ And he keeps on stepping, never once flinching or hesitating, continuing his inexorable march backwards. ]

Tell me when to stop, ma cherie.

Worry not, you shall know when!

[ She's not going to stop him. ]

[ When he reaches the fountain, he tumbles back in a positively alarming fashion. - Deliberately so; part of his training for his more recent career has consisted of learning to take a fall. Still, it's most likely actually a rather disconcerting sight, the way he goes ass-over-head back into the water, the way his limbs splay...and the way he doesn't come up again. ]

[ Alexandrie stands with a sparkling laugh as the man goes and very obligingly does precisely what she'd so obviously prompted him to. Points for both execution and commitment. Although it was rather instinctively alarming how hard he'd seemed to go over, and he had been drinking, she's rather inclined to believe he'd done it all on purpose and is holding his breath down there to entice her into a display of remorseful concern.

As she's walking over, she's deciding whether or not she means to let him do so, or if she shall simply stand and wait for him to give over.

Ah, but he'd played along so nicely, it wouldn't be sporting to not return the favor. Thus, she adopts a terribly worried expression, lifts her skirts to her ankles, and speeds her steps quite past gentility— if it was done with purpose, it's more than possible he's timing her— to get to the fountain to peer with immense concern into the water. ]

Andraste miséricordieux! Byerly?

[ And he's lying in the water, flat on his back, absolutely motionless, staring up at the sky unblinking. He'd be the picture of a dead man if he just committed a little further: but his face remains above the water, and his chest rises and falls with his breathing.

He says, matter-of-factly: ]

I often dreamed I'd die by water.

[ The minute he speaks, all worried attentiveness turns to a look that is a mix of relief and mild irritation. She sits on the edge of the fountain in a sweep of skirts that leaves them draped nicely, and looks down at him archly. ]

Do you mean near it, or summarily drowned by the poor woman you were so boorish as to give a fright.

Drowned by one of the poor women in my life. Who knows which one.

[ He turns his head to the side, gathers some water in his mouth (ew), and spits it at her (ew). ]

I almost did drown, once. When I was young. Did I ever tell you about that?

Why only one? I imagine we all might be easily convinced to collaborate on such a worthy project.

[ she emits an affronted squeak at the projectile (ew), and, having been pulling her glove off while they speak in preparation for this very need, reaches down to the water to splash him in retaliation. ]

What a coincidence, you almost drowned at this age.

[ she shakes the water from her hand and leans back on the ledge. ]

You did not. Shall you now?

No, I don't think so.

[ He smiles jauntily, and sits up, shaking his head to rid himself of the water like the dog(-lord) he is. Then he holds out his hand. ]

Haul me up, ma cherie. I'm too waterlogged to stand.

[ She judges the chance that he will pull her into the fountain given the opportunity to be quite high, which would afford many more interesting opportunities than either refusing or waiting for a manservant to show up, and so she sighs long-sufferingly and stands to take it. ]

[ And, obligingly, he tugs her in. He considers it his duty never to disappoint. ]

Prepare yourself, my strength is formida--!!

[ Despite being entirely unsurprised by this development, Alexandrie cuts off with a ladylike shriek and shocked expression in a very good facsimile of it, taking an impressive tumble of her own into the water.

She comes up spluttering and soaked (sans hat, which is going on a sea journey behind her) and looking like an angry cat. An angry cat whose delicate white gown is now, by design, both clinging to the curve of her breast above the sturdier stuff of her corsetry and making its way to nearly sheer as it does so. This is emphasized by the breath she draws to make a sound of wordless outrage before she shoves him. ]

Miscreant!

[ He laughs as she splashes and thrashes in the water. He grabs her hands as she shoves at him, and leans backwards, pulling her atop him. He hooks his legs around her ankles, and - mercilessly - puts his fingers to her waist, tickling her mercilessly. ]

[ Here she yelps with actual surprise as she's seized, pulled bodily over him, and entrapped by his damnably lengthy legs. If that weren't awful enough, the man has remembered both that she is terribly ticklish and precisely where.

It's not as bad as it could be. Her corset provides a bit of protection, but at the same time it keeps her from being able to curl around herself or properly squirm in an attempt to avoid it. This, and she was surprised, and she remembers this. She remembers the hands of everyone she's cared for. Loki's, now. Rolant's, the bastard. His. Thus, all too sensitive, Alexandrie dissolves into peals of helpless honest laughter interspersed with exhortations in her mother tongue, unable to call up any of the four other languages she knows under this duress as she makes an abysmal attempt to push herself off him with arms weakened by the assault. ]

Ah, non! Arrête! Comment osez-tu me trahir de cette façon! Fils de chacal!

[ And he is merciless - he knows the comings and goings of a corset more than well enough that he can seek out the places where it provides less protection, work his fingers in between the boning to get at the flesh under. Lovely flesh that it is. Charmingly full. He doesn't stop until he sees tears in her eyes, and even then he relents only slightly - just enough to demand of her - ]

Ferelden poetry is superior to Orlesian poetry. Say it.

Never!

[ it’s a breathless exclamation that requires most of the air from the ragged shallow breath she takes prior to it, her paroxysms of laughter gone past the shrieks that had begun when he’d managed to get fingertips around the boning to nearly silent shaking gasps, one or two tears escaping to join the rivulets of fountain water that still run down her flushed cheeks from her hair. She manages another valiant patriotic breath. ]

Drivel!

Say it. Say it, or I shall never relent.

[ He redoubles his efforts. ]

[ She hasn't the ability to even yelp as he gets at her again, but the silent helplessly tensed shuddering resumes.

This is how Alexandrie de la Fontaine dies: in a fountain collapsed bonelessly on top of a Fereldan ex-lover of ill repute, being tickled without a trace of mercy over her refusal to demean the art of her country. Honestly, it tracks. She has lost her ability to struggle entirely save to feebly lift and drop her head on his shoulder twice in what might be headbutts if they weren't so devoid of strength. Muffled, weakly, into his shoulder, once she is truly and entirely wrung out: ]

N-nooooo...

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