faderift | open

Given that I have been dead to my family since I was but a teenager, and my paramour disowned at age ten, no one familial really said anything of note. Well, except my cousin Donna. She had some very useful suggestions regarding potential applications of magic in bed. Maker bless her creative mind.

[ A fond smile, and a sip of wine. Then: ] But tell me, dear girl - does it make me a card to fall for someone?

[ There's a bit of pleasure in deliberately withholding the information she's clearly the most interested in. And there's quite a lot of pleasure in her delight at the scandal. Perhaps the two of them can be friends after all. ]

[Ten minutes ago, she might have been appalled at the mention of anything in bed. But this is gossip and best of all gossip that has nothing at all to do with her, so he might say anything at all and it could pass over her as water from a duck's back.]

Falling for someone? Oh no, Mister Rutyer. I'm afraid my evaluation is based entirely on such a combination of things that there's almost nothing you could say to change my mind. Here, let me lay it out plainly for you. [Wysteria takes a last brief sip from her glass, then moves it clear so she might motion innumerating the evidence as if dealing out a hand of invisible cards.]

First of course there is the manner of our meeting which I'm sure you'll agree was irregular. Second, your eagerness to accompany a pretty young lady without a chaperone all over the city which may not be especially irregular here, but I guarantee I've committed murder if the news somehow travels back through the Fade and reaches my mother's ear. Third, while there is nothing at all wrong with falling for anyone, in combination with points one and two I can't help but wonder what's become of this poor young woman and her no doubt shattered heart and - evidently - virtue.

['In bed' indeed.]

Now the last point on its own could be nothing, but for the sake of completeness I should also mention the fourth exhibit. [Here she takes the bottle by the neck and lifts it from the table for emphasis.] You've not done nearly enough work on this.

[She sets the bottle down with a half full and thoroughly optimistic thunk.]

[ Byerly smiles, and smiles, and quite calmly corrects her: ]

Young man.

[It takes her just long enough to hear, to follow, that she gets as far as taking another swig of her drink.

She chokes on it.]

[ It's perhaps not incredibly well-advised, giving away that piece of information - after all, he doesn't exactly spread around the fact that he's had dalliances with men, not given the less-than-liberal attitude towards that sort of thing in parts of Thedas...But oh, it's worth it for that look on her face. Oh, he lives for this. ]

I'm flattered, by the way, that you think that someone would have a broken heart over me.

[ He pours himself a bit more wine, smiling serenely to himself. ]

And you know, Miss Poppell, there's more to a woman's virtue than whether or not she's let a man into her bed. I do hope that you haven't been convinced that your sole worth is your chastity. Such a dreadful lie.

[A hard swallow and coughing saves her from hearing much about hearts and Byerly's arguable aptitude for breaking them, much less responding. She instead runs the gamut from cardinal red to spirit pale, then back again and is still pink through to the tips of her ears when she's recovered enough to clear her throat and brush the choked tears from her eyes.

It'd been a near thing, aspirating the wine instead of spitting it everywhere. Gods, she can feel the burn in her sinuses--]

I don't-- what?

I said - [ He lifts his eyebrows at her, a picture of innocent good intention. ]

That women are, all too often, made to believe that virtue lies between their legs. A grotesque thing, in my opinion. After all, what sort of man is considered virtuous? One who's courageous and brutally murderous and heartlessly cruel on the battlefield. But, Miss Poppell, I'm here to tell you: you, as a woman, can also be brutally murderous and heartlessly cruel. You can have that sort of virtue, too. I believe in you.

[Two things happen both very quickly and very transparently. One moment she is staring at him as if uncomprehending, then the red in her face goes splotchy and incadescent in a spark of floundering temper. Her hand finds her glass. She throws its contents at him.]

[ It takes him a bit by surprise - he didn't think he said anything so completely outrageous - and so a bit gets (unpleasantly) into his right eye; he hadn't had time to close his eyes completely. It burns, but he resists the urge to squeeze his eyes closed or to blink it out. He resists, too, the urge to wipe his face off. Instead, calmly, he reaches over, takes the bottle, and refills her glass. ]

My word. You are offended by me not drinking it fast enough, aren't you?

[Had he done any of those sensible things, she might have found some opportunity to be horrified with herself.]

You-- [All poison. She reaches for the purse at her belt, gloved hands struggling at the tie for an instant before she gives up and whips a handkerchief from her sleeve.] --Have done me a great service this afternoon, Mister Rutyer. I'm very grateful for these hours you've spent showing me about the city and sharing a drink with me, but I couldn't bear to give you the wrong impression of me. You wanted a story from beyond the Fade and I daresay what a Kalvadan woman will and will not tolerate is one. As our agreement has been seen to then, I believe it's time I made my own way.

[All this time Wysteria has been unfolding the handkerchief in her lap under the edge of the table. She produces at once a handful of coins and a broad brimmed bonnet that could not conceivably have been on her person a moment ago. The coins she places on the table without puzzling over their value. The hat she puts on her head, resolutely tying its emerald green ribbon about her chin. The handkerchief is stuffed back up her sleeve as she gets quickly to her feet.]

Is your rage because I loved a man, or is it because I believe you have more to offer than what the world has expected of you?

[ Perhaps she'll storm off; perhaps she won't. He's curious to see whether sprinkling a few crumbs in front of her will get her to stay.

(Because - how curious - where did that hat come from? He's starting to develop a suspicion or two.) ]

You haven't learned a thing about mages.

It has nothing at all to do your young man, sir. [It might have a small part to do with it. These things happen, but you don't speak about them. Which is all beside the point--]

Or, as it happens, your opinion about me or what I can or can't do. Though I understand this may be very unfamiliar to you, I don't actually care about what you think. As it happens, I'm very happy doing whatever I like without yours or the world's or anyone's encouragement or approval.

[The chair she'd left ajar is neatly tucked in. She tosses the tails of the hat ribbon behind her shoulder. It might all be very fine indeed if she wasn't still visibly red faced and gasping.]

I expect I'll be just fine on my own, Mr Rutyer. Enjoy your wine.

[She does however have one hell of a heel turn.]

[ Laughing - ]

Dear girl! You're just repeating exactly what I said right back to me. I said that you have worth on your own, not based upon anything that anyone else desires of you. And that makes you angry?

[Later Wysteria will kick herself for not saying something clever or biting or smart in this moment - 'Well then, sir, it seems we agree with one another on at least one thing,' or something like it. She'll lay in her shared Inquisition room and glare at the old cracked ceiling and go over this moment again and again in her head. You could have stood your ground there, Wysteria. You could have taken him to task about being so crude and terrible. You could have told him a thing or two about the value of what you'd like to be and how you're perfectly satisfied with it. Or how he doesn't know even a lick of what the world, such as it is, has told her she can or can't be because he doesn't know anything about any world outside his own.

Instead, bristling and red faced, she makes a sharp disgusted noise at his laughter - snaps out a] Good day, Messere. [--and charges from the tavern.]

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