faderift | the first time I made mincemeat of the standard propositions establishing a so-called moral science

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the first time I made mincemeat of the standard propositions establishing a so-called moral science

WHO: Byerly Rutyer and Wysteria Poppell
WHAT: She's stuck with him for 3 hours
WHEN: Whenever
WHERE: On the road
NOTES: He's a smutmonger??

[ It's not a terrible trip from Kirkwall to Greencliff. Thirty miles along the coast, and a journey decently worth taking: Greencliff is a striking city, with a high copper content in the mineral cliffs giving them a curious greenish tint. Not particularly built-up, not a center of commerce or of war, but quite nice nevertheless. There are a multiple trips by commercial carriage out there per day. So, logically, the odds of running into someone you don't want to run into are relatively small.

Thank the Maker Wysteria isn't a betting woman, because it's clear enough her luck today is rotten.

Because not only does she end up in a carriage with Byerly, Byerly was running late. So that means that it's when she's well and truly settled, and when the wagon is but a few breaths from departing, that he scrambles in. The door closes behind him as he pants, clearly come off a sprint for it; the driver gives a cry; the horses lurch into motion; there's no time for her to escape.

Perhaps a stroke of good luck for the girl, though. By, for once, is so genuinely overcome with the aftereffects of drink that he doesn't even take the time to investigate his surroundings. Instead, he flops over the bench, and throws his arm across his eyes, and groans, all without ever having seen her. ]

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[Here's the worst part of all: her Inquisition stipend being what it is and the options for borrowed daywear in an appropriate style being limited, and the cost of the carriage and the cost of the room and board having somewhat pinched what little she's been handed means that she's wearing the very exact same dress and hairpins - perhaps down to the very number! - as that very first day she met Byerly. It's the frosting on the bad luck. She has two equally uninspiring dresses, so of course she is wearing this one. And she has no fan or veil either.

Off goes the carriage, bouncing and rattling and stop starting through the last choking traffic between it and what is almost certain to be an open roadway, and Wysteria finds herself briefly and utterly paralyzed. And appalled.

Then she remembers the book in her bag.

As far as personal shields go, Enchantress Bonvietta's Windows and Doors: Connection to the Fade is at least a heavy one. Opening it to her (dogeared) page, Wystweia holds the book very high indeed so she might block her face entirely from his viewing should Mr Rutyer's arm fall from his terrible face.

Maybe he'll fall asleep and spend the whole way Greencliff in a stupor, she thinks, the instant before the carriage rolls through and especially vicious pothole.]

[ His head bangs agonizingly against the bench. He lets out a vile curse (in Orlesian, at least, so Miss Poppell's ears may remain unscorched) and then sits there a moment as waves of agony radiate through his poor skull, eyes slitted in sheer misery.

Hell.

Well, it's clear that lying flat isn't going to do him any favors. So he sits up, rubs a hand over his lips - casts a glance at the lady sitting opposite him with her nose buried in a book - something familiar about her, but given that every thread in his tormented brain feels frayed or snapped, he can't put his finger on it - and then reaches over to draw the shades over the carriage windows, blocking out the light. ]

[She not actually reading, only staring at the page as she does some panic stricken mental math, not daring to look over the book's edge as Byerly thrashes about. She hadn't checked the schedule - is there a stop between Kirkwall and Greencliff? Could she perhaps slip out unnoticed there? Not at all, Wysteria. You can't afford to pay your way twice and expect to still find room and board in Greencliff. Gods, being reliant on her stipend is sheer misery itself. So then how to best avoid being recognized? There are glamors she might conceivably cast over herself, but she's never done one and attempting to for the first time in a jostling carriage seems like the perfect environment to turn her hair green and her nose a foot long--

The curtain snaps closed over the window, her book thrown into shadow. She makes an involuntary annoyed sound before she can stop herself.]

It's this, dear lady, or see me break down in tears. And you should be quite embarrassed to see my weeping, particularly in the harsh light of day. I become hideous. Blotchy. Dreadful. It might yet happen, but if so, better to happen in the dark.

[ He slumps down in his seat once more, letting out a long, agonized breath. He does not regret last night (this morning? no, last night; if it had lasted into this morning, he'd still be intoxicated, not suffering under a hangover), but oh, he does wish it didn't have to be combined with jolting, halting travel so soon after. ]

[Honestly, she barely hears him. The moment Byerly opens his mouth, she's consumed by the fact that she may have to answer and spends all her attention waffling over whether to pitch her voice low or high that when he finally trades talking for sighing that she isn't sure what he last said at all. Something intolerable, no doubt.

She settles on high. Terribly reedy, the uncertainty of the tone making it sound like a question:]

No trouble, sir?

[Really though, she can hardly make out the words on the page at all.]

[ What? What the hell does that mean, no trouble? Byerly eyes the woman with her head buried in her book - still buried, even with no light at all to read by - who's obviously pitching her voice oddly, if that warble is anything to go by. And he wonders: why? He hasn't been here long enough to find himself with any discarded paramours, male or female, so she's not an ex-lover. It's possible she knows him from the Inquisition, but honestly, who would hide from him from there? So - what. Is she a criminal, maybe? On the run from the law? Is there a reward? That would smooth his way, if he could get a few gold jangling in his purse from apprehending some thief or murderess. To say nothing of the advantage that a commendation from Kirkwall would bring.

He purses his lips slightly, then slouches down and sighs noisily. ]

So much trouble. Have you ever tried aqua magus?

[Oh that wasn't the right thing to say at all. She was hoping for breezy and dismissive, a noncommittal kind of response that might encourage no further conversation. If he's so miserable, wouldn't it benefit him to be quiet?]

I can't say that I have.

Dreadful stuff. Lyrium-infused.

[ Ah. Ah. He recognizes that voice. If he squints through the dark, he even realizes that he recognizes that dress. No reward after all...But perhaps a fun way to pass the time.

And so he settles back with a sigh, and declares to the air: ]

And that lyrium, of course...Well! You know how it goes. It does such unpredictable things to you. Last night, I ended up belching flames. Maker help me.

[Don't be absurd, that's not at all what lyrium would do when infused in a drink. Isn't it meant to be poisonous? And terribly addictive beside? And-- well, no come to think of it that's not so far off from a description of spirits, now is it? She stares critically at the space between the lines of the book as if she were to look hard enough, she might be able to see him through the spine and give her skeptical look to him both directly and anonymously.]

Is that so? My, I've never heard of such a thing. Wherever did you find such a drink?

My friend provided me with it. Bless him.

[ By frowns theatrically. ]

Or perhaps curse him, for he was my enemy all along. Hard to say, suffering the aftereffects as I am. I had a brief spell of clairvoyance, as well, if you'd believe it.

[You imbecile, she thinks.

In a more confident and therefore infinitely less convincing coquettish falsetto:]

How shocking!

Isn't it just. Do you want to know the prophecy that came to me, in that lyrium-brightness?

[What's the likelihood that he'll say it whether she cares to hear it or not? She's on the very verge of saying something just slightly more argumentative when the carriage jostles and she has to brace herself with one hand against the wall, doing a magnificent job of keeping the heavy book high in front of her face with just the one hand. Flustered:]

Oh, please. I'm ever so interested.

[ And he rolls his eyes towards the roof of the carriage and says, meditatively: ]

That on this day, I would come across a prevaricator.

[The book wobbles.]

Well-- is that really much of a prophecy? I imagine you meet that sort of person often in the day to day. [She plants her foot decisively against the next few bumps of the carriage. Ha ha! See her outfoxed now, you lumpy old road you.]

[ He narrows his eyes just a touch and lets out a long breath through his nose. Oh, he does detest this carriage. Every jolt makes his head throb a little worse. And he might actually vomit on her delicate little feet. ]

Do you come across many liars?

I imagine everyone does, don't they? Only you don't realize it of course.

[She's getting the hang of this voice, she thinks. And the balancing act as well. Certainly she can't sustain this for the entire length of the trip, but maybe if she's very thoughtful she can find a reason to next cover her face with her traveling cloak - beg needing a nap, maybe? Though it's dark already in the carriage, which really somewhat negates the need to cover her face or head-- Still, people can be funny and particular, can't they? Surely it's no more unreasonable than Byerly snapping the curtain shut in the first place.]

I don't believe that I do. Come across many. I've been blessed with only the most trustworthy and decent people in my life.

[ He smiles sweetly at her. ]

Oh. [What a pile of absolute horse shit.] How fortunate you are, sir. Present condition excepting, of course.

[She's shifting the book around in her hands now, trying to find a way to hold it so as to rest this or that arm. And-- Oh damn. She quickly turns a page. Damn, damn, damn; she should have been turning pages this whole time. Wysteria spits the first thing to mind as a distraction:]

Are you traveling far, lucky sir?

[ He turns a laugh at her sudden motion into a cough, hiding his grin behind his fist. He should have said he'd be meeting a very bad prevaricator. ]

To Greencliff. And you, madame?

[A long pause follows in which Wysteria desperately tries to remember what lies still farther East of Greencliff that the road might conceivably lead to, that the carriage might possibly travel to once it'd reached its first stop. She awkwardly fills the blank pause by turning the page again.]

T-To Greencliff?

[There that silly voice peaks sharper.]

Ah!

[ When he drops his fist, his smile is delighted. ]

What a marvel. I can be your chaperon.

No! [It's a sharp squawking noise. Wysteria quickly tempers it, flipping yet another page.] No, that's quite all right. I'm-- I'm meeting a friend actually. An old one whom I love very dearly. So your attention is quite unnecessary.

[Gods, this really is interminable isn't it? And her fingers are beginning to go slightly numb-- she chances shifting the book just enough to peer slightly about the side of it. And whips it back in place just as quickly, flushing hot and sharp at the sight of even the corner of his smile. He's meant to have his eyes closed, she thinks with all the vicious spite in her entire body.

For a moment more she stares at the open book, calculating ten different options at once and ultimately finding the conclusions of absolutely none of them. Wysteria at last snaps the book closed and feigns shock at the sight of him.]

Oh! Mr Rutyer. I had no idea. What an incredible coincidence that we should both find ourselves on the way to Greencliff. My goodness.

Wysteria Poppell?

[ He stares at her, mouth open, eyes wide. And then, with a gasp - ]

Meeting an old friend...It was you! You're the prevaricator!

I-- what? [A gasp, appalled.] Not at all, Mr Rutyer!

[She is satisfied to note that at least he looks an absolute wreck. There might not be much to be pleased about over the sight of him in such close proximity, but that at least is heartening.]

Oh, but I can see where the misunderstanding lays of course. I'm afraid we have an altogether different sense of the word old, you see. I naturally meant my oldest friend out of all the ones I have here. [She smiles with all of her teeth.] Obviously.

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