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

[bouchonne]

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. ]

Comments

[heirring]

[For a split second, Wysteria simply looks straight back at him as if she hasn't quite heard him over the squeak and rattle of the carriage. She has gone very still (as much as is possible given the sway of their shared accomodation), but her expression - a certain overzealous attempt at easy, cheerful condescenion - remains there, perfectly poised for all of a breath. Then it begins to melt, evoking all the fundamentally tragic sweetness of a candy left in the sun.]

Oh.

[Speaking of magic: running in circles around her may not be at all noteworthy, but catching her in even the briefest moment of silence must count Byerly among the ranks of the most talented magicians. After a long pause, she limply offers:]

Maybe she forgot.

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't even bother to hide his grin at her. And he answers, cheerfully: ]

Then poor Miss Poppell! Abandoned and alone. No wonder you look so distraught.

[ Then, shaking his head, that grin still in place - ]

You know, my sweet girl, lying is a skill like any other. You didn't expect to be a master embroiderer the first time you took up a needle, did you? So why do you think you can outfox a liar like me?

[heirring]

I'll have you know I'm reprehensively terrible at embroidery as well.

[Distraught looking indeed. She's slouched backward into the questionable comfort of the cushion on her side of the carriage and tossed the book in moody surrender from her lap to beside her on the bench. What a disaster; now on top of everything else, she'll be forced to suffer through his good mood. At least before he'd been pleasantly miserable.]

I really don't know why everyone seems to think the opposite. Next someone will ask me to play something on a harp, or recite my favorite poem, or expect me to be appalled by wear on my gloves. [Well, that last one might actually be something she'd do - but only on account of the fact that she is saving for a new dress that isn't half to hideous and would rather not be set back by the cost of new gloves. She fixes him with a look that might be frank were it not so patently impatient.] It's dreadful, you know. To be thought of as even more silly than you are.

[Sweet girl. How awful.]

[bouchonne]

Is it?

[ His expression turns somewhat less obnoxious, fading from smug grin to smug smile. He props his shoulder against the carriage behind him, and arches an eyebrow, and stretches his legs out in front of him. ]

I know of circumstances where it's quite wonderful to be thought silly.

[heirring]

[She jams her shoe against his. Don't think she's going to let you sprawl out and hog all the leg room, Byerly.]

Of course you would think that. You're allowed to be a complete disaster. But I have you know I've worked very hard to be taken seriously and I don't appreciate suddenly being seen as even more ridiculous than usual.

[bouchonne]

[ He manages to slither his legs out further, somehow managing to take up even more room. ]

You worry so much about what other people think of you. And yet you're so dreadful at manipulating what they think of you.

[heirring]

[At the very least, her foot is planted. He can slither wherever she likes; it's resolute.]

Oh that isn't at all true either! [It's not a wail, but it might be near enough one to be painful in the confines of the carriage to say, someone currently in recovery from a night of debauchery.]

I hardly think about it at all until I'm stuck with you or someone who expects me to be a certain way or seems to think that just because I don't like stabbing things for fun that I'm a delicate bit of lace. ---No part of that being a compliment at to you, Mr Rutyer and how dare you even consider the thought.

[But she will allow the second part. Sullenly:]

Anyway I don't see why I should have to be good at being dishonest. It's not my fault you're all complete lunatics.

[bouchonne]

[ His eyes narrow slightly. ]

A bit less volume, please, Mademoiselle.

[ Then, once the pain in his head fades - ]

And I don't see why I should have to work an honest job now and again. But such is the nature of the world. You cannot bend it to your will; you must bend to it.

[heirring]

That's a very grim understanding of the world you have, sir.

[Though it's not really an argument is it? And Wysteria has, to her further credit, modulated her volume considerably, though she's now crossing her arms a little sullenly across her chest.]

Though I don't see at all how you're even following you own advice. You're hardly bending to anything, now are you?

[bouchonne]

[ He lifts his eyebrows at her and smiles just a little. ]

Am I not? The rake is no less a stock character than the ingenue and the hero.

[ Then, with a wave of his hand - ]

Come; let us try again. Let us step back through time. Whose name should you have said, rather than Alexandrie's?

[heirring]

[It's clear from the crooked pinch of her expression that Wysteria would very much like to quibble over the first point further, but fine. Let them pass into theoreticals. Her arms remain crossed however.]

Someone entirely fictional, I suppose. --Though if I made someone up, there's no telling on whether you'd insist on meeting a stranger. And wouldn't that involve ten more questions about where I met them and how I find their company and what our plans might be? And so on.

[bouchonne]

It might. But only out of a desire to torment you. Of course I am not actually interested in following you about from place to place - I've business of my own at our destination, after all. So you ought to think of a lie that would bore me.

[heirring]

[She scoffs. To torment her. Well at least he's being candid about what atrocities he's capable of.]

A scholar then. Someone with a great affection for dusty old books, I suppose. Or maybe an exceptionally grim Chantry brother.

[bouchonne]

Dear girl, do you think I would believe that you'd travel far to spend time with an exceptionally grim Chantry brother?

[heirring]

I might!

[No she wouldn't. Not without being ordered to do so anyway and she's certain there are better places than Greencliff to send such a ridiculous pair. Anyway, what she would or wouldn't do isn't really even the point, is it?]

How am I even supposed to know what you might believe? If I said a scholar, the question would be what are we doing and I'd have to make something up and maybe it would have nothing at all to do with what's to be found in Greencliff and then you might know I'm lying immediately that way too. Should I have just said I was meeting no one and hoped that would be dull enough? But that isn't even a lie, Mr Rutyer.

[bouchonne]

And what of it? Must you tell a lie, in that situation?

[ He spreads his hands. ]

Your desire, ultimately, is to have me leave you be. Yes? My pretense for demanding to know who you were meeting was based upon the premise - the lie I told - that a young lady must have an escort. But surely we've spoken enough by now that you've deduced that I don't believe anything of the sort - that I know women are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Especially a practical, level-headed, not-at-all frivolous thing like you.

Quite often, lies are rather more trouble than they're worth. If you'll listen to me closely, you'll notice that even I tell the truth more often than I lie.

[heirring]

[She very much doubts that. Or certainly at least doubts the meaning. The words themselves might be true, but their purpose? Hardly. Would Byerly Rutyer know a straight, honest statement in his life unless it first punched him in the chin? It seems unlikely.

Which is why, of course, she suspects that over indulgent string of compliments is meant to dig more than anything. She certainly doesn't take it at all to heart whatsoever. She most definitely doesn't soften whatsoever, especially not when given the excuse to contradict him further.]

Oh but the pretense to your pretense to my pretense to-- [She uncrosses her arms and shakes her head, dismissing pretense entirely.] Well it was all centered around me trying to avoid you knowing who I was at all in the first place until you went to sleep or buried your face in a cushion. And if I was so plain about that, then you would have suspected me immediately.

--You really do smell like the inside of a bottle, by the way. I hope you brought a change of clothes.

[bouchonne]

[ A little dryly: ] Perhaps you noticed, Miss Poppell, but I was in a bit of a rush when I arrived.

[ Then: ] Why did you not wish me to know who you were?

[heirring]

[Her mother would want to know why he hadn't packed the night before, but as a self-prescribed expert of packing ten minutes before without folding anything she can hardly say much to that end. At least she isn't hungover.]

Because the last time we spoke I threw an entire glass of wine on you.

[There's one of those honest, straightforward sentences.]

[bouchonne]

Indeed. I had assumed that would release your temper. Are you truly still angry?

[heirring]

[She-- blinks at him. Goes all sharp and stiff and awkward jointed on the carriage seat opposite him. It's a look of genuine surprise, so clear that it's as if for a moment she doesn't at all recognize how what he's said is meant to apply to her. It takes her a moment to parse.]

That-- no. Not at all. Aren't you?

[bouchonne]

[ And a blink of surprise in return. Then a laugh - one of his rare real laughs. ]

Over a bit of wine? My dear, the vintage was not nearly good enough to take offense at its waste.

[heirring]

[It wasn't so terrible, though.]

No, but-- But if someone did the same to me. Well, I would never forgive them. Not that I am at all asking for your forgiveness, of course. [Gods forbid.] Only that it seemed like a truly dreadful prospect to be going all this way in the company of someone who must hate me. I've done that once or twice already you see, and I'd rather not repeat it.

[bouchonne]

[ Another laugh, and a shake of his head. ]

My dear Miss Poppell - suffice to say that I do not mind a bit of wine in the face. Quite the opposite. I doubt this will shock you to hear, but I adore drama and scandal. If anything, I was charmed by your pluck.

[heirring]

Oh. [Here all the lingering awkwardness evaporates from the line of her shoulders and the way she's been sitting as far back against the carriage cushions as humanly possible. She blinks again, her hands turning about in her lap so she might pick absently at her fingernails. Oh. Well.]

I see. I suppose it's fine then.

[Not that this at all changes the fact that he is a rake. She doesn't regret dashing him with a full glass of wine. Not at all, really, and she thinks she would say as much if asked. But still. This all seems rather more survivable now than it had mere minutes ago.

Pluck is such a charming word. It's certainly better than sensible.]