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

[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.]

[bouchonne]

Indeed it is. If you're truly concerned about making it up to me, though, I wouldn't object to some replacement wine.

[ And he smiles at her, cheerful and wry. Unfortunately, that sets his head to throbbing just a bit, and he sighs heavily. ]

Though perhaps not just at the moment. Ah, well. So why are you going elsewhere, all lies aside?

[heirring]

[She didn't say anything about making anything up to him. Which she very nearly expresses out loud before he steers the conversation away from the point all on his own. Note to self, Wysteria. Keep your damned mouth shut every now and again.]

I don't know if you've noticed, but Kirkwall happens to be terribly depressing. I'm afraid the novelty's worn. Just slightly. [She's picking still at her fingernails and cuticles. And as long as they are being honest with one another--] And there was evidently a rift closed just outside Greencliff some months ago. I thought I might walk about it and see what it looked like. To sate my curiosity somewhere more populated than the wood were mine appeared.

[Sweetly, breezily, pointedly ignoring the fact that she has heretofor told absolutely no one of this plan on the basis of strongly suspecting it would be discouraged:]

And yourself?

[bouchonne]

Catching the last bits of autumnal warmth before the chill takes over.

[ He smiles cheerily. It's a lie, of course. He wonders if she'll pick up on it. ]

But dear girl, is that something to do alone?

[heirring]

[Suffice to say: no.]

I seem to recall you mentioning something about not believing in the necessity of a young woman being chaperoned.

[bouchonne]

There's a difference between chaperoning for a walk around a city and acting as a companion on an investigation of a dangerous area.

[heirring]

Oh please. [She sniffs and collects her book from where it's wandered down the length of the bench due to the carriage's rattling. She pulls it into her lap decisively.] It's a field outside an evidently very dreamy little city. If that warrants companionship, I should never be allowed to walk in Kirkwall alone.

[bouchonne]

As you say, Miss Poppell.

[ But he isn't entirely smiling. ]

[heirring]

[How very gratifying. It's so liberating a sensation that it's easy to neglect to notice his very fractional loss of good temper.]

You will have to enjoy your last bits of autumnal warmth on your own, Mr Rutyer. Unless, I suppose, you're meeting company in Greencliff.

[bouchonne]

I've no doubt I'll find some.

[ He fixes his smile back on his face. ]

I've a unique talent for that. For me, hardly a night is spent alone.

[heirring]

[Ah, there it is. And they'd managed to go so long with hardly any reference at all to his taste beyond wine. She heaves a great sigh and fixes him with a distinctively long-suffering look.]

Yes, I'm sure you can be very charming when you want to be. And I wish you all the best with it. Tell me though, what day are you leaving? Have you decided at what hour you mean to make your way back to Kirkwall?

[For the sake of curiosity, of course.]

[bouchonne]

[ With an easy lift of his eyebrow - ]

Am I truly so intolerable that you would seek to cut short your visit simply to avoid me?

[heirring]

Not at all. [Can she afford to extend it?] I only thought to see you off so you can be guaranteed I've survived my trip into the dangerous wilderness.

[Which is all mostly true, except for the part where it's certainly not her only thought. Still, it isn't much more than a very pale white lie and that she thinks she can carry with a flash of a broad smile in his direction.]

[bouchonne]

[ That causes a little pluck at his conscience. He runs a hand over his beard, the movement a bit tense, before he turns a smile upon her. ]

Say - there is a lady I know in Greencliff who might be willing to go along with you. She's very pleasant. Lovely personality. What do you say? A local guide.

[ He is hoping, intensely, that there's a female soldier-for-hire amongst those stationed in the town. There must be. ]

byerly you weakling

[heirring]

[All at once her face transforms, an expression that had a moment ago been all poorly cloaked cheek blooming with a real flash of interest over the words 'local guide.' It's a bright flicker, a certain flare of genuine curiosity, and for a split second she has quite forgotten how reprehensibly irritating she finds him in favor of sitting up slightly taller in the dimly lit carriage.

And then, just the barest slithering suspicion.]

You don't say. What's the name of this lady?

shut up

[bouchonne]

[ He responds to that with a laugh calculated to sound cheery. ]

Look at your face. It's like someone lit a candle behind your eyes. Does it matter what her name is?