closed | why you gotta be so rude

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie, Gwenaëlle, Byerly, Merrill, Wysteria, Leander, you maybe
WHAT: A collection of prompts!
WHEN: Right now!
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Hit me up on discord (shae#7274) or shaestorms if you want to do a thing. :)

Gwen

[ their friendship a well worn glove at this point, Alexandrie has little compunction about sweeping unannounced save for her footfall into the chamber that Gwenaëlle and Thranduil share. The latter is keeping office hours, and she cares little about the state of readiness of the former, only that she is in residence.

So, sweep she does, and continues her curving trajectory until she is near enough the bed to fall gracefully upon it and stare upwards. ]

Ah, Gigi, [ she intones dramatically, ] I am a fallen woman.


Byerly

[ Time passes, and true to her word each Thursday finds Alexandrie at the same table, at the same cafe, at the same time, the same chair sitting empty across from her. One week she reads. One she embroiders. Another she spends watching the bright birds of spring return to the still barren trees. Always, she looks like a seawife standing on an outlook who watches for sails out of habit rather than hope.

This week, it is finally warm and clear enough that they have set tables outside and they have quickly filled. Alexandrie sits at one, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to stave off the still persistent chill of the breeze, a bit of finework in her lap. She is partway through a stitch when the sound of the chair pulling out comes, and she begins to speak before looking. ]

I am afraid I still require that, I am waiting for--

[ Stitch pulled taut, her gaze finally swings upwards, and her smile is like the dawn; small, and furtive, and spreading with the promise of brightness. Softly: ]

I did not think you would come.


Merrill and Wysteria

It came by courier, in both cases an enterprising looking urchin who stood a little straighter for the fun of being on a posh errand. A little rectangle of very nice paper with a little watercolored rose in the corner for the purpose of informing the recipients (one Mademoiselle Merrill and one Miss Wysteria Poppell) in very lovely handwriting that their presence was requested for tea the next Saturday at one o'clock at the residence of their mutual friend (one Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine). They should feel free to wear whatever they liked best (with a note appended to Merrill's that if what she liked best was to poke about in the hostess's closet she was welcome to come early), and to let her know directly if they should be available to attend. (A true répondez, s'il vous plait.)

And lo and behold, all is made ready at the appointed time: a complete tea service, down to the matching porcelain cups and saucers, cloth napkins folded carefully to the swans of the de la Fontaine crest, and a little wheeled cart topped with shining engraved tiered silver platters of little finger sandwiches of varying types, another smaller tower with a selection of several tiny pastries and cakes, and several exquisitely carved boxes of tea from which to choose. One butler, for the purposes of greeting, one butler's son for the purposes of coats, one maid for the purposes of serving, and one hostess, who looks particularly pleased with everything in its entirety including an extra bit of pleased to see you.

"Ah, but it has been so very long since I have had a proper afternoon tea," Alexandrie sighs happily, sweeping into one of the three chairs placed equidistant around the circular table set in the middle of the room which, naturally, is precisely the correct size for a genteel afternoon with your girlfriends.


Colin

She's been going out on Thursdays. Always leaving at the same time, always returning at the same time, always gently insisting on going alone without even Marie to attend her, and always with the air of someone going out to look again for something lost long after the search has been called off. She returns the same: empty handed, expecting to remain so. But it is a gentle thing. There are no tears, no sobs muffled in her pillow on the rare occasion that she spends the night at the apartments.

One day, though, a small smile. And for Colin, as she passes the door to his room, seemingly apropos of nothing,

"You may meet here again, if you like."


Lea

At 5 o'clock on the dot, there are pastries. They can be smelled from the entryway, as if the apartments themselves were an Orlesian patisserie. Let no-one ever say that Alexandrie de la Fontaine doesn't keep her word.

Upon his arrival, there is a cheerful call from the sitting room.

"Has he both arms and legs, Marceau? Do not let him in unless he can properly account for all four, I shall have no oathbreakers in my home."

(Let no-one ever say that Alexandrie de la Fontaine doesn't insist on parity.)

Comments

[coquettish_trees]

The Look which accompanies Marie's solicitous refreshing of the now-shoeless Leander's tea is just this side of impertinent, although her mistress doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

"The Lord Loki is indeed a member of the Inquisition," she replies, answering two questions at once and taking up her teacup largely as a method of keeping her hands engaged and affecting the demeanor of a woman too thoroughly engaged in gossiping to pause for a drink. Despite her genuine desire to talk of him to someone who didn't immediately curl their lip, she is ever and always alert when speaking of it. "I should hardly think the Inquisition would be fond of his presence in Kirkwall, else."

Alexandrie arches a wry brow. "Fond is a strong word even then. House Asgard is largely tolerated, but both he and his brother have found their way to positions of rank despite their audacity to have been born in the North."

[sarcophage]

Good for Marie, expressing herself when she can; stick it to The Man and so forth. Leander's just glad for the opportunity to disregard people without social consequence. Case in point: he glances to make sure Marie's hands are out of the way before taking up his cup again, never acknowledging her face.

Alexandrie, on the other hand, retains consistent command of his attention.

"How dare they, honestly." Dryly spoken, with nary a curl of his lip. Whatever he thinks of Tevinter, it doesn't seem strong enough to jerk his knee on mention. "I might've heard his name, come to think of it. Does he spend much time in the library?" Before a sip, he adds, "My office is there."

His office.

[coquettish_trees]

Ah, the great wonders of being affluent. It comes with a free pass to disregard everyone beneath your stature without social consequence, save the consequence that people beneath your stature tend to notice and remember that you choose to do so. They also remember when you don't, which makes it a useful tool overall.

(Marie, having a vindictive streak, remembers.)

"Truly an unforgivable slight against us all. As to his time, he is more inclined towards spending it in his own library, but when he is obliged to be in the Gallows," which is often, since he has taken up an office there, "he can be found in there quite often." And it quite often amuses Alexandrie to go and sit across the tower from him and idly watch him until he notices. "Head and shoulders taller than I, dark hair, a preference for clothing of a similar shade, excruciatingly handsome." She leans her cheek on her hand with a small impish smile, "Appears as if he should be as well pleased to stab you as speak to you should you interrupt him at his reading."

[sarcophage]

"Lucky girl," he says, and his head turns coyly behind his cup, still raised. "I might've seen him there. Pale eyes? Cheekbones that could shave ice?"

Already congealing in his thoughts, the vague urge to see if he might befriend such a fellow, perhaps slip into his peripheral thoughts, and eventually into his bed, in the name of his favourite sport: to see what might happen. What the Lady herself might do. His curiosity always did have teeth of its own.

She may glimpse one or two of them now; he's not trying to be subtle.

"He's got a brother, you said?"

[coquettish_trees]

"Just so!" An acceptable response to all: the statement of her fortune, the description–although she would never say 'pale' of Loki's eyes–and the matter of Thor.

"Although if one brother is to your taste, the other is likely to be despaired of. They are like sun and moon, those two." Alexandrie's smile twitches amusedly... even as something unexpected announces itself with a displeased possessive hiss at the idea of someone else eyeing her lover and having any such taste, which is a fool's game. The both of them are terribly hedonistic creatures given to manipulation through charm (and what naturally follows), and neither has any expectation of fidelity in that sense. Or any true desire for having it.

Of course now Alexandrie's brow pinches ever so slightly with the sudden uncomfortable realization that she may, in fact, have that desire.

Bordel de merde.

[sarcophage]

That's lovely, that little wrinkle, there—like a wink of light in a fountain's basin.

Leander's smile fades to a demure hint, lips still pressed. It's very rare that he grins, whether to show his bite or otherwise; he finds he doesn't need to. She'll have seen him laugh, of course, but never with a delight deep enough to peel him back completely. (It's possible she never will.)

"Do I look nocturnal to you? Don't answer that." Alas, his few sun-freckles have faded completely away these last months—the last trace of Rivain, gone from his skin. But he's not finished:

"Hmmm," humming through his next delicate sip of tea, faux-thoughtful, and obviously so, because he's not embarrassed to let her know he's been waiting this whole time to bring it up, "Of the mages living in the Gallows... how many do you know?"

writes an essay entitled 'i see u'

[coquettish_trees]

She opens her mouth and then closes it again, to appear as if she meant to do the very thing he had instructed her not to, before waiting to receive the true prompt for her next line.

And there it is. He's curious, and it's almost certainly after whether or not she knows someone in particular. Given their discussion thus far, she can only assume that means that muse of his is here in Kirkwall, and not just here in Kirkwall, part of the Inquisition. His playful obviousness in that curiosity makes a fine show of being both fish to be caught and fisherman using live bait.

Leander is not simply playful; he plays.

This realization means also, she thinks, that his interest in Loki was meant largely as a tournament barb to see if she might be pricked to greater wrath for the amusement of the crowd, and that makes her delighted, curious… and immediately on guard. Because she recognizes such a play, and can see no reason for him to have made it save for his own amusement. There are not many who play the Grand Game for sport--and fewer mages who do, at least outside Tevinter. She used to be one such sportsman, when she had hit her stride: a hunter who killed not to eat, but simply for the dark and feral joy of watching beasts die.

Alexandrie knows this: Leander has claws. She knows also, by the casual flair with which he wields them, that they are not unblooded. She has invited into her home a manner of creature who is even now deciding whether or not she is a fellow predator or prey; and then if the former, whether or not she is a threat, if the latter, whether or not chasing her would be fun. And so, the dance.

“How many mages living in the Gallows do I know?” she repeats with her own affected thoughtfulness, casting her eyes skyward and tapping one delicately tapered finger against her chin. “Should you like a rounded estimate, or shall I list them one by one?”

clever girl

[sarcophage]

Alexandrie is more or less correct in these assumptions about her guest, except in one respect: Leander has already made a decision. He's already interested, already following her with lazy feline eyes whenever she moves, whether through his thoughts or his field of vision—if he weren't, he wouldn't be here at all.

That isn't to say he's committed, only curious. At any time, he may wander back the way he came. (Well, maybe not any time; he'd have to put his shoes back on first.)

"Definitely a list—but only of your favourites. That should save us some time. And if I don't make the cut, by the way, I'll be very cross." Not true; his ego will do just fine without her. That'll be the bait's gills moving.

[coquettish_trees]

"Only my favourites?" Alexandrie makes a show of being disappointed that he'd interrupted her intent to make a recitation worthy of a court herald.

"I suppose my lord must come first," a mischevious twitch of her smile for the double-entendre, "and then Colin, who was at Kinloch Hold. Knight-Enchanter Shivana from the Circle at Hasmal, Lord Thor, who is largely a favourite because he convinced his brother to make the journey with him," she does like Thor, although she has picked up Loki's habit of teasing him (her teasing is far less likely to draw blood), "Enchanter Isaac, by virtue of our shared homeland, Mage Averesch for his terribly disagreeable expression and terribly agreeable posterior," she pauses to tap her finger against her chin thoughtfully before beaming at Leander, "and you, of course, for I hate to disappoint."

[sarcophage]

Enchanter Isaac. How nice. He must've had an apprentice or two, then; something to ask after at a later time.

Leander's expression only changes upon mention of Mage Averesch, however, and the Lady's colourful choice of words to describe him—he agrees, by the look of it—and then a single, lingering nod for the honourable mention. "Thank you," he says, with a matter-of-fact lilt. That'll do.

"I'm familiar with Mage Averesch—we were at the same Circle for a year or two." He could recount the exact date he left, and the time of day, if he cared to share so much. "We were just boys, then. He didn't seem terribly happy to see me again, even after all this time. Granted, he never was very cheerful, but still."

Still, unless he's done something to cause it on purpose, being scowled at—he'll want to dig at it, to see what's underneath. Like so:

"Do you know much about him? He seemed... distracted, when we met, so I didn't want to press. This was when the Veil had been badly thinned."

[coquettish_trees]

"Little enough," Alexandrie replies with a small unapologetic shrug, "I am passing more familiar with his brother." She smiles and leans her chin lightly on her hand again. "Although not familiar enough to have been made aware of any circumstance under which either of them have looked pleased. I daresay their expressions are proof that a mothers admonition that if one continues to make such a face it shall remain so is no empty scold."

The smile twitches mirthfully. "Did I not find myself so very thoroughly engaged, I might make attempt to bed one of them to see if the scowl truly stays in place all the while."

[sarcophage]

Mothers and Sisters (and Enchanters, Templars, Speakers and Seers) must reference a common script. Though Lea has no experience with the former—a foundling, discovered in unfortunate circumstances—he's certainly been scolded enough to look fondly amused by the paraphrase.

A moment later, putting down his cup, he releases a broad sigh. "I suppose I'll have to do the chivalrous thing and act in your stead."

You know, for science or whatever.

[coquettish_trees]

"A grand sacrifice on your part," she commends. "Will you promise to return to me and report your findings? I detest languishing overlong in curiosity."