WHO: Gilia St. Low & YOU! WHAT: One Girls Quest To Be Absolutely Unnoticable: The Beginning. WHEN: From [gestures] to [gestures further along] WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall NOTES: None forseen, save for social anxiety and occasional eldritch horror.
Why on earth Wysteria insisted on doing this, was quite beyond Gilia. But then most of what Wysteria did was beyond Gilia. Being very loud, direct, and not at all what Gilia would like to do. Which of this particular morning in High-Garden consisted of reading her book, in peace, in this very nice seat under a tree.
Wysteria was talking a lot, as usual, very quickly. Gilia nodded along, it'd be rude to ignore her after all. That comfortable glaze over that she had perfected when dealing with her younger sisters that looks like paying attention, and her mind was quite far away as she sipped a cool drink. This place was so much warmer overall than the Isle. Maybe it was all this stone freely laid, reflecting the light back at them. They did like it a lot -
Did Wysteria pause? She slides her eyes back. "Oh, yes, of course." Her hands smooth over her knee after she puts the drink down. Feeling the material under her fingers. She wouldn't have bought a new dress if Wysteria hadn't insisted on them getting something for outings like this. But at least it was a sturdy sort of blue with white ribbons, nice and straightforward. Her advisors would approve of it.
Pause she has. In fact, Wysteria is still pausing, her attention diverted from Gilia beside her toward the too familiar shape of a particular gentleman (ha) happening near a hedgerow at the edge of the strictly regimented Hightown garden. For a moment, she goes rigid on the bench beside Gilia. Her eyes narrow. Tension ratchets down the length of her spine--
She turns abruptly and grips Gilia on the shoulder, laughing loudly as if in response to something her companion has definitely just finished saying. It's a sound to carry, tinkling cheerfully across the green - a bright burst of noise in the cold grey of Kirkwall's endless stone squares.
"Oh Gilia, don't be ridiculous. You're such a darling."
Byerly is not - contrary, perhaps, to his rather unsavory reputation - always trying to find some trouble to get into. Every once in a while, he is genuinely just out for a walk - with a pipe in hand, yes, but doing nothing more sinful than that.
So he strolls, and takes a puff - sees that the rather raucous laughter he heard earlier belongs to Miss Poppell, apparently enjoying some witticism on the part of her curly-haired young friend. Well, good for her. He graces her with a nod as he passes, but doesn't slow his already-leisurely pace.
Is rather drowned out by the laughter that goes on. Blinking Gilia awake out of her meandering daze that keeps roaming along. Across the fellow with his pipe that reminds her of someone but no one at all. Suppose he has just one of those faces?
But since, apparently, she was meant to be saying something, she tries to think of something she thinks would make Wysteria content. Always active, always moving. She did like that about her, if in little doses. So, a little louder, she carries on. "- Would you like to take a tour? The sky is very clear today, far better than other days, I am sure the walking would be pleasant - "
In any other instance, Wysteria thinks, such a mild sweep of Mr Rutyer's attention would qualify as a boon. Thank the Spirits, she might say to herself - she's successfully avoided falling prey to some long, circuitous conversation in which she stuffs her foot down her throat a minimum of four times and comes out the other side feeling as if she's spent the last twenty minutes being spun around while blindfolded and how now been told to find the door and not fall over on the way to it.
In this instance, on this perfectly lovely afternoon, she inexplicably bristles. It's a little stitch of impossible to decipher annoyance, soothed only by Gilia's suggestion. The combination drives her promptly to her feet. She benevolently offers the younger girl her arm. "Yes, I should think so. That sounds perfectly fine."
And then they're off at a considerable clip, Wysteria all but dragging Gilia along at a trot along some side path through the not yet blooming rose bushes so that at the next intersection of green walkways, having more or less stalked Byerly's path from a respectable distance, they might happen to conveniently waylay the man entirely by happenstance.
"Oh, is that you Mister Rutyer?" She tips back the broad brim of her hat. "I saw only your shoes earlier and thought I recognized them, but was certain I was mistaken."
Wysteria again? Byerly frowns very slightly, but, well - if the girl is talking to him (with the most puzzling urgency), he's not going to ignore her.
"My dear Miss Poppell," he greets, the slightest twitch of an eyebrow hinting at can I help you? But he doesn't give Wysteria a chance to respond to that silent inquiry: instead, soon as he makes it, he turns towards the young woman accompanying her.
"Who is this charming friend of yours?" he asks, lowering his eyelashes and directing his best smoulder at the girl. Which, given the very famous beauty of his eyes, is quite a good one indeed. Delicately, he grasps the girl's free hand, and he bows over it - and kisses the back of the wrist - And notices, of course, the little green mote embedded into it.
Still, Rifter or not, By trusts that the girl will be able to recognize that his gestures are insincere. A rake, he fancies, is like a scorpion; you might come from a different world entirely, but something primordial in you will still be able to recognize the signs of danger and know not to touch.
But oh, Gilia, has never met a rake for more than a minute to tell them apart from the other crowd of ambassadors. For what use was she to them for them to go chasing? Nevermind, that she has done a remarkable job of being no more than an extended shadow of Wysteria's when she wasn't working arranging books or some other such task.
But he did not look like the soldiers of the Inquisition, nor the vagabonds of Vane's crew. To that, she was relieved, though never left her role which had so long served in the face of strangers. She lets him take her hand, shivering the little for warm contact on cool skin. Her head bowing, eyes down, framed under her whimple and veil and the stray locks of curls that would not stay pinned no matter what she did. The dip of a curtsey in greeting that was so perfectly and strictly respectful. "Gilia. St. Loe. First-Daughter, Second-Child." The familiar patterns of introduction that offers no more than that. This was Wysteria's acquaintance, not hers, she didn't need to prattle on.
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(closed.) wysteria & byerly
no subject
She turns abruptly and grips Gilia on the shoulder, laughing loudly as if in response to something her companion has definitely just finished saying. It's a sound to carry, tinkling cheerfully across the green - a bright burst of noise in the cold grey of Kirkwall's endless stone squares.
"Oh Gilia, don't be ridiculous. You're such a darling."
no subject
So he strolls, and takes a puff - sees that the rather raucous laughter he heard earlier belongs to Miss Poppell, apparently enjoying some witticism on the part of her curly-haired young friend. Well, good for her. He graces her with a nod as he passes, but doesn't slow his already-leisurely pace.
no subject
Is rather drowned out by the laughter that goes on. Blinking Gilia awake out of her meandering daze that keeps roaming along. Across the fellow with his pipe that reminds her of someone but no one at all. Suppose he has just one of those faces?
But since, apparently, she was meant to be saying something, she tries to think of something she thinks would make Wysteria content. Always active, always moving. She did like that about her, if in little doses. So, a little louder, she carries on. "- Would you like to take a tour? The sky is very clear today, far better than other days, I am sure the walking would be pleasant - "
no subject
In this instance, on this perfectly lovely afternoon, she inexplicably bristles. It's a little stitch of impossible to decipher annoyance, soothed only by Gilia's suggestion. The combination drives her promptly to her feet. She benevolently offers the younger girl her arm. "Yes, I should think so. That sounds perfectly fine."
And then they're off at a considerable clip, Wysteria all but dragging Gilia along at a trot along some side path through the not yet blooming rose bushes so that at the next intersection of green walkways, having more or less stalked Byerly's path from a respectable distance, they might happen to conveniently waylay the man entirely by happenstance.
"Oh, is that you Mister Rutyer?" She tips back the broad brim of her hat. "I saw only your shoes earlier and thought I recognized them, but was certain I was mistaken."
no subject
"My dear Miss Poppell," he greets, the slightest twitch of an eyebrow hinting at can I help you? But he doesn't give Wysteria a chance to respond to that silent inquiry: instead, soon as he makes it, he turns towards the young woman accompanying her.
"Who is this charming friend of yours?" he asks, lowering his eyelashes and directing his best smoulder at the girl. Which, given the very famous beauty of his eyes, is quite a good one indeed. Delicately, he grasps the girl's free hand, and he bows over it - and kisses the back of the wrist - And notices, of course, the little green mote embedded into it.
Still, Rifter or not, By trusts that the girl will be able to recognize that his gestures are insincere. A rake, he fancies, is like a scorpion; you might come from a different world entirely, but something primordial in you will still be able to recognize the signs of danger and know not to touch.
no subject
But he did not look like the soldiers of the Inquisition, nor the vagabonds of Vane's crew. To that, she was relieved, though never left her role which had so long served in the face of strangers. She lets him take her hand, shivering the little for warm contact on cool skin. Her head bowing, eyes down, framed under her whimple and veil and the stray locks of curls that would not stay pinned no matter what she did. The dip of a curtsey in greeting that was so perfectly and strictly respectful. "Gilia. St. Loe. First-Daughter, Second-Child." The familiar patterns of introduction that offers no more than that. This was Wysteria's acquaintance, not hers, she didn't need to prattle on.