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.
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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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.