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.
The nugs press closer - new person, new smells, lofty heights after trotting along on Yngvi's errands thus far that have taken them so far as Lowtown, dipping their collective toes into Darktown too - as Yngvi gives her a look. Probably a bad judge but a pretty girl from the look of it, kind if she's offering that.
"Behave yourselves, she's not here to put up with your antics. She's not Thranduil." Who is, probably, the person with hair likely to get tangled since his lady has hers out of the way usually and wouldn't let a nug get at it. (He can't imagine it.)
"D'you got one?" Which yeah, there's no way to disguise that as being anything other than a rude question but rifters come, rifters go, some ascending to lofty heights but most don't, not really and he's curious. "A place, I mean," he clarifies as he fishes the papers out his pockets again. "I'm meant to be doing Other Powers or the bastard child no one wants since we've not had a leader in forever and scouting, research, check up on how the shady bits do, give my dwarven expertise but you know--"
And he stops, swallows carefully as he takes a breath and hopes the smile is genuine. He feels it but sometimes it's difficult to know how to do this.
"You're here. So. This is your place. Same as it's anyone's place and honestly make sure you say something 'fore someone else," mages, "puts words in your mouth."
She shakes her head, no, she had no such job, no place beyond what she had been put to use for. Or as much as she can, when one of the nugs finds the warm spot next to her neck, and she didn't want to disturb it. It was fine, that shoulder is it's now.
"I've no such place, sir. I've little to offer, you see. I've never been in a - a - " she looks around so terrible suspicious, eyes darting like she was worried, so worried, that someone might hear her like her mother and brother would loom out from a corner.
So she leans in, down to him as she bends from the waist. "A war camp." The fear is plain in those words, in that little conspiratorial whisper. "I've little skills, that which they might need. I kept my family, and my families wishes, as best I could, and attended to our household at my brother's side. I do not know what skill I might possess otherwise to be much use to anyone. So I do not mind with these tasks, it seems someone must sweep the floors and mend the boots that soldiers need to march over and with."
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"Behave yourselves, she's not here to put up with your antics. She's not Thranduil." Who is, probably, the person with hair likely to get tangled since his lady has hers out of the way usually and wouldn't let a nug get at it. (He can't imagine it.)
"D'you got one?" Which yeah, there's no way to disguise that as being anything other than a rude question but rifters come, rifters go, some ascending to lofty heights but most don't, not really and he's curious. "A place, I mean," he clarifies as he fishes the papers out his pockets again. "I'm meant to be doing Other Powers or the bastard child no one wants since we've not had a leader in forever and scouting, research, check up on how the shady bits do, give my dwarven expertise but you know--"
And he stops, swallows carefully as he takes a breath and hopes the smile is genuine. He feels it but sometimes it's difficult to know how to do this.
"You're here. So. This is your place. Same as it's anyone's place and honestly make sure you say something 'fore someone else," mages, "puts words in your mouth."
no subject
"I've no such place, sir. I've little to offer, you see. I've never been in a - a - " she looks around so terrible suspicious, eyes darting like she was worried, so worried, that someone might hear her like her mother and brother would loom out from a corner.
So she leans in, down to him as she bends from the waist. "A war camp." The fear is plain in those words, in that little conspiratorial whisper. "I've little skills, that which they might need. I kept my family, and my families wishes, as best I could, and attended to our household at my brother's side. I do not know what skill I might possess otherwise to be much use to anyone. So I do not mind with these tasks, it seems someone must sweep the floors and mend the boots that soldiers need to march over and with."