faderift | ( closed-ish )

Am I interrupting?

[ A rhetorical question, asked after he's already let himself in — easy to do, given the other man's focus on paperwork and other work, which Caspar is absolutely interrupting. You can't technically interrupt when you've been invited, though, and he has been. Or requested, or very informally ordered. Whatever label his favors for Riftwatch fall under.

The door was half-open when he arrived; now it's mostly open thanks to a gentle, quiet push, and while the question's rhetorical enough that he's already a few steps into the room, he's hardly close enough to get a good look at any of the papers in question. He hasn't forgotten all his manners. ]

[ Ilias had reached that particular state between focus and distraction, gaze intent on the letter in front of him without reading a single one of the words, and so his next inhale comes a bit sharp, but —

Oh. Hello. ]

Not at all. Please.

[ A gesture to the chair in front of his desk, gracious on instinct. He hadn't exactly minded Perakis's company, the first time they'd met; only now, with certain blinders removed by virtue of his new position, he feels the need to reassess. To remember his caution, perhaps. His smile is no less polite for it. ]

How was Antiva?

[ There's really no way to make a clearly deliberate and unannounced visit while someone's at work casual, so he doesn't try; when he shows up it's for completely reasonable work purposes. A small stack of letters, tied neatly together, intercepted from a pair of Southern nobles whose relevance is heavily outweighed by the intensity (and stupidity) of their opinions on Riftwatch and Corypheus. Groundbreaking? Not really, but still worth knowing.

Caspar sets the letters on the desk without asking in a gesture that's more routine than it is deliberately rude, offering the man behind said desk a friendly nod in greeting. ]

Some new reading material — a bit cliché, not overly inspiring. Perhaps it'll age well.

[Having followed Caspar's approach with impassive, unblinking scrutiny, the man behind the desk next follows the bundle's descent, and does not visibly react as his desk's balanced arrangement of items becomes suddenly lopsided. He then sets his quill into a holder and slides the wet page aside, careful not to disturb the still-settling bubbles of ink—he's been practising a new script—and finally lifts his attention to the face above.

Mildly, pleasantly,]

They can't all be cultural sensations. Who should I be thanking?

[ Caspar politely keeps his eyes off the script and any other stray (but tidy, no doubt) paperwork within view, and he follows up the friendly nod with a very shallow bow. More of a lean, but it gets the point across. ]

Caspar.

[ First name only is easy to get away with when half of Ferelden is running about without a surname. It'd be a stretch to say he's particularly covert or shy with his name — to half the people who might recognize it, it's an asset. It's just that the other half might be more interested in killing him, or at least giving him a lecture. His accent's a bit vague, too, though that isn't all strategy — it's still discernibly Nevarran, but a decade in Antiva's done plenty to smooth its edges. ]

A friend of mine usually makes the deliveries, but we've worked together before. Well, [ A considering beat. ] Perhaps not you, specifically.

[ Riftwatch, broadly. The project. ]

Caspar.

[A false flicker of weakness; he doesn't need to repeat it to remember. The accent is familiar, if uncommon—he'll place it after further exposure, perhaps some time to think about it—and not unpleasant to hear. (He's brought back some Rivaini cadence, himself, though he's obviously Fereldan.)]

That would be we the company, then—that's fine. I'm called Lea, myself. Specifically. [A pause, for the more genuine flicker of a smile.] Were you here before the split, or did you come after?

"Do you want to get married?"

It's a third beer question, asked while she's leaning forward on the cramped table in the cramped tavern she's somehow dragged Wysteria to, to unwind. She's not a lightweight, and she's certainly not drunk, but Kenna is slowly listing towards substantially tipsy. It takes her a moment to hear her own question and quickly add, "Generally, I mean. To people."

What was the lead-up? Was there a lead-up? Some gossip, maybe, about Orlesian weddings and whether that level of pomp is fun or obnoxious and how they compare to the weddings Wysteria's used to.

"Oh, desperately."

Which is a third beer sort of answer, in that Wysteria says it immediately and then promptly begins an unending string of qualifications from where she sits, bright eyed and cheerful, directly beside Kenna. They've this end of a long table more or less to themselves now, but when they'd first shouldered into the public house sitting side by side had been the only real option. 'All the better,' Wysteria had declared. 'I hate having to shout conversation across a table.'

"Well, not desperately. I'm not desperate. But generally I believe it's the thing one is meant to do. And you know, having a husband makes certain things much-- well, easier isn't the word. But say, hypothetically, that you and I were very good friend with a young lady, and that young lady were to be married. I have found it is practically impossible, no absolutely is tantamount to flying to the moon, to spend any time with a friend once she is married. One needs a husband of their own to distract the lady's spouse with."

Not that she's been put any thought into this extremely specific scenario.

It had been a little awkward to start, because when you're sitting right next to someone you've got the issue of leaning into them, accidentally or otherwise, and also the issue of having to look at them very, very deliberately. It's a bit easier to manage acceptable levels of eye contact when you're looking at each other by default, or to manage the awkward look-away-because-maybe-you've-been-looking-too-much maneuver without it being completely obvious.

All of which is less of an issue a few beers in, admittedly. Whatever awkward energy Kenna had brought to the table initially has more or less melted into casual, easy comfort, minus the usual stumbling over words.

"Really? Meant to do," she can't help the way her brows pinch, but any further disagreement is derailed by further clarification. Which is... well, a little abstract. It takes her a moment to follow. "So... the point of marrying a man—,"

A dramatic pause, just to make sure she's got this right. "Is to ensure you can spend more time with other women."

"I wouldn't say more time, really. More that getting married is an investment one makes to maintain a particular lifestyle, and to keep familiar company close." This she says with a perfectly straight face and all other hallmarks of being rather quite genuine.

"It's not just for women either, you know. It does the men good as well. I tell you, there is nothing quite so miserable as a bachelor whose friends have all gone and married. Go on - ask me how I know."

Gossip is a terrible habit which she clearly rarely stoops to indulge in, but what is the harm? If she were really worried about any part of the rumor traveling on account of the public nature of the setting, she might simply whisper it to Kenna and swear her to secrecy. Anyway, it's not as if the man in question is even present to be offended. So there.

Wysteria keeps speaking and Kenna's brows knit ever closer together. Then her mouth twists, disgruntled, and by the end of it she's more or less scowling. Not at Wysteria. It's a very confused kind of scowl, and mostly aimed at the world in general. Or maybe at Wysteria's world, specifically, though there's something about all of it that reminds her frighteningly of her own mother—

Only her mother loathes gossip, and there's a certain vigorous enthusiasm with which Kenna latches onto that entirely distinct trait and enables it with a hasty, "How?"

She also hasn't worked out a response to getting married is an investment and particular lifestyle yet. Time will tell if this is a stalling tactic while she works it out or a way to bail on that specific conversation entirely.

"Because I have seen it for myself, of course."

Here, she pauses to takes a conspiratorial sip from her mug. As far as dramatic pauses go, she doesn't have the patience to let this one go for long but the intent is there even if the execution is lacking. "Where I come from - if you believe in such things, I know there are lots of people who don't so call it a dream or whatever you like -, I studied with just such a man. Allegedly, he once had been quite popular in certain circles and the best of friends with a particular colleague. However, by the time I came to know he he had become something of a pariah among those same circles. How could such a thing have happened, I wondered to myself. It isn't as if the man's mind had faltered at all, and though it's true this his practical abilities were limited, he remained a brilliant essayist.

"So imagine to my surprise when we attended a gathering of like-minded intellectuals and I discovered this friendship, which he'd always been quite protective of, was hardly a friendship at all. And why? Why, because his colleague had been married to a lovely woman with whom he had nothing at all in common with and no companion of his own with which he might distract her, and so he and his dear friend had a falling out. All of which could have been avoided if he'd simply wed himself."

If you believe in such things doesn't even make sense, for a moment, because Rifters are about on par with magic at large — not something she gets or thinks much about. Easier to take for granted that Wysteria is very real and the place she comes from must be very real, too. She's not wispy or anything. Surely that counts for something.

"Wait," said while squinting, both through the beer and Wysteria's very roundabout way of saying literally anything. "So you're saying if he'd had a wife to chuck at this other man's wife, then they could have gone on being friends."

Also are they talking about....... friendship or........ friendship. Unsure.

"Yes," she cries. "That's exactly it! I'm so pleased you understood so instantly from just those details. It would be terribly crass to have to dig into the semantics of the thing - what he said and what was overhead, and the circumstances under which I learned any of this to begin with as pieced together by a half dozen remarks from the lady in question and, say, a series of notes found in a locked drawer. Which was not snooping; I don't have to tell you of course, but the discovery was accidental to the extreme.

"--Isn't it lovely when two minds are so well aligned as ours? Even the barest descriptions have such clarity."

She has no idea what Wysteria’s talking about.

She knows what she’s saying, on the surface. That this man couldn’t remain friends with this male friend after his male friend had gone and got married? That if he’d had a woman with which to distract the man’s wife, then they could’ve continued being friends? What kind of society wouldn’t allow a married man to have single friends? Or, of course, she’s missing what isn’t being said. Which Wysteria clearly thinks she isn’t missing.

Kenna, entirely out of her element, leans forward and attempts a small, conspiratorial smile.

“Not too terribly crass, though. I mean, to discuss what he said, or what the notes said. Even less crass when you’re a whole rift away, I’d bet. Not that it’s necessary, obviously, because we are so well aligned, just— you know. I love hearing about your world.”

please god explain

The thing is, it doesn't really hurt anyone to discuss it now does it? It isn't as if Ralston or the Doctor or dear Lady Elizabeth will come tumbling out of a rift to be plagued by the fact that their personal dramas have been shared over a few drinks had in a loud public house. Or rather-- the odds seem very slim. Why, she cannot think of a single Rifter who has such a close association with any other. And if it does happen, she will simply have to swear Kenna to secrecy and it will be one more bond of true and everlasting friendship between them. There are, simply put, no drawbacks.

Besides, she rather likes discussing Kalvad when given the rare opportunity. It allows her to think of the place without considerable pangs of homesickness (or rather, guilt spurred on by the fact that she doesn't really seem to miss it all the much).

So, the story goes: "Well, just this once then. So you will have to listen closely, for I could not bear to repeat it a second time. As I said, it was at this evening salon where I first discovered that the two men's associated was hardly an association at all. Oh, the man's friend - let us call him Henry which is not his name, but it will be easier to discuss them in such terms - was warm enough and quite cordial, and his wife - Henrietta. Again, not her name and rather too close to Henry, come to think of it. Agatha? Lucasta? Oh no; let us call her Ursula. I have always fancied that name--

"Ursula and Henry were very cordial to the gentleman when we arrived, and though he did his very best to appear the same, I have something of an intuition for these things and could easily discern some uneasiness between the three of them. Not an uncommon state for those forced to bear the gentleman's company, mind you, but I had never witnessed it return in kind. He is a very irritable sort of person, you know, and those people rarely realize the discomfort they inflict on the people about them. Despite this, the evening went far more swimmingly than I would have guessed given the wide range of the company and the presence of at least four colleagues I am certain the gentleman in question despised.

"Toward the end of evening, myself and one of the other guests took some air in the back garden. You would like Martine. She is darling. --As we reached the rear of the garden, we realized suddenly that someone was speaking in a very sharp tones indeed. It was not eavesdropping, merely done incidentally as we made our way down the path. This voice belonged to none other than the gentleman in question and he was sharply upbraiding poor Doctor Henry himself on some matter of politics which is important, but hardly relevant here as shortly thereafter Henry cut in and informed the man that he would not discuss the matter under such pretenses, and if he wished to say something about his wife then he should simply say so directly."

Here, she falls into theater and pitches her voice lower: "'Your wife? Not everything is about your wife, Doctor.'" A different voice: "'Is it not?'" Toggling back: "''If you think I have even a single feeling for the woman, than you have grossly overestimate the situation. I am entirely apathetic to her.' --Isn't it shocking?"

This is, at best, half the story. But here she pauses for the appropriate reactions. One must pace these things appropriately or they risk alienating their audience.

Research, it turns out, is mostly a euphemism for running notes and errands and looking up and delivering books to people with better titles and in other departments. It's a bit of a flashback to his earlier days in Kinloch, but that isn't altogether a problem; it only becomes one when the person asking for favors decides to be friendly, start a conversation, otherwise waste his time.

Which is why there's a certain irony to the fact that he's the guilty party, this time — after a second look and a very serious delay to consider whether he can be bothered. Lukas is dropping off some carefully rolled notes and a few books at a nearby shelf, meant to be picked up later. He doesn't stop altogther; just slows a bit, gradually, giving the woman across the small office space a curious look.

"They've got you doing paperwork?"

He doesn't ask if it's Fitcher, because he knows it is. Manners are fine. Manners at the cost of playing dumb, not so much.

It's quiet work and, unless something is specifically handed to her, there is almost no reason whatsoever to look up. Not when someone else is in the room, anyway. True, she might make some habit of dilly dallying and snooping through the books while unattended, but to the seeing eye the woman at the little desk in the corner of the dusty little office is as diligent as any little hard working clerk ought to be. Any busy body tendencies are saved for her private hours.

Maybe that accounts for the flicker of surprise that crosses Fitcher's face when she raises it to him. Imagine! He might have said nothing at all and she would have gone on quite happily and quite dangerously oblivious to his presence. Careful, she thinks. Early days yet, my dear.

And so the woman at the little desk brightens. She sets down her pen.

"Why, if it isn't the Knight-Enchanter. I was beginning to think I might never see a familiar face." --(should she be so lucky)-- "What are you doing here?"

Edited 2019-07-29 19:39 (UTC)

( closed-ish )

for ilias.

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for leander.

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for wysteria.

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zombie groans

sweet, my necromancer subclass finally came through

hm seems a little buggy might want to submit an error report

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looks at this tag a month later, laughs again

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for hot mom.

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