open | it's hot up here

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie, Colin, Leander, you
WHAT: Catch-all for Lexie including paint, rage, and a generally terrible day at the office made worse.
WHEN: Presently
WHERE: Hightown and the Gallows
NOTES: She may try to get into a fight with every single person here

I. Colin

There is an odd noise, from the studio. A dull repetitive thudding. It's broken every so often by silence, but it always resumes again.

Searching it out yields Alexandrie, kneeling on a raw unstretched canvas that would fit her body should she lie on it and stretch, pounding her paint-covered fist over and over onto it, her breathing labored as she fills the space fist by fist with something vast and dark. The pause comes when she reaches to cover her hand again with pigment.

There is a second pause, to reach for the bottle beside her.


II. Leander

There are rooftops now, of a sort, and buildings beneath them, rendering the vast darkness on her canvas a yet starless sky. She flinches sometimes, when some thought darkens her brow and her hand comes down a little harder, but she makes no attempt to lessen her own force. There is paint on her face, where she's scrubbed at the sweat born from exertion and relentless heat, and the curls that have loosened themselves at the sides of her face swing with her movement. Stick. Are dislodged again. Swing.

Alexandrie had instructed Marceau to not allow visitors, but Leander isn't a visitor. Leander is both her second in command and she'd long ago given him the run of the studio, and thus he was given no challenge at the door.


III. Jeshavis Office (Open)

There is, just before your entrance, a gasp and then a sharp oath. An odd one; the country of origin of the phrase is Antiva, but the words start in Tevene. It doesn't translate well.

Inside, the Lady Alexandrie persists in her dogged determination to look at least moderately finished. The result is a woman even paler than usual and quite obviously due to what one might argue is the over-application of cosmetics rather than the infinite care she takes to stay shielded from the sun. The amount of powder required to stop herself from melting is frankly absurd. Despite the care she's taken, and the unceasing movement of the fan wielded with as much ferocity as any weapon, the sweat is slowly beginning its march again on the sides of her face.

The source of the oath: the condensation from the glass on her desk, unchecked, has made it into the base of her stack of papers and has begun to lift the ink.

"Qu'Est-ce que c'est," she says, sharp and irritable. A pause. And then, without looking up from where she's trying to blot the water from the page, "What."


IV. Wildcard!

Comments

jeshavis

[wythersake]

"Congratulations," He repeats, fishing out handkerchief in offer. "I heard there were assassins."

He'd thought about attending the wedding. It would have been a better show of gratitude, perhaps. Feels vindicated now to have let it pass.

[coquettish_trees]

The offer is readily taken.

“The two of us together engaged in an entirely unsympathetic activity did indeed inspire a few men and women to reach into their purses for purposes other than supplementing my dowry,” Alexandrie replies dryly, continuing to dab at the papers. “Our fond hope is that other intrepid hopefuls shall also hear there were assassins.” Emphasis on were. “And that, combined with the passing of the most dramatic opportunity to lodge mortal complaint, shall prove preventative of further such attentions.” She sounds unconvinced. (When she looks up, she looks unconvinced.)

“Have we business? Or is this a social call, fulfilled by my pleased acceptance of your sincere well-wishing and your fortuitous acquisition of an original work by a now rather controversial artist.”

Alexandrie holds the now damp and “artistically inked” handkerchief up daintily to return it.

[wythersake]

"Do you know what they call uncontroversial artists?" He folds it carefully, two hands; it doesn't return to the same pocket. "Painters."

Of houses, barns, souvenir plates — the implication.

"I'll not keep you long." The way he folds into another chair would suggest otherwise. "How is your family?"

That's a little too pointed to be a social call.

[coquettish_trees]

“Embroiled, the last we heard. Lord Asgard—” her face and tone are mild as milk “—and his soldiers had taken up position west of Marnas Pell. A single House rebellion of sorts, he having his eyes always towards Par Vollen and being entirely unwilling to fall into line and commit his forces to the aims of the Venatori conquest of the South. But that was some months ago. My most recent information suggests they are no longer encamped, but if it is because they have been forced by the turn of the rest of the Magisterium and the shift in public opinion to take a skirmish approach or because something more dire has occurred...” she lifts her shoulders, spreads her hands.

“I should suggest we take an interest in the disposition and resources of our allies who are uniquely placed behind the front lines, but I think it unlikely our few resources shall be so allocated.”

Alexandrie tilts her head, a small smile ghosting her lips. “Or did you mean the Comte and Comtesse de la Fontaine.”

[wythersake]

He did, of course — Alexandrie's Lord Husband is, at best, an unpleasant abstraction. Rarely seen or heard, and that to be preferred. Quite ironically Orlesian, to keep a trophy mage about. One just doesn't ordinarily wed them.

A level gesture.

"As one now, no?" Wry; of course they aren't. That's the point. "And too, behind the frontlines."

In a manner of speaking: Tevinter's advance, the seat of the Chantry; the usual games of court. No, Riftwatch seems unlikely to prop up the Imperium's ruling powers, but Orlais is within Alexandrie's present sphere of influence. He's read his peerage: Five siblings. They can't all be equally opposed.

"The assassins. Did you take any alive?"

[coquettish_trees]

"Two. One admits no patron but the good of the daughters of Orlais. To hear him tell it, which he is more than happy to for hours upon end, he patriotically volunteered his services and believes quite adamantly that I should come to my better senses the moment my lord husband stops breathing. The other says nothing at all."

Her affect dallies with light irritation but refuses to commit. It's expected; she would be surprised were it simpler.

"A state of affairs which yet refuses to bear fruit, but I am patient."

[wythersake]

Is patient what they call it?

"The first might have further words for your sisters," Only two to marry admirably, and one of those without intrigue. The favour of a hand: "And for Lord Matthias."

Any one of them might have taken the heat before Alexandrie set eyes northward.

"I don't know that anyone has a great deal to gain from your death," Okay. He can think of a few (it wouldn't exactly hurt his own prospects). "But there are others set to benefit from your continued disgrace. How many assassins does Riftwatch itself employ?"

He isn't looking for numbers: They've enough to deal with a party trick.

[coquettish_trees]

Her lips twitch amusedly.

"Perhaps I shall soon begin to receive covert letters of gratitude for being so scandalous." It might be well enough noted that there has been little change to her holdings in Kirkwall. Not a far stretch to guess that the private feelings of Val Fontaine have a different ring than what is said for the sake of appearances.

"To what purpose such a question?"