closed | crikey, mate! have yourself a brew.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Mhavos & Gwen.
WHAT: Unsolicited Sex Tips.
WHEN: Before Kirkwall explodes (again).
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: Unsolicited Sex Tips.

Mhavos is, for lack of a better word, comfortable. Content. It's been a long day of scribework, he hasn't been asked to kill anyone, and he's not yet tired enough to sleep. While it's growing late, the dining hall isn't entirely empty, but it's sparsely enough populated that Mhavos can happily find a fireplace unoccupied. He sits, curled up around a book, his shows off to warm his feet by the fire.

His posture is carefully arranged, legs brought up to hide the cover of the book he's reading. A large tome of poetry, of course, though this one... if one looks close, they'll notice he's blushing faintly, from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears.

Comments

[elegiaque]

“If you're blushing now,”

is not something polite like 'hello' or 'I see that's one of my books that you're reading' or 'were you sort of hoping not to be interrupted with conversation while reading in front of the fire at this quiet hour', something Mhavos will become accustomed to whether he wants to or not now that Gwenaëlle has decided they are friends,

“you may want to stop before you get much further through or you may burst a blood vessel.”

She sits down, uninvited, to rise up on her knees again and have a look at which particular page he's on.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos listens closely to his surroundings, even when reading. He's hard to sneak up on unless one is really trying. The soft swipe of fabric, the particular echo of lady's shoes...

In general, he pretends to be surprised when he's approached thus. Not now.

Without moving, Mhavos supplies in a very dry tone-- "I've read this volume before, you know."

fuckin hover menu

[elegiaque]

“That's me told,” she returns, arch, settling back on her heels. She must have only been passing through; she hasn't got herself anything to eat, and generally speaking is not inclined to sitting in front of fireplaces at this time of year. Or spending casual hours in many of the Gallows' communal areas, besides begrudgingly not always bathing privately in her quarters.

Isn't he thrilled to have warranted a stop, probably. Hardie, a constant companion, lays down on the floor just out of the reach of heat, apparently not considering Mhavos a threat that requires inspection at this time. They are settling in.

“I've never been a particularly...” She tilts her fingers. “Titillating author. Which suggests some interesting things about what makes you blush.”

Is it feelings.

forgiven this time.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos has played this game before. A noble tries to egg you on, you demure, they continue, you continue. It's old-hat enough that Mhavos doesn't even take offense, just keeps reading.

"I'm rather near a fireplace in August, Madame."

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle's obliviousness has a twofold effectiveness: it doesn't occur to her, by herself, that there is a game afoot other than the equivalent of a cat headbutting another until it gives in and is groomed, and therefore what might have promptly ceased doesn't. Instead: “Strategic,” she says, approving and undeterred.

And then, “Gwenaëlle,” because she has decided that they're on first name terms.

“He's here, you know. My forgetful fingers. Actually, so was the woman who cut my hair out of hers.”

[murderbaby]

That's a non sequitur Mhavos wasn't expecting. He squints, and finally turns his head to face Gwen. "Beg pardon?"

[elegiaque]

“You have cut my throat with a fistful of my own hair,” she quotes herself, obligingly. “She's with the Inquisition. In Orlais, now, as far as I know. And the war turned out to be me, but peace may well be Lexie de la Fontaine.”

My fingers have forgotten you don't love me; no, she remembers just fine, now.

“That's a mess, but she knows what I think.”

[murderbaby]

All poets, inevitably, invariably, have vanity. He really shouldn't be surprised. Mhavos squints like a wet cat. "Are you- are you really telling me-?"

Of course she is, you fool.

Mhavos sighs. "If there are any involving your husband in here, I don't want to know. Please. Take pity on my remaining dignity."

[elegiaque]

That gets a laugh, immediately—

“I hadn't met my husband when any of that was published. He wasn't even in Thedas.”

[murderbaby]

Mhavos murmurs a quiet thanks to the Maker in Orlesian. "Then I can continue with life, unblinded. Thank you, Madame."

He's aware this is comical. He's just not wont to laugh. At least, not yet.

[elegiaque]

“Gwenaë—” she starts to repeat, and then considers, sitting back slightly where she's resting on her heels, head tilted like if she just studies him for long enough she'll be able to untangle whatever's going on behind his eyes. Unspool it like so much thread, and set it neatly to needle.

Her head tilts to the other side.

“You and your remaining dignity were reading,” she says, a little apologetic.

[murderbaby]

He nods. "And now my dignity and I are talking."

He reaches over to the seat next to him, patting it softly in invitation. "If dignity and pride were shattered by such gentleness, no one would have any past the age of five."

[elegiaque]

“No one does,” she says, as if being very reasonable, but she settles back down regardless, sprawling next to him where invited with slightly less dignity than her dog, who is stately. “Well, pride, maybe.”

The other, no. She'll dispute that for everyone. At length.

“Gwenaëlle,” she repeats, then, and holds expectantly.

[murderbaby]

"I like to think I still have some. Carefully pickled, perhaps..." a shrug, and then the slightest cringe, smoothed out almost immediately. He frowns, and turns his gaze away.

"You must know how very difficult it is for me to drop all pretense of politeness in the presence of someone such as yourself." Hopefully, he won't have to spell it out further than that.

[elegiaque]

“Yes,” she agrees, because she does, and then, unmoved: “Practise makes things less difficult.”

Everyone's company is, in some way, ultimately conditional; more or less obviously. Gwenaëlle's determination to slough off the things about her old life that she no longer cares for is one of her conditions, and her dogged pursuit of unusual friendships also requires that they are...

Only the sort of obligation that one chooses; that one is glad to choose.

[murderbaby]

He appreciates that. A silent huff of laughter, his mouth quirking into the edge of a smile, and he nods. "If you can excuse my failings until I manage it. The Maker knows it will be easier with you than your husband."

[elegiaque]

“Being taken too seriously is bad for him,” she asserts, with the casual confidence of someone who has refused from the first that she ever met him to do so even slightly. “It encourages him, which is the last thing he needs.”

Consider what he accomplishes without encouragement, after all. Truly, he is the worst.

[murderbaby]

"I- I..." He shakes his head. "He is a six-foot-tall elf with the bearing Orlesian nobility wishes it could muster. Being in the same room with him, I know how those fancy aristocratic lapdogs feel when faced with a wolfhound."

That all came rushing out at once. He blinks, shakes his head, trying to clear it. Massaging his temple, he murmurs, "apologies, I didn't mean..." He trails off meagerly, unsure what he did or didn't mean.