WHO: Solas, Six, Sidony, Ashen, you! WHAT: General character open post WHEN: Covering this month. WHERE: All over! NOTES: Free for all as I come back from hiatus.
Training is still familiar to her, even after all this time.
The motions that she was taught so many years ago, Adrian's eyes on her, adjusting her arm, just there, the way she balanced her greatsword against the curve of her palm, the slight bend in her shoulders, the pressure of her heel just so... It has been a great many years since she was his student, since she was young enough to be tutored by anyone, but sometimes she feels the emotions so deeply that it is as if she has been transported through time itself.
Her greatsword feels good in her hand, familiar and warm and wonderful, and Six breathes through the motions of twisting her body, the ache in her armas as familiar as it is uncomfortable. That's good; it means she is tightening the muscles, reshaping them into what she needs. A few weeks without proper training and she feels unfit all of a sudden, as if all her bulk has disappeared entirely.
She only pauses when she recognises a shock of bright hair, enough to capture her attention and drag it away from the turn of her body, dropping her blade to one side and pushing the hair from her face.
It's early in the day - so early that the lamps in the yard are still lit and the grey early morning has only just begun to cut the flow of their light. And the man crossing the yard now, removing his gloves, seems finished with his sword work for the morning. He's cutting across the margin of the training pitch and all his attention is fixed on the darkened archway leading away from this place.
He is not, strictly speaking, avoiding her. It has been months. There is no use to it. But he has been avoiding this. It's been ages since they sparred, weeks since he appeared in the yard in hours typical for finding partners. Perhaps he has been working an early rotation that keeps him away. Or perhaps--
Well, it doesn't matter. He stops when he hears his name as if he had been somehow expecting it, and half turns toward her.
He could lie. He has work to see to. He could say I've done my sparring for the day, maybe tomorrow.
Instead, he shifts fully around and pretends the uneasy thud of his pulse is someone else's.
There's a moment where it seems as though Six might protest - where she might tell Marcoulf that all is well, that she has no need of his company if he does not wish to give it. She is learning to be better about the nature of her strange relationship with Marcoulf and knows better than to question him, at least now. If he gives his time then she would be glad to take it, but she will make no more demands of him than that.
She dares not ask the question are we friends again, for fear of rejection colouring like red shame on her cheeks. That is not something she is keen to relive, no matter the situation. There's an anxious, awkward urge to turn away and flee somewhere else, to hide beneath the too-long locks of her hair (a cut is needed, surely, but who to do it?) but she stands her ground. Anxious at heart she is braver in spirit, and Six stands tall as she looks at him, nods, and tugs her blade close.
It might be easier if she were to swap to a longsword, but it matters little. She has new tricks to show him.
"Thank you."
Moving forward, twisting her ankle to relax the muscle, Six settles her weight. She's unarmoured, at least, in a cotton shirt and leather breeches, and she tilts her head as she watches his movements.
Why are you doing this?, some distant part asks himself. Rather than answer that thought, Marcoulf slides his gloves back on to draw the long parrying dagger from his belt and the rapier from its scabbard.
"All right."
It's fine. With the sword clenched in the unsteady grip of his right hand and the dagger readied in his left, he moves to begin circling her. Everything is normal.
What is most frustrating is that Six is still entirely too fond of the man; her kitten, now a growing tomcat with a hiss like an angry snake, is named for him and he greets her with a purr even when she has been away for hours. He has even befriended Two, which is a novelty in itself, and she sleeps with all her animals curled at her side.
If only the real Marcoulf was as easy to manage.
"Good." Her feet move and she shifts without thinking, adjusting her grip on her greatsword - still two-handed, she has not approached such sheer amounts of power just yet - and clicking her fingers, summoning the flame to her blade.
The hot spark of fire catches him off guard, and he balks visibly - sliding step turned halting before he realizes what he's doing.
(Draw up. She doesn't want to fight. She just wants to discuss the enchantment no doubt carved into the greatsword.)
With a rapid, snapping motion, Marcoulf closes. The rapier flashes out at her, lighting quick versus the heavier blade's arcing flame. He gets one shot at this.
Six uses that to her advantage; the point is not to burn him, after all, but to shock him. It prickles at her skin but she accepts it all the same - she pushes down on her heels and shifts, pulling back the flame just a little. She has control over it, and she won't burn him, but if it's enough to put some fear in his movements...
He closes quickly, but Six knows him, knows his movements. Perhaps not as well as she might have done a month or two before now, but enough that she can bear down and duck, shifting her body. He is quicker than lightning - and what she has in strength she lacks in speed, half tumbling to the ground to dodge him.
At least her legs are quick to push her back to her feet, moving a step away and adjusting her blade again, eyes narrowing. A lunge is easy, but she goes for his right but tries to signal left, to throw him off guard.
Dress shopping is not a luxury she has been able to afford in recent years.
Sidony is familiar with the nature of standing still to be fitted for silks and ballgowns and other things people might regard as silly - but they were her armour, her sword and shield in a room filled with men who would have her and women who would like to be her. She hasn't had a new dress since she had left home; not even her wedding dress had been something she had bought for the occasion, which was fine considering the venue and the circumstances, but...
Fiddling idly with her ring, Sidony frowns.
There is nothing wrong with being invited to shop, but she has saved her money and has been looking forward to having at least one new outfit. She has some bolts of silk given to her last year during the gift exchange she still needs to use and those she has with her too, tucked in a basket hanging neatly on her arm. Perhaps she ought to make some attempt at wearing something a little more modest now she is known as Madame Rutyer, but anyone knowing her spouse would know that modesty is hardly the forefront of their natures. No, she can continue as she was.
Turning a corner, tucking her basket a touch closer to herself - there's a dagger up her sleeve for good reason - Sidony smiles, mostly genuine, as she sees her companion.
Not quite so spendthrift yet as Sidony has been, such outings have happened less and less, though before, in Orlais, they had rarely been outings at all. It can't be said that she never thought of the cost—she had always been very aware of where each and every coin went, and for what—but she had never blinked at it when upon a whim or perceived need she decided to monopolize the time of a dressmaker for the better part of a day or a week. For the amount of money that she was prepared to blithely spend on her wardrobe, she had not lacked for dressmakers willing to dance attendance on her convenience. If there was an additional this is unlikely to encourage a fashion tax on the time of a girl not much interested in what her peers were wearing, well, she hadn't thought it unreasonable.
The money will not last forever, now. She spends it more judiciously, even when what she's spending is more often than not her grandfather's money and not her own. Especially then; he so rarely calls her to account for what she's "borrowed" from him, but she is always ready to do so. This, she has decided, seems reasonable. They are going to Nevarra. They are expected to dress for Satinalia. She will need masks and costuming and she should have at least two options, that seems reasonable, what if she misjudges the weather, and she has nostalgia for Nevarra, besides, for having married there.
She hasn't done anything irresponsible other than nearly get the most elderly men of her acquaintance killed at a rift in ages. Closing down a Hightown dressmakers' to spend a day sketching costumes, trying fabric and drinking wine hardly seems excessive, under the circumstances, and she greets Sidony with a brief press of hands to her elbows and the near-the-cheek kisses Orlesian girls become expert at. She's selective with her personal space; it's purposeful, that she extends that particular warmth.
(She is not unaware that Lexie is still prone to periodically throwing tantrums about Rutyer's marriage.)
“I'm glad you came. Neither of us are going to have the gossip their maids prefer to eavesdrop on, but at least we'll be just as useless as each other.” This, dryly announced as she links their elbows to draw Sidony in, is probably also why she didn't hesitate over the invitation. Now they are both disreputable and disgraced, and if she's any judge, probably better company for it. Even if it does mean they aren't going to provide the usual floorshow of nobility at play. “I just want to look better than Sabine. I think something that will let me wear my hair down.”
Learning about how to adjust to the day to day of being a wife has not been much of a change for her, at least; she's well aware of her own nature and Byerly has done nothing to quash that. He welcomes all the things that make her who she is - her tongue, her nature, her tendency to lean towards sharpness rather than kindness, and even the softer parts that she does not dare show anyone else. She is not inclined to give in to that around anyone but him and she wonders if he realises; does he know what power he holds over her, even now?
Likely not. Best not to let him know, either.
It's much easier to settle down and focus on being near Gwenaëlle, to forget about men and marriage and all that nonsense for a little span of time. She would rather think of silks and dresses and masks - even as her mind shifts and wonders if she ought to get Byerly a matching one, a pair, or if he would prefer to go a little more incognito, to hide his marriage so that he might enjoy himself. There's no jealousy in her for that; she would not doom him to a life of celibacy. No, she would want him to have all the joy and pleasure the world might offer in return for the protection that he gave her.
It's harder to focus on Gwenaëlle when her mind wanders like this and she breathes out, turning her head and smiling with a gentle fondness. It's been some time since she has been around any women who don't seem as though they wish to tear her eyes out with their nails, which is a relief in itself. With no Anders to whisper to... She feels as though she ought to have a new confidant.
"Maids, plural? You hold me in such high esteem," it's a joke, Sidony knows what she means, but she steps closer, letting herself be drawn in. She longs for this - gentleness, intimacy, friendship, the softness of a woman's touch... But that is another matter entirely and not one to think about when shopping. She thinks of flowers and sketches and frowns, shaking her head. "I do not know what I might wear. Something red, I think, as it flatters me, but I'd like something that would flatter my husband as well."
Her nose wrinkles.
"Or not. I should have an extra for myself, without his opinion in mind."
“Your husband doesn't need the encouragement,” Gwenaëlle says, dryly, but there's no malice in the dig, particularly not when it can so easily be read as most things flatter Byerly Rutyer. And when it's true of her own, who is a fucking nuisance she actively encourages people to take less seriously. (To little success. Most people are more impressed by Thranduil than his wife is, despite her best efforts.)
Ushered into the dressmakers' shop and beyond the sale room to a parlor and fitting room behind where there is wine (along with a spread of cheese and fruits; someone has heard that the Duc de Coucy is footing her bills), Gwenaëlle and Sidony are offered cups of wine and soft robes to wear. Hightown is well-prepared for this sort of customer, even when Gwenaëlle offers over her own small cloth bag explaining, “I have several sheathes I'd like discreetly included in my final garments,” without raising so much as a maid's eyebrow.
(What the fuck is happening in Orlais, the dressmaker has been known to wonder. All of her Orlesian clients are like that.)
But to Sidony, she says, “I have a plan for my costume. I already had the boots,” for reasons that she'd better be sure she wants to know if she asks after, because Mme Baudin has never encountered shame in her life and will tell her, “and I'd sort of call it hiding in plain sight, if we're trying to be discreet about being Riftwatch.” In that a lot of her is going to be in plain sight, yes. “And I know Sabine's dress won't be as daring because I'm giving her one of mine, which I imagine under the circumstances I can kiss goodbye.”
Then, “—sorry, you have no idea who that is. My ex-girlfriend. I'm going to have to give her one of the ones that laces through the front, she actually has tits.”
"Likely not, but I intend to give it anyway. It keeps him content." The air of a happily married woman, of some kind of love match, hangs around her - desperately so. Sidony is well aware of the fact that their marriage is a sham, a farcical means of protecting her from the untimely wrath of a mother and father who would rip her from Riftwatch, but she cares deeply all the same. Byerly is important to her, a unique and wonderful gentleman in her eyes, and she would do anything to keep him content, happy, proud.
She loves him, even if she is not in love with him. It's a wonderful place to be, especially since she had always feared to marry someone she hated entirely.
Settling down, Sidony lets herself bask in the feeling of being rich and powerful again, allowing Gwenaëlle to take charge of herself as she considers fabric and shaping and cuts. There is much she could do, much to consider, and she frowns as she leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes flicking here and there. It's only when Gwenaëlle starts to speak that she determines that she must focus again, turning back to look at the other woman properly, content to be lead for the moment.
At least until she hears the term ex-girlfriend. She sits up, sharply, her fingers clenching a little more aggressively around her glass. It's not the shock of someone who is insulted or mortified by the suggestion of a woman being with another woman - it's the shock of suddenly feeling less isolated, the panic of wondering if you have been found out, a flush of red warming her cheeks.
"I did not think people so bold," she says finally, voice lower, quieter, "to admit such things so carelessly in public, Gwenaëlle."
It's not a reaction that Gwenaëlle is accustomed to, and the look she returns to Sidony is quizzical more than particularly bold or defiant; she isn't above making a point of showing off her scandals (...as her costume will declare), but this has more the air of someone casually discussing something that merits nothing more than that. Finally, she settles on, “Then you've been spending time with the wrong people,” a little bit arch. “Come, now, you're a married woman. As long as you do your duty, whoever else you do is between you and the Maker.”
At that, she gets a slightly sly look from one of the attendants and allows, “Though it helps if you actually do your duty, instead of being disgraced and marrying a dirty great elf or Byerly Rutyer.”
Orlais has no complaints about Gwenaëlle's feminine indiscretions; that she married a rifted elf six and a half feet tall is another story.
“Mentioning our husbands is a hell of a lot bolder than talking about who I fucked before I was married. It's no secret I've loved women. If Thranduil had been a woman and I'd just kept him on the side, no one would have batted an eye. Well, until I was disowned, but I had other problems at that point.”
Celene has just about started a trend for high-eared lovers in Val Royeaux, which is terrible, and Gwenaëlle spares them the side-trip through her usual rants about how Celene is terrible as probably not the moment for it. (No wlw solidarity for her.)
The flush on her cheeks continues and for a moment it is quite clear that Sidony does not know what to say for herself. Byerly had told her enough times that her feelings were more than suitable and she has had the same said to her by Anders on more than one occasion - Anders, who was married to a man! - but... It feels somewhat different when it is herself that she is considering. She feels weighted by it, intensely so, and the knot in her stomach gnaws at her before she breathes out and glances back to her companion, certainly more nervous than she was a moment before.
"Perhaps that is the case." A slow shrug, her fingers curling and uncurling in her lap, a frown marring her features like a gash. "My mother and father certainly did not look upon it fondly and I suppose I was somewhat sheltered before I came to join Riftwatch of my own accord. I was destined to marry some man of noble blood and accept my lot - I did not consider much else for my future, not until Byerly offered me his hand."
Which does the pleasure, at least, of bringing a smile to her face. Anyone would imagine her and Byerly truly a love match, decadently foolish for one another. She is foolish for him, but not because of lust.
"I'd imagine myself close to being disowned if it is not in the work already. My mother was not particularly happy to find out that I had run off with Byerly and I doubt my father would be any more pleased. It is done now, however, and there is nothing that they can do to change the course I have chosen." Even if she and Byerly do continue with their annulment, when the time comes, she will be disgraced. No Nevarran noble will want second-hand goods, so to speak.
Sighing softly, she takes a long drink from her wine.
"There is nothing wrong with affection for women, I know that. I am just unaccustomed to it being stated so boldly. Please forgive me if I appeared... Rude." Her eyes flick over Gwenaëlle's form, lingering, just a little - and, yes. Sidony knows herself far too well.
Sidony is well versed in making sure she appeals to whoever meets her; she is pretty, well educated, handsome and able to flirt and smile and curtesy with the best of them. She is novel and wonderful, proud in hearing, and she has no desire to lose that first impression because of something as silly as nerves.
No, she is not nervous. She is simply concerned.
This is, surely, the first time she is properly meeting someone that might hold a level of importance to Byerly and she wants to impress. She wants to seem like the wonderful, charming wife he deserves - and she is good enough for him, yes, of course, but... She has never felt this awkward need for approval before. Not to such a great level of intensity, at least.
Adjusting her hair, she steps up to wrap her fingers around Byerly’s, squeezing gently.
Late afternoon in the library is peak hours for nerds, but even then, there are only so many nerds, and so it's as quiet and peaceful as a library ought to be. For Solas, identifying the one who had introduced himself a few hours back is a process of elimination -- simply find the individual in the room he doesn't recognise.
Tony is situated at a desk. In front of him is a fan of loose leaf parchment pages of various sizes and qualities, with different hands of writing, and different abuses suffered -- water damage, fire damage, hastily-shoved-into-a-bag damage. Fortunately, all legible, but in need of interpretation, which is what he is doing now. Also in front of him: a mostly clean set of parchments and some writing implements, as he labours over the writing of a report.
It's so boring.
Like.
Who has the time.
(It's Tony, he has the time.)
Chin resting on hand, he noncommittally sketches out a few sentences. The hand he's leaning on is wrapped to cover the constant glow of green light, and likewise, he's wearing a closed jerkin that covers well any suspicious blue lyrium glowing that could otherwise be emanating from his chest hole. As he finishes his next sentence, he hastily sets the pen down as if it were itching him, and picks up one of the loose pages filled with notes, eyes flaring wide in the way people do to wake up a little more, before squinting to focus.
Solas has spent enough time in the library that it's true - noting someone new does not come as a shock, especially someone that seems to enjoy being as nose deep in research as he himself does. He pauses for a moment, giving himself time to observe and watch, to see what he might be reading, where his interests lie before he decides to move forward. He still wears no shoes, so his feet are quiet pads as he walks across the library floor.
It's interesting to see a man boring himself to death as well, which Solas can only appreciate with a wry smile.
The shard catches his attention, at least, and Solas makes a mental note to examine it before he leaves; he does like to keep a close eye on all the anchor shards, just to make sure none are going erstwhile as he settles into Riftwatch. He's given up some of his authority, but he is still the most well known of those that know anything about the Anchor - something he is not inclined to let go of.
"Tony." A bow of his head as he pulls out a chair, settling down.
"Hey," is a very immediate greeting, as if latching on any excuse to stop doing what he's doing, sitting upright. Context slides into place, and Tony says, "Oh, hey," as if to reset. "Thanks for coming."
There are a couple of books and scrolls sitting by -- some older volumes on the interactions of certain materials and magic for the purposes of enchantment, and some more recent scrolls on Fade-touched organic matter -- but his desk is mostly covered in field notes, dated and marked as such. To Solas' eye, he would recognise slapdash calculations associated with slightly obscure, very human (and Thedosian) methods of measuring magical energies, but Tony starts stacking pages to clear the space a little.
"You drinking?" he asks as he does so, with a head tip towards a wine pitcher, though Tony clarifies, "Water and rosemary. I've been failing to detox since Easter. I mean, it's technically tea, right."
"Of course. I am always glad to answer questions for those that seek them."
It's interesting to see what questions people ask, what they seek to learn about the magic of Rifts and the nature of them. Solas is the expert, always will be - there is no one in the world that could ever learn more about that magic than him, thanks to his personal experience - but he is content to share, at least to some extent. His eyes glance down to look at the scrolls, the paper, and he almost nods approvingly; at least Tony is making a worthwhile attempt.
"No, thank you." He leans back, wry. "I find tea does not agree with me in any form." He loathes it, if only for the slight tick of caffeine. "How may I help you?"
Tony pours himself a glass. You think you understand elves, and then the next one surprises you, as if maybe they aren't some kind of homogeneous monolith who all love tea, or refreshing tea-adjacent beverages. Who'd have thought. Once this is done, Tony sits back, his expression showing brief complaint at muscles that have locked in to library nerd position.
"I mean, where to begin," he says, on the topic of help. "You gotta get a lot of rifters knocking on your door, asking what the thing in their hand really is. I guess what I wanna know is what it can do."
To start with, anyway. As much as Solas is a known authority, it'll take a minute to see how much common language they're speaking when it comes to expertise.
Solas would likely loathe the comparison, were he able to hear it; he's well aware that he is nothing like any other elf that walks on Thedas, other than perhaps Thranduil and Galadriel, and they are rare exceptions. He is something more, something different in the heart of him. Either way, he seems more than content to sit and wait, patiently, for whatever Tony might ask him.
"I've been asked many things by many Rifters, yes," Solas admits with a nod of his head. It comes from being the one to locate the Rifts, to find the newcomers, to treat their hands should the worst happen. It comes from knowing the source of the power, more than anyone else in the world could possibly imagine.
"It is part of an Anchor, something that was given to the Inquisitor before the formation of the Inquisition. It has the power to seal Rifts, to protect the person carrying it and to perform feats of power, should it grow stronger."
It would have been remiss of Tony by now to not ask around about the Herald and her abbreviated rise to local legend, so if Solas is feeling generous, he can assume a lack of questions as to the Lady Trevelyan is on account of Tony having done the readings. At least, he's read the public record.
Given the topic at hand (badum-chh), Tony idly unwraps the cloth he has concealing his anchor-shard, the glow a little washed out by the proximity of his lamp, but there. No aberrations, though it contains within it the ability to do a couple of the things Solas has described.
"I heard about the elf that died after she took one of these to the heart," he says. Can't say he doesn't sympathise. "Another local that kicked it after the arm was removed. Proximity and-- I don't know what happened with that second thing, data's thin on the ground."
It has been some time since their last conversation and the chill of it is still causing her some issues; Sidony is not accustomed to people being genuinely upset with her, being cool to her (other than women, or a woman, in particular, to be frank) and she wishes to mend it before it all goes sour. She's well aware that Ilias had warned her away from Leander, but... She had grown fond of him, and that was enough to frustrate her. She wants to learn more about him, to see what is causing such issue, but she has no true understanding of how best to do that.
Slipping through the gardens, she lets her fingers drag against the leaves and flowers as she turns this and that way, seeking her prey like some kind of large housecat. Her skirts - older, now, with some marks that simply won't wash out - are not her best, but she's not looking to seduce; it wouldn't be successful, both because of her nuptials and because of their shared lack of interest in one another. Leander has shown no sign of being genuinely coerced, which is a relief and frustration; she cannot convince him to her point of view in such simple ways.
Peeking around a faux corner, she pauses when she spots her target, tugging her sleeves down properly and making her way over, a smile on her face as her hand lifts to touch the back of his neck gently, curling there for something of a gentle pet.
It's a smooth answer, and it smoothly belies the angry revulsion crawling silently beneath her hand. Not for Sidony's presence, nor even her touch in particular, but the fact of the touch itself—he's been sensitive to intrusions of late. Fortunately for all present, it takes more than a fleeting irritation to inspire his expression to change.
The moment passes. He looks up from the damp autumnal twig in his hands, relaxed, gives her a few placid blinks of his lashes. Then the polite smile.
"Well, you needn't fear your imagination."
She may not be here to seduce, and he may not be receptive in the way other men are—and the marriage wouldn't concern him if he were—but his eyes wander regardless for a moment of casual appraisal and, ultimately, appreciation.
Her fingers slip away easily enough as she settles down, making herself comfortable. Sidony still doesn't like the soft, polite smile on his face, the way it seems so faux friendly, a pretend game that knots her stomach. She has so few friends now, with her marriage and with the loss of Anders, that it seems a shame - and something painful - for her to lose one of the few she had. It's especially painful with the recognition of their shared connection to Nevarra, a home now long gone from her hands.
Legs settling, hands demure (and showing off her new wedding band) Sidony sighs, glancing up to look at the sky above them.
"Have you been keeping yourself busy?" It's a genuine question; she is curious to know, wondering, thoughtful. "With Anders away it seems the infirmary is overrun and I have less time to check in on my dearest companions."
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MARCOULF.
The motions that she was taught so many years ago, Adrian's eyes on her, adjusting her arm, just there, the way she balanced her greatsword against the curve of her palm, the slight bend in her shoulders, the pressure of her heel just so... It has been a great many years since she was his student, since she was young enough to be tutored by anyone, but sometimes she feels the emotions so deeply that it is as if she has been transported through time itself.
Her greatsword feels good in her hand, familiar and warm and wonderful, and Six breathes through the motions of twisting her body, the ache in her armas as familiar as it is uncomfortable. That's good; it means she is tightening the muscles, reshaping them into what she needs. A few weeks without proper training and she feels unfit all of a sudden, as if all her bulk has disappeared entirely.
She only pauses when she recognises a shock of bright hair, enough to capture her attention and drag it away from the turn of her body, dropping her blade to one side and pushing the hair from her face.
"Marcoulf. A round?"
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He is not, strictly speaking, avoiding her. It has been months. There is no use to it. But he has been avoiding this. It's been ages since they sparred, weeks since he appeared in the yard in hours typical for finding partners. Perhaps he has been working an early rotation that keeps him away. Or perhaps--
Well, it doesn't matter. He stops when he hears his name as if he had been somehow expecting it, and half turns toward her.
He could lie. He has work to see to. He could say I've done my sparring for the day, maybe tomorrow.
Instead, he shifts fully around and pretends the uneasy thud of his pulse is someone else's.
"If you like."
Same story, different chapter.
ah this friendship
She dares not ask the question are we friends again, for fear of rejection colouring like red shame on her cheeks. That is not something she is keen to relive, no matter the situation. There's an anxious, awkward urge to turn away and flee somewhere else, to hide beneath the too-long locks of her hair (a cut is needed, surely, but who to do it?) but she stands her ground. Anxious at heart she is braver in spirit, and Six stands tall as she looks at him, nods, and tugs her blade close.
It might be easier if she were to swap to a longsword, but it matters little. She has new tricks to show him.
"Thank you."
Moving forward, twisting her ankle to relax the muscle, Six settles her weight. She's unarmoured, at least, in a cotton shirt and leather breeches, and she tilts her head as she watches his movements.
"First hit."
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"All right."
It's fine. With the sword clenched in the unsteady grip of his right hand and the dagger readied in his left, he moves to begin circling her. Everything is normal.
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If only the real Marcoulf was as easy to manage.
"Good." Her feet move and she shifts without thinking, adjusting her grip on her greatsword - still two-handed, she has not approached such sheer amounts of power just yet - and clicking her fingers, summoning the flame to her blade.
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(Draw up. She doesn't want to fight. She just wants to discuss the enchantment no doubt carved into the greatsword.)
With a rapid, snapping motion, Marcoulf closes. The rapier flashes out at her, lighting quick versus the heavier blade's arcing flame. He gets one shot at this.
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He closes quickly, but Six knows him, knows his movements. Perhaps not as well as she might have done a month or two before now, but enough that she can bear down and duck, shifting her body. He is quicker than lightning - and what she has in strength she lacks in speed, half tumbling to the ground to dodge him.
At least her legs are quick to push her back to her feet, moving a step away and adjusting her blade again, eyes narrowing. A lunge is easy, but she goes for his right but tries to signal left, to throw him off guard.
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this is a hideously depressing tag in context
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GWEN.
Sidony is familiar with the nature of standing still to be fitted for silks and ballgowns and other things people might regard as silly - but they were her armour, her sword and shield in a room filled with men who would have her and women who would like to be her. She hasn't had a new dress since she had left home; not even her wedding dress had been something she had bought for the occasion, which was fine considering the venue and the circumstances, but...
Fiddling idly with her ring, Sidony frowns.
There is nothing wrong with being invited to shop, but she has saved her money and has been looking forward to having at least one new outfit. She has some bolts of silk given to her last year during the gift exchange she still needs to use and those she has with her too, tucked in a basket hanging neatly on her arm. Perhaps she ought to make some attempt at wearing something a little more modest now she is known as Madame Rutyer, but anyone knowing her spouse would know that modesty is hardly the forefront of their natures. No, she can continue as she was.
Turning a corner, tucking her basket a touch closer to herself - there's a dagger up her sleeve for good reason - Sidony smiles, mostly genuine, as she sees her companion.
"Gwenaëlle."
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The money will not last forever, now. She spends it more judiciously, even when what she's spending is more often than not her grandfather's money and not her own. Especially then; he so rarely calls her to account for what she's "borrowed" from him, but she is always ready to do so. This, she has decided, seems reasonable. They are going to Nevarra. They are expected to dress for Satinalia. She will need masks and costuming and she should have at least two options, that seems reasonable, what if she misjudges the weather, and she has nostalgia for Nevarra, besides, for having married there.
She hasn't done anything irresponsible other than nearly get the most elderly men of her acquaintance killed at a rift in ages. Closing down a Hightown dressmakers' to spend a day sketching costumes, trying fabric and drinking wine hardly seems excessive, under the circumstances, and she greets Sidony with a brief press of hands to her elbows and the near-the-cheek kisses Orlesian girls become expert at. She's selective with her personal space; it's purposeful, that she extends that particular warmth.
(She is not unaware that Lexie is still prone to periodically throwing tantrums about Rutyer's marriage.)
“I'm glad you came. Neither of us are going to have the gossip their maids prefer to eavesdrop on, but at least we'll be just as useless as each other.” This, dryly announced as she links their elbows to draw Sidony in, is probably also why she didn't hesitate over the invitation. Now they are both disreputable and disgraced, and if she's any judge, probably better company for it. Even if it does mean they aren't going to provide the usual floorshow of nobility at play. “I just want to look better than Sabine. I think something that will let me wear my hair down.”
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Likely not. Best not to let him know, either.
It's much easier to settle down and focus on being near Gwenaëlle, to forget about men and marriage and all that nonsense for a little span of time. She would rather think of silks and dresses and masks - even as her mind shifts and wonders if she ought to get Byerly a matching one, a pair, or if he would prefer to go a little more incognito, to hide his marriage so that he might enjoy himself. There's no jealousy in her for that; she would not doom him to a life of celibacy. No, she would want him to have all the joy and pleasure the world might offer in return for the protection that he gave her.
It's harder to focus on Gwenaëlle when her mind wanders like this and she breathes out, turning her head and smiling with a gentle fondness. It's been some time since she has been around any women who don't seem as though they wish to tear her eyes out with their nails, which is a relief in itself. With no Anders to whisper to... She feels as though she ought to have a new confidant.
"Maids, plural? You hold me in such high esteem," it's a joke, Sidony knows what she means, but she steps closer, letting herself be drawn in. She longs for this - gentleness, intimacy, friendship, the softness of a woman's touch... But that is another matter entirely and not one to think about when shopping. She thinks of flowers and sketches and frowns, shaking her head. "I do not know what I might wear. Something red, I think, as it flatters me, but I'd like something that would flatter my husband as well."
Her nose wrinkles.
"Or not. I should have an extra for myself, without his opinion in mind."
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Ushered into the dressmakers' shop and beyond the sale room to a parlor and fitting room behind where there is wine (along with a spread of cheese and fruits; someone has heard that the Duc de Coucy is footing her bills), Gwenaëlle and Sidony are offered cups of wine and soft robes to wear. Hightown is well-prepared for this sort of customer, even when Gwenaëlle offers over her own small cloth bag explaining, “I have several sheathes I'd like discreetly included in my final garments,” without raising so much as a maid's eyebrow.
(What the fuck is happening in Orlais, the dressmaker has been known to wonder. All of her Orlesian clients are like that.)
But to Sidony, she says, “I have a plan for my costume. I already had the boots,” for reasons that she'd better be sure she wants to know if she asks after, because Mme Baudin has never encountered shame in her life and will tell her, “and I'd sort of call it hiding in plain sight, if we're trying to be discreet about being Riftwatch.” In that a lot of her is going to be in plain sight, yes. “And I know Sabine's dress won't be as daring because I'm giving her one of mine, which I imagine under the circumstances I can kiss goodbye.”
Then, “—sorry, you have no idea who that is. My ex-girlfriend. I'm going to have to give her one of the ones that laces through the front, she actually has tits.”
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She loves him, even if she is not in love with him. It's a wonderful place to be, especially since she had always feared to marry someone she hated entirely.
Settling down, Sidony lets herself bask in the feeling of being rich and powerful again, allowing Gwenaëlle to take charge of herself as she considers fabric and shaping and cuts. There is much she could do, much to consider, and she frowns as she leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes flicking here and there. It's only when Gwenaëlle starts to speak that she determines that she must focus again, turning back to look at the other woman properly, content to be lead for the moment.
At least until she hears the term ex-girlfriend. She sits up, sharply, her fingers clenching a little more aggressively around her glass. It's not the shock of someone who is insulted or mortified by the suggestion of a woman being with another woman - it's the shock of suddenly feeling less isolated, the panic of wondering if you have been found out, a flush of red warming her cheeks.
"I did not think people so bold," she says finally, voice lower, quieter, "to admit such things so carelessly in public, Gwenaëlle."
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At that, she gets a slightly sly look from one of the attendants and allows, “Though it helps if you actually do your duty, instead of being disgraced and marrying a dirty great elf or Byerly Rutyer.”
Orlais has no complaints about Gwenaëlle's feminine indiscretions; that she married a rifted elf six and a half feet tall is another story.
“Mentioning our husbands is a hell of a lot bolder than talking about who I fucked before I was married. It's no secret I've loved women. If Thranduil had been a woman and I'd just kept him on the side, no one would have batted an eye. Well, until I was disowned, but I had other problems at that point.”
Celene has just about started a trend for high-eared lovers in Val Royeaux, which is terrible, and Gwenaëlle spares them the side-trip through her usual rants about how Celene is terrible as probably not the moment for it. (No wlw solidarity for her.)
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"Perhaps that is the case." A slow shrug, her fingers curling and uncurling in her lap, a frown marring her features like a gash. "My mother and father certainly did not look upon it fondly and I suppose I was somewhat sheltered before I came to join Riftwatch of my own accord. I was destined to marry some man of noble blood and accept my lot - I did not consider much else for my future, not until Byerly offered me his hand."
Which does the pleasure, at least, of bringing a smile to her face. Anyone would imagine her and Byerly truly a love match, decadently foolish for one another. She is foolish for him, but not because of lust.
"I'd imagine myself close to being disowned if it is not in the work already. My mother was not particularly happy to find out that I had run off with Byerly and I doubt my father would be any more pleased. It is done now, however, and there is nothing that they can do to change the course I have chosen." Even if she and Byerly do continue with their annulment, when the time comes, she will be disgraced. No Nevarran noble will want second-hand goods, so to speak.
Sighing softly, she takes a long drink from her wine.
"There is nothing wrong with affection for women, I know that. I am just unaccustomed to it being stated so boldly. Please forgive me if I appeared... Rude." Her eyes flick over Gwenaëlle's form, lingering, just a little - and, yes. Sidony knows herself far too well.
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byerly & sonia.
Sidony is well versed in making sure she appeals to whoever meets her; she is pretty, well educated, handsome and able to flirt and smile and curtesy with the best of them. She is novel and wonderful, proud in hearing, and she has no desire to lose that first impression because of something as silly as nerves.
No, she is not nervous. She is simply concerned.
This is, surely, the first time she is properly meeting someone that might hold a level of importance to Byerly and she wants to impress. She wants to seem like the wonderful, charming wife he deserves - and she is good enough for him, yes, of course, but... She has never felt this awkward need for approval before. Not to such a great level of intensity, at least.
Adjusting her hair, she steps up to wrap her fingers around Byerly’s, squeezing gently.
“How do I look?”
dear solas. with love, tony.
Tony is situated at a desk. In front of him is a fan of loose leaf parchment pages of various sizes and qualities, with different hands of writing, and different abuses suffered -- water damage, fire damage, hastily-shoved-into-a-bag damage. Fortunately, all legible, but in need of interpretation, which is what he is doing now. Also in front of him: a mostly clean set of parchments and some writing implements, as he labours over the writing of a report.
It's so boring.
Like.
Who has the time.
(It's Tony, he has the time.)
Chin resting on hand, he noncommittally sketches out a few sentences. The hand he's leaning on is wrapped to cover the constant glow of green light, and likewise, he's wearing a closed jerkin that covers well any suspicious blue lyrium glowing that could otherwise be emanating from his chest hole. As he finishes his next sentence, he hastily sets the pen down as if it were itching him, and picks up one of the loose pages filled with notes, eyes flaring wide in the way people do to wake up a little more, before squinting to focus.
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It's interesting to see a man boring himself to death as well, which Solas can only appreciate with a wry smile.
The shard catches his attention, at least, and Solas makes a mental note to examine it before he leaves; he does like to keep a close eye on all the anchor shards, just to make sure none are going erstwhile as he settles into Riftwatch. He's given up some of his authority, but he is still the most well known of those that know anything about the Anchor - something he is not inclined to let go of.
"Tony." A bow of his head as he pulls out a chair, settling down.
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There are a couple of books and scrolls sitting by -- some older volumes on the interactions of certain materials and magic for the purposes of enchantment, and some more recent scrolls on Fade-touched organic matter -- but his desk is mostly covered in field notes, dated and marked as such. To Solas' eye, he would recognise slapdash calculations associated with slightly obscure, very human (and Thedosian) methods of measuring magical energies, but Tony starts stacking pages to clear the space a little.
"You drinking?" he asks as he does so, with a head tip towards a wine pitcher, though Tony clarifies, "Water and rosemary. I've been failing to detox since Easter. I mean, it's technically tea, right."
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It's interesting to see what questions people ask, what they seek to learn about the magic of Rifts and the nature of them. Solas is the expert, always will be - there is no one in the world that could ever learn more about that magic than him, thanks to his personal experience - but he is content to share, at least to some extent. His eyes glance down to look at the scrolls, the paper, and he almost nods approvingly; at least Tony is making a worthwhile attempt.
"No, thank you." He leans back, wry. "I find tea does not agree with me in any form." He loathes it, if only for the slight tick of caffeine. "How may I help you?"
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"I mean, where to begin," he says, on the topic of help. "You gotta get a lot of rifters knocking on your door, asking what the thing in their hand really is. I guess what I wanna know is what it can do."
To start with, anyway. As much as Solas is a known authority, it'll take a minute to see how much common language they're speaking when it comes to expertise.
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"I've been asked many things by many Rifters, yes," Solas admits with a nod of his head. It comes from being the one to locate the Rifts, to find the newcomers, to treat their hands should the worst happen. It comes from knowing the source of the power, more than anyone else in the world could possibly imagine.
"It is part of an Anchor, something that was given to the Inquisitor before the formation of the Inquisition. It has the power to seal Rifts, to protect the person carrying it and to perform feats of power, should it grow stronger."
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It would have been remiss of Tony by now to not ask around about the Herald and her abbreviated rise to local legend, so if Solas is feeling generous, he can assume a lack of questions as to the Lady Trevelyan is on account of Tony having done the readings. At least, he's read the public record.
Given the topic at hand (badum-chh), Tony idly unwraps the cloth he has concealing his anchor-shard, the glow a little washed out by the proximity of his lamp, but there. No aberrations, though it contains within it the ability to do a couple of the things Solas has described.
"I heard about the elf that died after she took one of these to the heart," he says. Can't say he doesn't sympathise. "Another local that kicked it after the arm was removed. Proximity and-- I don't know what happened with that second thing, data's thin on the ground."
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LEA.
Slipping through the gardens, she lets her fingers drag against the leaves and flowers as she turns this and that way, seeking her prey like some kind of large housecat. Her skirts - older, now, with some marks that simply won't wash out - are not her best, but she's not looking to seduce; it wouldn't be successful, both because of her nuptials and because of their shared lack of interest in one another. Leander has shown no sign of being genuinely coerced, which is a relief and frustration; she cannot convince him to her point of view in such simple ways.
Peeking around a faux corner, she pauses when she spots her target, tugging her sleeves down properly and making her way over, a smile on her face as her hand lifts to touch the back of his neck gently, curling there for something of a gentle pet.
"I fear you have been avoiding me, darling."
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It's a smooth answer, and it smoothly belies the angry revulsion crawling silently beneath her hand. Not for Sidony's presence, nor even her touch in particular, but the fact of the touch itself—he's been sensitive to intrusions of late. Fortunately for all present, it takes more than a fleeting irritation to inspire his expression to change.
The moment passes. He looks up from the damp autumnal twig in his hands, relaxed, gives her a few placid blinks of his lashes. Then the polite smile.
"Well, you needn't fear your imagination."
She may not be here to seduce, and he may not be receptive in the way other men are—and the marriage wouldn't concern him if he were—but his eyes wander regardless for a moment of casual appraisal and, ultimately, appreciation.
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Her fingers slip away easily enough as she settles down, making herself comfortable. Sidony still doesn't like the soft, polite smile on his face, the way it seems so faux friendly, a pretend game that knots her stomach. She has so few friends now, with her marriage and with the loss of Anders, that it seems a shame - and something painful - for her to lose one of the few she had. It's especially painful with the recognition of their shared connection to Nevarra, a home now long gone from her hands.
Legs settling, hands demure (and showing off her new wedding band) Sidony sighs, glancing up to look at the sky above them.
"Have you been keeping yourself busy?" It's a genuine question; she is curious to know, wondering, thoughtful. "With Anders away it seems the infirmary is overrun and I have less time to check in on my dearest companions."