[closed]

[heirring]

WHO: Flint, Bartimaeus, Wysteria, Fitcher & misc. guests
WHAT: Misc. socializing.
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: Kirkwall, etc.
NOTES: Catch all for closed starters. If you want something, hit my up by PM/discord/plurk/whatever and we can make it happen.

Comments

[wrecca]

A few more hot tears roll down her face. She stares out at the garden for a long moment, watching the flimsy stalks of some weed waver in the open air. Yes, that is what it feels like. Like she is very small and meaningless and being battered by everything greater than herself. She exhales heavily like she might sob again, but instead her face just twists in concentration to push it back down.

She looks at Fitcher when she returns, that exact same pained look as when she first came out to talk to her. The headache that won't go away, the salt-streaked face.

"Santi is two years old. I was..." a pinch, nose wrinkling. "I was just getting to know him."

Feeling like his mother had only just started and now he was gone again.

[unshut]

"Ah, two," Fitcher says, in low knowing tones while thoughtlessly rearranging the fall of her skirts. They are a smart dark red, heavy against the chill of the day and the toe of her boot peeking from under them is lovely and tooled.

"That is just when they begin to seem to have some sense of themselves, isn't it? Have you written to your family? Have they been made aware that you escaped the city?"

[wrecca]

"I left all that shit up to Ilias... They like him better anyway," she waves off the idea that she would have done it like a fly. "What was I going to say to grandmother? Your daughter's a fucking rotten bitch, and I'm going to kill her for it?"

Yes, her cousin had made a face and determined it would be better if he wrote the letters. "They're all going to agree it's easiest to make me his problem anyway. Maker-forbid if I'm left to my own devices for too long. I might think I can keep a baby for myself."

She exhales angrily. If she'd still had that cup she'd have assuredly dashed it to the ground at that. Instead she sinks down into her hands for just a moment, sitting up again and pushing her hair back off her face with furious sigh.

[unshut]

A tip of the head - some flicker of recognition in her face. Ah. Fabria. Perhaps if she studied the girl, she can recognize some resemblance there. Fitcher pauses to do so, a thoughtful turn in the drawn lines of her expression.

"I see." And: "How are you related to the Speaker?"

There's no harm in asking obvious questions.

[wrecca]

Her mouth twists to one side. The Speaker. Of course Ilias had a lovely little title like that, wouldn't do if he wasn't fucking important would it. Amal rubs her temple and hates herself for thinking harshly of him, he doesn't deserve it.

"I'm his black sheep cousin."