closed | all work and no play

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lady Alexandrie and her Lounge Brigade
WHAT: Irreverence and indolence for the sake of morale
WHEN: Now
WHERE: The Unofficial Tevinter Embassy (i.e. the Asgard estate in Hightown), and other places around Kirkwall
NOTES: Catch-all for closed starters; pm/plurk/discord/smoke signal me if you want to plan something. ♥

The undead walk the land, there's mountains of work to be done, ten tasks for every hand, so...

Champagne, anyone?

Comments

[coquettish_trees]

She chuckles lowly at the flip of the tie and then hums her consideration, running the fabric through her fingers before tsking her dismissal of the idea. “While I have sung to please him, I prefer my husband present.”

It would be an innocent enough sentiment, were it not for the warm drawl of the words.

[sarcophage]

After a moment of genuine surprise, betrayed by the angle of his eyebrows, Leander slips smoothly into an answering purr: "What a pretty picture that would make." He's not so foolish to go staggering after a bit of suggestion, even if present circumstances are—as they are. Warm and soft. Close enough to touch. "I hadn't thought to render the two of you together."

[coquettish_trees]

That sparks several layers of interest, and Alexandrie rolls herself half toward Leander so she can face him properly and props her head up on her hand.

"Should it become even more blasphemous through his addition?"

[sarcophage]

"It could." Gently spoken, with his head turned toward her. Soft pillow and soft curls. A comfortably slow blink. "Though I worry he'd not understand it, the way... the way that I hope you would."

They don't know each other, Leander and the lord himself. A tumble, if that's what she means to suggest, he's likely to attend—a work of more literal art, perhaps not so freely given.

[coquettish_trees]

Her eyebrows climb, slow as his blink. Something genuine in that hope for understanding? Her mind bites it, tests it like a coin, puts it away for later, and she reaches languidly to tug at one of Leander's errant curls; small intimacy traded for small intimacy.

"You really ought to meet him," she muses. Imagines that they would either immediately like or hate one another.

[sarcophage]

The thread of vulnerability is gladly abandoned for this new one.

"How unfair, to lay me down here so comfortably and make intimations that can't be pursued." He doesn't sound at all like he's suffering. Might he catch her hand before it goes? He will try, and if so, the next words are murmured against her fingers—if not, murmured all the same— "You ought to invite me to dinner."