faderift | open | if language were liquid

open | if language were liquid

WHO: The Irrepressible Lady Lexie and You
WHAT: Catch-all for January
WHEN: Mostly current, may be some time travel in prompts
WHERE: Kirkwall/Gallows
NOTES: Come at me

[ This is the open, specific prompts will be in comments! Feel free to make your own. ]

Office Hours

Rather than share her time between the Jeshavis office and the library Alexandrie has had an additional bookcase (exactly matching the first, of course) brought in, and has a number of tomes on what is essentially permanent loan to join those from her personal library. An array of dictionaries, linguistic texts, and books on histories and noble families in the languages of their countries—books in Antivan, Nevarran, Rivaini, Tevene, Ander, and one on the Memories and their runic inscriptions sit alongside those from Orlais and Ferelden—have joined the publicly available project reports; she has moved her translation work in its entirety to her office. Perhaps it's for privacy, perhaps for easier availability to anyone who might be seeking her out.

The desk itself is covered in three books, half stacked atop each other, and a small sheaf of papers. At the moment, however, she's taking lunch at a small table brought in for the purpose of holding the silver tray and its contents. Despite the development of 'team spirit' that inspired her to seek the position in the first place, apparently she hasn't got enough of it to enjoy the common fare available a few floors below.

The lady is in.

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[ Despite the lack of public celebration—and, Alexandrie assumes, private, as she wasn't invited to anything and really that's entirely unthinkable—which might indicate that Madame Baudin is not desirous of marking the occasion of her birth this year, here Alexandrie is, knocking at her door with a small beribboned parcel anyway.

Let me in, I'm celebrating you. ]

( it has been two years since gwenaëlle last marked her birthday, and that had been—memorable if not, for anyone involved, remotely enjoyable. in orlais a great fuss had always been made: the comte would invite their extended family and friends early in the month, showing his largesse in a frank abundance of gift-giving and celebration. she had, generally, taken it in the spirit it was intended rather than complaining about being made the center of attention; emeric might make his affection palatable by involving many other people in it, so she felt less obligated to him particularly for all that it was his particular wish.

and then her mother died. and then everything had fallen apart, and besides which, gwenaëlle has never arranged to celebrate her own birthday. first she hadn't needed to, and then she hadn't wanted to, and it has been easy not to think of it. she still doesn't think of it, when she answers the door to lexie and her parcel, raising an eyebrow: )

You can't open gifts by yourself any more? Don't you have a built-in audience in Hightown?

( she's already moving to let lexie in; it's a good-humored tease. )

He refuses to make mercilessly ill-humoured comments whilst I do it, and so I have left him. Take me in at once, I am desolate.

[ She's no such thing, and both the pout she affects and the flounce of her movement as she enters the suite Gwenaëlle shares with her husband are entirely unconcerned and immensely overblown. ]

Besides, it is not for me.

( much as gwenaëlle can be, occasionally, slow on the uptake about certain things—she's not a complete fool, and she hasn't forgotten the date, only presumed that anyone else remembering it for purpose was unlikely beyond, perhaps, thranduil. and knowing her antipathy for the day, he'd be sneakier than this.

she looks from gift to pout to meet lexie's gaze, somewhere between touched and vexed. )

Alexandrie.

Gwenaëlle.

[ Alexandrie looks very pleased with herself, and sets the cloth-wrapped parcel down on the table central to the chairs near the fire, gesturing grandly to it before seating herself and leaning on the arm of the chair to twist and watch Gwen as if it were any kind of deterrent to the woman deciding to leave, or ignore her gift, or any other such thing that would definitely not be so deterred. ]

Joyeux anniversaire, [ she sings quietly. Only that—just the two words she thinks she can get away with before the balance clicks entirely into ‘vexed’. ]

( oh, it's—

it's close. it's very close, and her eyes narrow like she's settling on just precisely how close when her jaw sets (the not unfamiliar look of gwenaëlle deciding), and her expression clears. pleasant. untrustworthy. she is not, they both know, very good at bullshitting anyone so whatever it is that has just crossed her mind must sincerely please her— )

Just for that, ( pointing right at her, as she moves to find the wine, ) I won't open it until you've gone.

[ gasp! ] Cruelty beyond measure!

If it displeases you so very much to have a birthday gift, you may consider it instead a very tardy souvenir.

[ if that doesn’t work, she’s fully prepared to sweep out of the room, wait thirty seconds, and then knock again. ]

You can set it down wherever you like, ( she says, serenely. ) Don't tell me my birth is the only thing you've got to talk about,

( with an inviting little wiggle of the wine bottle. )

The only thing of any consequence. Everything else is a terrible bore.

[ the gift: set next to her on the small table there, its ribbons straightened and fussed with while she speaks unconcernedly. ]

Ones assistants stabbing ones erstwhile lovers—and current complications—in fits of pique, vaguely considering the merits of making true the rumours that one is bedding said assistant, having a tawdry romance written inspired by the scandal of ones border-crossing liaison.

[ le sigh ]

Had the reason for her heretofore social isolation not been so grave, Sonia might feel somewhat embarrassed of how hungrily she'd been anticipating lunch with Alexandrie. The mood in the manor at Wildcrest had been grim even on her grandfather's better days, darkened further by her uncle's ever-black moods, and hadn't been an inviting place for company even when Sonia had had the time. Kirkwall is...not much brighter, but at least it has friends and room to breathe. And Alexandrie is, as ever, a breath of fresh air.

Her smile is unselfconscious as ever when she meets Alexandrie at her atelier, her voice singsong. A linen-lined basket hangs in the crook of her elbow. Nestled in with a bottle of a Wildcrest merlot are a few of the finer cheeses from Sonia's personal collection. Good food is meant to be shared with friends, after all.

"Hello, Alexandrie! Your friends from Wildcrest have arrived."

Edited 2020-01-13 01:02 (UTC)

"Oh hurrah!" is the bright exclamation in reply. Alexandrie has had a table set for them in the middle of the studio, which is wide and as bright as the winter skies of Kirkwall can manage through the many large windows that make up the near entirety of the outside walls. She moves to greet Sonia with the brush of a kiss on both cheeks, and a quick twist of her fingers has a young man moving smartly to genteelly relieve Sonia of her basket to set out the wine and take the cheese to the kitchen to plate.

"I am so pleased to see you, and very excited to have further introductions made to the friend you have brought along with you." Alexandrie gestures grandly towards the table. "Do come sit."

It's almost like being at home, just a little bit -- this little bubble of luxury to fend off the dreariness and relative unfamiliarity of Kirkwall. She'd spent so long almost in total isolation, with her increasingly stressed and taut family around her as her only company. Lexie and this place are -- even more so than the open windows -- a badly needed breath of fresh air.

"Well, this year's merlot is absolutely dying to meet you," Sonia says, clasping Alexandrie's hands in her own in greeting. "And I, too, have been dying to become acquainted with your atelier. What a view! How did you come by this place?"

"Ah, well! These apartments were designed and built by the Comte De La Fontaine," she replies, "and were serving as a tertiary home for some family friends. They very kindly returned it to us when my sister Geneviève came to Kirkwall with the Inquisition. She was very slightly less happy to relinquish a tiny bit more than half of the space to me and my extensive wardrobe when I came to Kirkwall to join her." Alexandrie offers Sonia a friendly arm and gestures towards the space. Walking tour before we sit?

"Then Geneviève received a commission to become part of the personal guard of the Empress herself, and I married and moved to the estate kept by House Asgard. I decided the view was so fine it ought not be entirely wasted, so I had several internal walls knocked out and the space converted. My dear friend Colin still lives here with a minimal staff, but apart from that it is entirely a studio space that I am very pleased to offer the use of to my fellow artists in Riftwatch."

And a very pleasant studio it is. Wide and open and filled with light, the walls painted a pristine white to aid in its reflection. There are a number of blank canvasses already stretched over frames, several easels leaning against one wall, and a set of shelves containing an extensive collection of paint pots and crowned with an array of brushes.

"I imagine you have brought your own things, but you are of course welcome to my collection," she says, her smile bright.

Sonia hooks her arm in Alexandrie's with a girlish grin as she looks around, and as she draws in a breath she seems to swell with delight. As she fully takes in the opportunity all around her, she starts to look more and more like a child in a sweet shop, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. She's been painting as a hobby since she was a child, never really achieving any marvelous level of skill, but always enjoying it. But she was the only artist in the family (and her uncle always has scoffed at it) and her collection of paints, while of fine quality, is still considerably more conservative. This...this is everything.

"Oh, my," Sonia says, stepping away from Lexie toward one of the blank canvases, her hand held slightly out. "Alexandrie, this is wonderful! You really don't mind?"

Normally when Loki joins her for combat practice Alexandrie would be nearing the end of her formidable stretch routine. Today she has apparently been brought to a standstill somewhere in the middle, leaning on her elbows on the floor between outstretched legs, her feet rolling idly between point and flex, her gaze transfixed by the contents of a slim volume with an expression on her face that hovers somewhere between mildly shocked amusement and the sultry look she likes to give him from across the room when she's fairly sure no-one's watching.

It is not entirely uncommon for Loki to approach without notice, even when he doesn't make it a point to do so. Alexandrie is keen and attentive but, despite all their training, she is not so skilled in detection that he would expect her to notice him all the time.

It is a rather rarer occasion when he greets the person and still goes without notice. His calm good morning is ignored and Loki cocks a brow. She is draped over herself, spread out on the floor, and reading something with all of her attention. He is not sure what to make of this and, as such, walks up behind her and leans over, attempting to look down at the book between her knees.

"Am I so terribly late that you had to find a novel to occupy yourself?"

Alexandrie startles, quickly twisting to look back over her shoulder at Loki with the slightest hint of guilt.

"Late? No," she replies, although the reassurance is a bit uncertain, as if the concept of time has temporarily eluded her. "It was not found so much as it found me; an acquaintance I renewed whilst we were in Val Royeaux sent it, and it only just arrived." Recovered now, she unfolds from her stretch and turns on the floor to face him with an impish look, sliding the book around in front of her such that the cover remains a mystery for the moment.

"You remember we were the subject of some attention when we visited last, albeit largely the form that comes along with having made some rather unpopular decisions?"

She turns her expression coquettish and Loki's interest is piqued. The book is placed outside of his line of sight and she, oh so demurely, reminds of him of their trip to Val Royeaux. It had been a dreadfully boring time, all things considered, and Loki's crooked brow arches higher.

"I recall," he admits. It was the sort of scrutiny he was used to, of course, and not exceedingly beyond the norm...but if this is to do with Val Royeaux?

"Well," her eyes sparkle secretively, "Apparently someone was paying an entirely different form of—" A pause, and then she draws up her knees and places the little volume against them, still hidden, and clears her throat delicately for effect before beginning to read in Orlesian.

"Another turn on the floor, and Lady Seraphine found herself in unfamiliar arms. She had danced with all at court save one, and thus she had no need to look to know with striking certainty into whose hand she had placed her own; whose hand now slid around the delicacy of her waist to press against the low curve of her back and draw her against him with all the unyielding confidence of a command, and she stifles a quiet gasp at the shudder that rises along her spine too quickly for her to will it still.

'You have been avoiding me, my lady,'" Alexandrie purrs lowly, shifting her accent to somewhere around the city of Marnas Pell, and then looks up from the page with a catlike smile, sliding the book above her knees so Loki can see the cover.

At first, during her dramatic reading, Loki is just slightly uncertain as to why she is reciting Orlesian pornography to him. He is familiar with the genre, the romance and intrigue, but does not actively follow any authors who indulge in it. It takes him a moment, until she does a rather dashing rendition of his own accent, before he realizes that the couple on the page is a facsimile of them.

He is, not to put too delicate a point on it, utterly stunned and it shows on his expression. The warring look of confusion and fascination is some relative to that look he gave her when she first said she loved him. This is so absolutely beyond the pale he has no reference for how to process it.

The cover does not help.

"The Diplomacy of Desire," he repeats the title out loud and stares, still shocked, at the cover. It is clearly an artists rendition done from description and memory. The only aspects that look like either of them are his dark hair and her flaming copper hair...but yes, it is clearly them.

And, for one rare moment, he is speechless.

Alexandrie's smile blossoms further, barely containing her delight as Loki's expression abruptly shifts from polite indulgent confusion to the open flickering between surprise and disbelief and curiosity that so rarely visits it and always makes her want to pursue the advantage.

"There are," she says, "two responses to scandal in Orlais. Snide and cutting gossip," she shuts the book and waves it gently back and forth, "and odes to its eroticism."

She flutters her eyelashes at him, sets it down, and rises from the floor with a languid stretch once standing before tilting her head and making innocent inquiry: "Shall we practice?"

She rises to join him but, despite himself, Loki cannot seem to look away from the book she's set aside. It's a grim sort of horror, knowing that he had been poorly imitated and immortalized in a romance novel. The very idea--the sheer lunacy of that--is something he has not yet managed to process. Had anyone he knew read this? Did it matter if they had? Thor can't read Orlesian can he? It would be just Loki's luck if he could.

Ah, but he is distracted.

His wife is speaking to him and expects their normal sparring practice and he promptly obliges her.

"What--? Yes, of course," he says quickly and gathers his wits about him. He tears his eyes from that cover and, with a reflexive, dashing smile, stands tall and inclines his head.

"Now where were we?"

"Hand-to-hand, should I find myself disarmed," Alexandrie replies sweetly, the corner of her smile twitching as Loki pulls his attention from the book with obvious effort.

She, having been born of the country that interminably produces such things (and an avid reader of them), is far less bothered.

"Yes, of course," Loki agrees, still distracted by that book, despite it being cast aside and out of sight. As a show of good faith, and it is that, a show, he twists his hands and the knives he had stowed in his sleeves appear in his fingers. It is a deft flick of fingers, only, that produces them.

"Now, of course, you should never be fully disarmed, but you already know that much," Loki says, more for himself than her, and sets his knives aside on the floor, outside of their sparring area.

He also knows that were she armed she is clever enough not to tell her opponent.

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it; Alexandrie is delighted, ever and always, by the smooth easy nonchalance of Loki’s legerdemain. In a moment, before they begin, she’ll reach to catch one of his hands and brush her lips affectionately across its fingertips—but first she waves her own hand illustratively back towards where she’d been stretching and the telltale wink of sunlight off the twinned hilts of her own set on the floor there.

He is, of course, still armed—as is she—but they’ll pretend for a little bit that it’s otherwise for the sake of the lesson.

“Oui, bien sûr,” she agrees, before making further inquiry in the sort of entirely innocuous tone that implies mischief as she takes her place across from him, “but what if I have been caught unawares by a visiting Magister whilst swimming in a moonlit pool I thought was private?”

Loki looks confused but only very briefly. His eyes dart, briefly, back to that book, and his expression takes on just the edge of an unguarded reaction. It is somewhere between pained embarrassment and morbid curiosity. The latter is common on his face, the former, far less so. He turns his attention back to her and shrugs just so.

"I would first suggest escaping the water," Loki says in a matter-of-fact way that is not at all flirtatious, a knee-jerk reaction to that book and the scene she has proposed that he is honestly certain is in it. "But, once you were free of it...it might behoove you being...so disarmed."

And yet, he cannot avoid flirting. Not entirely.

If you love something hard enough, for long enough, you begin to know it in the smallest ways. Farmers who roll a pinch of soil between their fingers and know if it comes from the north field or the south. Sommeliers who hold wine in their mouth and then tell you what the weather was like just before the grapes were harvested that year. Sailors who squint at the horizon and begin to prepare for a storm that won’t come for another two days.

Alexandrie was already good at watching the slope of a shoulder, the shift of balance, the reading of faces that didn’t want to be read before she had loved Loki with reckless abandon. Now, the split second flickers of feeling in her husband that would be invisible to anyone else unfold for her like the sky.

And so she collects that moment of embarrassment for later and bounces lightly on her toes, her eyes flitting across him looking for the tells that might tell her of more combative movement before returning them to his face and smiling coyly, “Might it?” she inquires innocently, “I am still learning about such things—do teach me how.”

He goes to the project office rather than calling her up to his own. Perhaps it is a matter of convenience; perhaps this is meant to be little more than a casual exchange. Or maybe he just takes some pleasure out of arriving in the middle of her business, in the midst of conversation with some other party, and having enough authority to tell that inessential person to surrender the room to him and come back in a half hour.

When they have gone, Flint shuts the door firmly behind them. He turns to her.

"Lady Asgard. I thought we might review the current state of your work."

Ah, here he is. Ever since her conversation with Kitty, Alexandrie had been waiting for the inevitable appearance of

"Commander Flint," she greets, rising fluidly from the chair at her desk to offer the proper dip of obeisance due a man of his rank, extending an arm with a smile to invite him to take the recently (and hastily) vacated chair opposite her. "Of course. Would you like to speak upon it country by country, or in order of immediacy?"

"However you judge most appropriate, to begin with," he says, taking the chair with a node to her own. Please, don't stand on his account, et cetera et cetera.

"I will likely have questions in either direction."

Alexandrie she takes her seat again with a rustle and smooth of her skirts. “Let us start with Orlais, then, as I was presently being updated on her, and thus it is foremost in my mind.”

And so she does, with little of her usual embellishment and no hint that she is waiting for something else. A rather broad explanation, only the overarching thrust of the work unless he stops her for details.

“—And, as I told the Scoutmaster when we spoke on it, my last journey to Val Royeaux revealed that it has become something of a new game for my peers to fabricate Venatori connections for each other and consider the degree of their success the amount of interest and investigation such connections come under, especially originating from Riftwatch and so I believe it prudent to cultivate a more permanent network, perhaps among the serving staff, that might give us a better idea of which accusations are almost certainly spurious.” She gestures it lightly away. “We do not wish to miss information, of course, but nor do we wish to spend more resources chasing hats. Now, to Ferelden?”

"By all means."

For a man who almost certainly is in possession of an ulterior motive and absolutely in ownership of a reputation for being short, he is remarkably patient with this. There are questions here and there, peppered selectively throughout, but for the most part he is simply a fixed and relatively easy audience. In sum, it gives off the strong impression of waiting. He is less hunter in his blind on keen tenterhooks for any sight of some animal making its way down into the clearing over which he looks and more steel trap: inert and imperturbable, secure in the knowledge that it does not need to be attentive to do its sharp work. He lets her talk about Ferelden, and then maybe Neverra, and perhaps even Antiva. When eventually conversation winds its way farther North still, he listens to what she has to say about Tevinter in much the same way he did any backwater Bann or Marcher state.

And then, in much the same tone as any other question that has preceded it, he asks: "Remind me - what was the reason behind why we first learned about Miss Jones' continued contact with a network of Tevene slaves from her instead of you?”

Ah, here they are.

Alexandrie tilts her head as if it is a mere curiosity, her tone light and matter-of-fact.

"Because it is her network, Commander. We all have cards that are ours alone to play, and rules by which we play them. It is hardly my place to make offer of agents that are not mine, especially if the trust and future use of those agents is likely predicated upon their trust of their contact."

Bullshit it's hers.

"A networm she was introduced to through her Inquisition work, which she evidently reported to you as a representative of our outfit, and has since been allowed to wither on the vine under the sole oversight of a teenaged Rifter. Tell me,"—his tone is still even, though there in something about the temperature of him which has dropped by a few marked degrees—"Did you offer her any guidance whatsoever, or was it your aim to let a potentially valuable connection inside Tevinter be wasted?"

“In order for a harvest to wither on the vine, that vine must first have grown ready to bear fruit. As far as the suitability of its caretaker, Mademoiselle Jones was trusted with this vine precisely because of who she is, and I extended her similar trust as far as its cultivation to fruitfulness and granted her what she needed in order to feel safe in doing so. It is through that choice that I believe she will come to trust that our eventual utilization of the network is done with respect and full consideration of the risk to agents she fervently desires to protect, and we shall have far less need to consider the possibility that she might balk at its use. Pleased with it or no, she is the contact.” Alexandrie lifts her shoulders slightly.

“Ones desire to have the webs of trust and behaviour central to the proper management of clandestine affairs be other than they are is largely irrelevant. You are welcome to think the judgement I made erroneous, but it is one that was in my purview to have made.” A brief pause, while she carefully straightens a neat stack of papers on her desk that does not need straightening. “How much consideration should you give to my opinions on the deployment of our forces?”

He listens patiently. When she is finished, he proceeds at a brisk clip - not heated, just pointedly brusque.

"I'm not asking how you got Miss Jones to trust you or why she wasn't immediately replaced with someone who might pose as her in communication. I'm asking what arrangements you made to support a young girl who has likely never cultivated a relationship with an intelligence asset before. I'm asking why the Division Heads were never made aware of the fact that there was even the slim possibility that we might at some point have an inroad with the Tevene slave population. I'm asking why you decided to keep this information to yourself instead of telling anyone above you - and mark me Lady Asgard, there are people above you in this organization; your position as a project leader may be voluntary, but the latitude afforded by it comes with the expectation that you report information sensitive to our work - when we might have put into motion efforts to encourage the strengthening of Miss Jones' connections.

“What you do and do not choose to tell us and how you pursue your work is tantamount to your opinion, and as it just so happens that does influence the deployment of Riftwatch's assets - Forces division included. So you'll forgive me if I find it reasonable to consider why a woman recently married to a member of one of Tevinter's noble houses might conveniently neglect to pursue this particular lead in any significant way."

"The currents of power in Tevinter are disrupted, Commander, and House Asgard, having markedly not afforded even cursory support to Corypheus, does not ride them smoothly." She folds her hands on her desk, and for this moment unveils the cool clarity of her calculations in her gaze. "It is likely that my beau-frère is even now joining Lord Odin in plans for the private mobilization of forces to aid in our fight from within the borders. If the slaves of Tevinter take advantage of civil fracture and the push of the Exalted March to rebel, and succeed, their success will turn the country even further upon its head." Alexandrie spreads her hands. "There exists a possibility that it would be in the best interest of the future position of my House to be sympathetic to that cause."

A play she has not broached with her husband yet, but one she lets simmer in the back kitchens. And one which the airing of may aid her here; little is more convincing than admitted self-interest.

It's a fair play. He doesn't give a shit.

"Allow me to be clear-- I don't care about what your husband is or isn't or might be doing, or what state his family's house is in. I asked what could possibly be keeping you from doing your job here. The fact that you continue to be intent on not answering that question and instead are suggesting possibilities now as I'm asking you directly concerns me."

Blandly: "If you did not care, Commander, I imagine you should not have broached your 'reasonably considered' suspicions as to my motivations." Alexandrie tilts her head and lifts an elegant shoulder. "As to your question about what has kept me from doing my job, I believe I have been clear that I yet consider my choice to allow Mademoiselle Jones to largely control the knowledge and development of the network we have gained access to through her to be doing my job.

"You and the Scoutmaster have made clear your disagreement, and I have noted it and shall adjust my future actions accordingly."

"I would very much like to hear how you intend to adjust, particularly in relation to this question of potential contacts within Tevinter." He smiles. It's one of those unpleasantly cold sort of expressions, the kind which plays at being cordial without bothering to hide being unimpressed. "That might put my mind more at ease."

"Why, to provide more transparency as to its development," she replies with mild surprise. Isn't that what you asked for? "I shall require Mademoiselle Jones to make report of her progress and provide copies of missives sent and received. Not accessible to the public, of course, but eminently available to you as a Division Head should you wish to inquire after them. I shall even add written summations of any instruction I give her, since you have expressed concern about the nature of my support."

And she will—although none of it will provide any information about how an intrepid and ambitious man might go about making contact himself.

The shape of it should be perfectly acceptable, but he finds there's very little satisfaction in it; something in the Lady Asgard's pleasant temperament and gentle surprise set his teeth to edge. "It's a start," is what he allows for , though it's clear from some pinched line in his expression that the latitude allowed for in the whole arrangement hasn't entirely escaped him.

Or maybe he just doesn't care for her.

"Going forward, I would ask that this be the approach you plan to take with any sensitive contact behind our enemy's lines which might fall into your lap. I have no desire to tell you that you can't make decisions. But I would strongly encourage you to inform our Scoutmaster when you make them. It's possible there are plans in motion above you which might be affected, and the continuity of this organization depends on the coordination of all our limbs."

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open | if language were liquid

Gwenaëlle (on her birthday)

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let's do lunch

let's!

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Loki

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time is lie, but sometime before vinmark adventuring;

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