faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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 ]

open | if language were liquid

Gwenaëlle (on her birthday)

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