WHO: Wysteria, Fitcher, Flint, Marcoulf & You WHAT: Thread Catch-all WHEN: Solace WHERE: You know. Around. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
"Oh?" The pipe is drawn briefly from between her teeth. "Do we refer to your time in the jungle, or are there further daring adventures I've yet to hear the details of?"
And then, with the papers set aside, she is free to puff away as she likes: a few short tugs to remind the ember that it is indeed meant to be burning, and then finally a longer draw. No smoke rings this time, however. Her exhale is a long jet of smoke with some woody, cedar-like tang.
That's a pleasant smell. It's worlds better than whatever Byerly smokes, or Bastien, even.
"The jungle is one, then back when Byerly got married, I helped rescue the bride from an attempted kidnapping, and an informant got nabbed by slavers on her way out of a Tevinter, that one was pretty daring. Saved a girl from uh, being robbed of her innocence..." Will talking about or even around Devigny ever be easy? "So yeah. Pretty daring."
She has hooked her elbow up onto the point of her knees, hand wrapped loosely about the pipe's down so she might talk without worry about losing it from between her teeth.
"My, my. Quite the honorable knight in shining armor, indeed. I'm surprised Mr Silver has yet to get his hooks into you. He's been looking for good stories to tell about Riftwatch, you know. I gather our reputation is slightly irregular and could use some polishing."
"So I've heard," she says, thinking back to her day as Lord Ambassador. "I guess from the outside it's not as obvious that we're the ones closing rifts, not opening them."
Athessa leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, not quite mirroring Fitcher's pose. Seeing how easily the pipe sits in Fitcher's hand, the curl of the woman's fingers and the gentle parting of her lips where the stem sits between her teeth. It's kind of...artistic, she thinks. Like one of those old paintings of someone doing something completely normal.
A serious question indeed. Fitcher removes the pipe from between her teeth.
"It is a matter of the shape of your mouth,"--she makes a brief 'o' with her lips and taps her cheek--"And the force of your exhale. You must push the smoke out. Like coughing. From here." She indicates the base of her throat.
Athessa listens with rapt attention, then hops up to light her joint on that torch she noted moments before. When she returns, waving out the open flame on the rolled paper, she repeats what Fitcher said.
“Shape of the mouth, force of the exhale—push the smoke out. Do I have to do anything with my tongue?” She can fold hers into the shape of a clover, but it’s unlikely that would be helpful.
"Nothing. In fact, it is vital that you allow it to lay at the bottom of the mouth, as if you have forgotten it exists."
For emphasis, she takes a long pull from her pipe, holds the smoke fully in her lungs, then tips her face slightly upward to huff out a series of rings.
When Athessa gives it a go, the first few “rings” are little more than discs. Trying to forget her tongue exists just serves to make her more aware of it, so it gets in the way. Better to smoke normally for a few drags then try when the elfroot has settled down into her bones.
“I’ll get it sometime,” she decrees and rests her elbows on her knees, joint between her fingers. “I asked Tony to teach me before but he wouldn’t even try.”
Fitcher smokes along in companionable silence, puffing away without ceremony or commentary, as Athessa makes her fledgling attempts. The smell of the elfroot smoke adds a particular, slightly bitter tang to the air about them but in the night air with this delicate sea breeze flitting through the various courtyards of the Gallows, it is hardly disagreeable.
"As with most things: practice." She sets her cheek idly against her knuckles. "There is nothing quite like the diversion of repetition to keep one's mind off more serious subjects."
Ah. Of course. At times, it feels like Athessa must have an aura about her, or a sign over her head that grabs folk by the shoulders and shakes them and says talk to me about my trauma! With people like Bastien and now, Fitcher, it’s probably reasonable to just chalk it up to them having been around when things went wrong. The same cannot be said of Lexie, who seemed to simply read it on Athessa’s face.
Breathing out a steady stream of smoke, Athessa weighs her response. Direct? Or evasive?
"Oh, I doubt it is anything irregular. The state of the war, what will happen should the Orlesian force over commit itself to the siege of Perendale, this business in Nevarra and all those refugees in Cumberland. Whether a certain gentleman in Kirkwall who presents holds the bulk of my gambling debts can be convinced to forgive me, or if I will need to slip away in the night. What could be more usual?"
She tips her head less to Athessa and more simply in general, drawing in a lung full of smoke. Her exhale is slow, a long stream of that sweet smoke which drifts promptly away into the falling evening.
She gives a half shrug in place of repeating so it is in agreement. On failing her next attempt at a ring, she coughs once softly and asks:
"How much do you owe?" Curious, but not doggedly determined to uncover the truth. Whether Fitcher chooses to supply a number or an epithet doesn't matter so long as she's answering, and not asking.
"Enough, more's the pity. Luckily the fellow's been entirely reasonable - evidently believes in interest more than he does in all the other usual ways of dealing with a problem -, but I've had bad luck before and you might say I hesitate to entirely afford him the benefit of the doubt."
She shoots Athessa a long look. Burned once, twice wary eh?
More like twice wary, thrice resigned. Athessa's just waiting for the hard question that she knows is coming.
"I might have enough coin stashed away to help you with that," she says, tapping her thumb against the butt of her joint to loosen some ash before bringing it to her lips. Her next attempt at rings is marginally more successful than the last, but still far from a triumph.
Fitcher chuckles, the sound lower and smokier than the air about them is.
"Try inhaling more smoke if you can. It will give you more time to make adjustments before you run out."
The pull she takes from her own pipe has some contemplating air to it, the ember in the worn smooth bowl brightening as what remains of the courtyard begins to go.
"Thank you, but no. I've only just cleared my account with Julius. Owing someone money is much less entertaining when you see them every other day, and twice over as bad when you might otherwise enjoy their company."
Athessa smiles to herself and lets out a soft breath of a laugh. As if anyone could dismiss Fitcher, or consider her an old woman.
"May they all be subjected to their own evils," she adds to Fitcher's decree, and takes in another lungful of smoke. This time, she lets it out through her nose in draconic fashion. "The Lady Alexandrie tried to get me to talk about it, ya know."
"It was her assignment we all decided to cock up." Though if pressed, she would yet maintain it was a fine plan, they got far more information than they would have if they'd simply crept around the edges of the estate, and no one died - so no harm, no foul (with apologies to Ser Coupe's most excellent thigh). "Or do you mean it?"
Rather like an actor in an exceptionally bad stage performance of The Perils of Blood Magic (which is in and of itself a terrible play), she makes a comically menacing hand gesture before her and exhales a jet of smoke through her nose for effect.
That performance gets a more earnest chuckle, and Athessa nods.
"Yeah, that. I said the same thing, that we'd cocked up the assignment," A show of her empty palms, something like a helpless shrug. "She feels responsible. For both things. But I told her: it's not like she's the blood mage that did it."
While the gut-wrenching tug on her veins isn't something she's likely to forget any time soon, being turned into a puppet to kill a dead man isn't at the forefront of her list of pressing trauma right now.
"What a lovely passionate heart she has. Dressed in armor, I give you," she allows, puffing at the pipe. "But all the same."
Sweet Lady Asgard, with her heart pinned more visibly at her sleeve that it seems she would prefer. No wonder she left Orlais.
"How unfortunate that we find ourselves in a war with ranks of northern mages who are so happy to exercise their power." This is lightness and airs, easy, a little joke for how ridiculous their circumstances are. But after, some of the humor fades. Her good temper softens into kindness. The pipe is removed from between her teeth. "All the same, I hope you don't have to face such things again in the future."
It's almost like giving northern mages absolute power corrupts absolutely, while subjugating southern mages makes them monsters in name only.
"Yeah, that feeling is mutual," she says. "But I'm not optimistic. Apparently" --according to Kostos, anyway-- "there isn't any way to guard against it."
The ember burns quietly in the pipe's bowl, but she neglects to set the stem back where she might take a pull of it. Instead, Fitcher sets her chin idly in her upturned palm, elbow at her knee, and lets her attention slide from Athessa to across the length of the courtyard before them. There's another stairwell there, a hard turn which isolates them from seeing any hint of the sea even if they can smell it in the air. Is there any hour in the Gallows where there isn't someone trotting to and fro? If so, it certainly isn't this one, as daily duties which require light to do them by wind to a close and anyone who hasn't avoided their responsibilities for the day might now find some other occupation for their time. The ferry to Kirkwall is likely to be busy in the next hour.
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And then, with the papers set aside, she is free to puff away as she likes: a few short tugs to remind the ember that it is indeed meant to be burning, and then finally a longer draw. No smoke rings this time, however. Her exhale is a long jet of smoke with some woody, cedar-like tang.
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"The jungle is one, then back when Byerly got married, I helped rescue the bride from an attempted kidnapping, and an informant got nabbed by slavers on her way out of a Tevinter, that one was pretty daring. Saved a girl from uh, being robbed of her innocence..." Will talking about or even around Devigny ever be easy? "So yeah. Pretty daring."
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"My, my. Quite the honorable knight in shining armor, indeed. I'm surprised Mr Silver has yet to get his hooks into you. He's been looking for good stories to tell about Riftwatch, you know. I gather our reputation is slightly irregular and could use some polishing."
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Athessa leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, not quite mirroring Fitcher's pose. Seeing how easily the pipe sits in Fitcher's hand, the curl of the woman's fingers and the gentle parting of her lips where the stem sits between her teeth. It's kind of...artistic, she thinks. Like one of those old paintings of someone doing something completely normal.
"Can I ask you something?"
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One of those dark eyebrows quirks. Her smile behind the pipe has such a pleasant slant to it.
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A serious question indeed. Fitcher removes the pipe from between her teeth.
"It is a matter of the shape of your mouth,"--she makes a brief 'o' with her lips and taps her cheek--"And the force of your exhale. You must push the smoke out. Like coughing. From here." She indicates the base of her throat.
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“Shape of the mouth, force of the exhale—push the smoke out. Do I have to do anything with my tongue?” She can fold hers into the shape of a clover, but it’s unlikely that would be helpful.
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For emphasis, she takes a long pull from her pipe, holds the smoke fully in her lungs, then tips her face slightly upward to huff out a series of rings.
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“I’ll get it sometime,” she decrees and rests her elbows on her knees, joint between her fingers. “I asked Tony to teach me before but he wouldn’t even try.”
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"As with most things: practice." She sets her cheek idly against her knuckles. "There is nothing quite like the diversion of repetition to keep one's mind off more serious subjects."
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Breathing out a steady stream of smoke, Athessa weighs her response. Direct? Or evasive?
“Which serious subjects did you have in mind?”
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She tips her head less to Athessa and more simply in general, drawing in a lung full of smoke. Her exhale is slow, a long stream of that sweet smoke which drifts promptly away into the falling evening.
"So it is, hm?"
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"How much do you owe?" Curious, but not doggedly determined to uncover the truth. Whether Fitcher chooses to supply a number or an epithet doesn't matter so long as she's answering, and not asking.
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She shoots Athessa a long look. Burned once, twice wary eh?
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"I might have enough coin stashed away to help you with that," she says, tapping her thumb against the butt of her joint to loosen some ash before bringing it to her lips. Her next attempt at rings is marginally more successful than the last, but still far from a triumph.
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"Try inhaling more smoke if you can. It will give you more time to make adjustments before you run out."
The pull she takes from her own pipe has some contemplating air to it, the ember in the worn smooth bowl brightening as what remains of the courtyard begins to go.
"Thank you, but no. I've only just cleared my account with Julius. Owing someone money is much less entertaining when you see them every other day, and twice over as bad when you might otherwise enjoy their company."
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"May they all be subjected to their own evils," she adds to Fitcher's decree, and takes in another lungful of smoke. This time, she lets it out through her nose in draconic fashion. "The Lady Alexandrie tried to get me to talk about it, ya know."
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Rather like an actor in an exceptionally bad stage performance of The Perils of Blood Magic (which is in and of itself a terrible play), she makes a comically menacing hand gesture before her and exhales a jet of smoke through her nose for effect.
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"Yeah, that. I said the same thing, that we'd cocked up the assignment," A show of her empty palms, something like a helpless shrug. "She feels responsible. For both things. But I told her: it's not like she's the blood mage that did it."
While the gut-wrenching tug on her veins isn't something she's likely to forget any time soon, being turned into a puppet to kill a dead man isn't at the forefront of her list of pressing trauma right now.
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Sweet Lady Asgard, with her heart pinned more visibly at her sleeve that it seems she would prefer. No wonder she left Orlais.
"How unfortunate that we find ourselves in a war with ranks of northern mages who are so happy to exercise their power." This is lightness and airs, easy, a little joke for how ridiculous their circumstances are. But after, some of the humor fades. Her good temper softens into kindness. The pipe is removed from between her teeth. "All the same, I hope you don't have to face such things again in the future."
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"Yeah, that feeling is mutual," she says. "But I'm not optimistic. Apparently" --according to Kostos, anyway-- "there isn't any way to guard against it."
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The ember burns quietly in the pipe's bowl, but she neglects to set the stem back where she might take a pull of it. Instead, Fitcher sets her chin idly in her upturned palm, elbow at her knee, and lets her attention slide from Athessa to across the length of the courtyard before them. There's another stairwell there, a hard turn which isolates them from seeing any hint of the sea even if they can smell it in the air. Is there any hour in the Gallows where there isn't someone trotting to and fro? If so, it certainly isn't this one, as daily duties which require light to do them by wind to a close and anyone who hasn't avoided their responsibilities for the day might now find some other occupation for their time. The ferry to Kirkwall is likely to be busy in the next hour.
"For the likes of us, in any case."
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