WHO: Alexandrie, Athessa, Bastien, Barrow, Derrica, Nell, and Poesia WHAT: A Very Riftwatch Summer Vacation WHEN: Late Solace WHERE: Churneau, Occupied Orlais NOTES: Violence cw etc. Bunch of details here.
While she walks, Alexandrie is undressing herself. Partially, at least; she’s still got a light shift—although if she hadn’t it wouldn't have bothered her overmuch—but the cotton dress she wore in the kitchens is going up and over her head with little remark. A paring knife is retrieved from her garter shortly thereafter, but the muttered curse in Orlesian seems to suggest that whatever it is she’s intent on doing is proving unwieldy.
“Will you hold the other end of this for a moment?” she asks, glancing over at whoever’s nearest. “It shall drag in the dirt, else.”
ii. camping
After branches are gathered and water is fetched, fire lit, and then let to burn low, Alexandrie sits by the glow of it and watches the stars pensively. There’s a flicker of constant movement in her lap as she absently and repetitively palms a small runestone and then makes it reappear.
Athessa is nearest, and she holds aloft whatever it is that Lexie is handing off, watching with mild curiosity but not putting the question to words. What are you doing?
What she’s doing—now that she can walk off a bit to pull the fabric taut between them—is taking the paring knife to the hem to get through the sturdy stitching, grasping the edges firmly, and then ripping the skirt to the waist with some audible satisfaction.
“Bandages,” she says, “To stabilize the joints Ser Barrow insists on continuing to strain.” Alexandrie glances over at Derrica, back to Athessa, and continues with some softness. “To hold your salve better against skin, once we stop and get the chance to boil them.”
"Ah," she nods her understanding and with it is able to adjust her hold on the fabric to better aid Lexie's efforts, rather than simply being a passive cloth-hook. "Smart. Glad you thought of it, otherwise none of us'd be able to move without sloughing."
“Or perhaps I simply wish to reduce it to ribbons for the incredible crime of having been an unbecoming color on me for a month.” Riiiiip. “Never mind the cut.”
With Athessa’s aid it goes a great deal faster, and soon enough Alexandrie’s starting notches a hand’s width apart to help in tearing the skirt into long semi-regular strips. A long sound of cloth protest, and then, as she drapes the first of them over her shoulder:
"As if anything could be unbecoming on you," she scoffs, and begins to collect strips in the same manner so Lexie isn't the only one carrying them.
"I almost didn't," is her confession thereafter, quiet enough for only the other woman to hear. "But thank you. When Nell said to make a decision...I was ready to run into that dungeon alone."
Alexandrie hums, pleased, for the compliment. When she speaks, it is as quietly as her companion had.
“What stopped you?” Her eyes remain on the work, either to make sure she doesn’t err in the darkness or to grant the small mercy of not observing Athessa in case that makes it easier to speak, but her head is tilted; she’s listening.
"Derrica," she says, then sighs. If only she could leave it at that. "When I saw how they were all being tortured, I couldn't stop seeing it any time I closed my eyes, but especially her. There's no way I would've been able to stay on task if I saw her before we were on our way out--"
"I love her," The admission is no easier spoken to Lexie than it was to Derrica herself, and it doesn't sound like a welcome one, either. It's a cruel happenstance of fate; unfortunately, I love her.
"I wouldn't be able to bear it if I made my feelings a death sentence."
“It is a terrible truth of engaging in this work, that the more deeply one cares for someone the more distance one must sometimes force in order to keep both oneself and ones beloved—“ and she chokes on something, her next step a halting one as her gaze glazes with thought turned inward for a moment. Although she recovers in the next moment, the breath she draws to finish the thought is as uneven as the edges of the cloth they rip, and the word itself said with a kind of distant curious sorrow.
Athessa looks over at that faltering step, thinking Lexie must have someone she's had to distance from for their own safety and that's who she's thinking of now, a weakness shared between them. Then, she steals a fleeting glance at Derrica.
"That's it's own kind of torture. Staying away when all you want is to hold them. The slightest touch burning like a fucking flame," Athessa smooths out a strip of cloth she'd just bunched in her fist without realizing, and spends a few quiet moments simply focusing on where they're walking, what they're doing, what they'll need to do before they're well and truly safe.
"Do you think there's a way to fall out of love on purpose?"
It’ll be familiar, if Athessa’s watching; the way Alexandrie is tensing and releasing her muscles in sequence, the precisely patterned rise and fall of breath. One of the first exercises a Bard learns to regulate themselves back to calm.
There’s no time or space now to curl around the sharp hurt of Athessa’s words and indulge in feeling sorry for herself. Or to let herself consider the possibility of...
She shakes her head slightly and concentrates on the feel of fabric on her fingers, and her lips twitch with dry mirth. “I shall let you know when I find out.”
She has an audience. Poesia, drawn by the motion and still a bit left of what one would call "human", watches her keenly. She does not reach out to try and snatch the stones, but the temptation is very clearly there.
Instead she says, "You're very good with you're hands."
And if that sounds like a come on... That's because it absolutely is.
Alexandrie glances over, and repeats the minor feat of legerdemain with a small smile and a good deal more showmanship—it is gone, it is back, but the stone that returns is a different one.
"I am," she replies, tilting her head in acknowledgement. Modesty is for Fereldans. "This one my lord husband taught me."
What a lovely happenstance that neither of them are Fereldan. Though it's possible Poesia still would have said whatever she pleased regardless. She tips her head, eyelashes sweeping against her cheeks demurely.
"What a lucky pair the both of your are. You must have been his loveliest student in the art."
As perhaps evidenced by her lord husband, Alexandrie has a certain appreciation for tall beautiful paragons of twinned charm and efficient brutality.
"I have never heard otherwise," she says, "although whether it is true because it is true or true because hearing otherwise might induce me to attempt to make a rather more precious set of stones disappear..." She bats her eyelashes back with an immensity of innocence.
Under normal circumstances, she would have gifted Lexie with all of her champagne delight, bubbly and effusive and sweet. As it is, her pleasure is distinctly less appropriate for wider company, sharp edged smile and purring giggle.
"You are wicked! How lovely! I do wish we were at a more pleasant affair with your husband so I might be wicked with the both of you in turn."
"Ah, for pleasant affairs," Alexandrie mourns lightly. Le sigh. "I fear I am banished from them until winter has set in properly." She examines her hands critically, holding one up for inspection with a slight pout.
"How jealous I am of the sun!" Poesia says, with a gasp. The flirting makes it easier to settle into the idea of being something other than a natural killer. She threads her fingers with the one Lexie holds out, turning it delicately to examine it. "Why, I can't imagine any who would dare bar you from anything. This is the loveliest hand I've ever seen!"
"Then you must come and inspect it again come midwinter," is the coy reply. The flirting makes it easier to set aside what Athessa had said of Byerly. "Or at the very least, once I have had done with these rough reminders of the kitchens."
She wiggles her fingers illustratively such that she taps Poesia's hand gently with the tips of them. It's not where the calluses are, but that hardly matters.
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While she walks, Alexandrie is undressing herself. Partially, at least; she’s still got a light shift—although if she hadn’t it wouldn't have bothered her overmuch—but the cotton dress she wore in the kitchens is going up and over her head with little remark. A paring knife is retrieved from her garter shortly thereafter, but the muttered curse in Orlesian seems to suggest that whatever it is she’s intent on doing is proving unwieldy.
“Will you hold the other end of this for a moment?” she asks, glancing over at whoever’s nearest. “It shall drag in the dirt, else.”
ii. camping
After branches are gathered and water is fetched, fire lit, and then let to burn low, Alexandrie sits by the glow of it and watches the stars pensively. There’s a flicker of constant movement in her lap as she absently and repetitively palms a small runestone and then makes it reappear.
i.
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“Bandages,” she says, “To stabilize the joints Ser Barrow insists on continuing to strain.” Alexandrie glances over at Derrica, back to Athessa, and continues with some softness. “To hold your salve better against skin, once we stop and get the chance to boil them.”
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With Athessa’s aid it goes a great deal faster, and soon enough Alexandrie’s starting notches a hand’s width apart to help in tearing the skirt into long semi-regular strips. A long sound of cloth protest, and then, as she drapes the first of them over her shoulder:
“You did well.”
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"I almost didn't," is her confession thereafter, quiet enough for only the other woman to hear. "But thank you. When Nell said to make a decision...I was ready to run into that dungeon alone."
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“What stopped you?” Her eyes remain on the work, either to make sure she doesn’t err in the darkness or to grant the small mercy of not observing Athessa in case that makes it easier to speak, but her head is tilted; she’s listening.
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Having feelings is just so awful.
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"I wouldn't be able to bear it if I made my feelings a death sentence."
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“It is a terrible truth of engaging in this work, that the more deeply one cares for someone the more distance one must sometimes force in order to keep both oneself and ones beloved—“ and she chokes on something, her next step a halting one as her gaze glazes with thought turned inward for a moment. Although she recovers in the next moment, the breath she draws to finish the thought is as uneven as the edges of the cloth they rip, and the word itself said with a kind of distant curious sorrow.
“—safe.”
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"That's it's own kind of torture. Staying away when all you want is to hold them. The slightest touch burning like a fucking flame," Athessa smooths out a strip of cloth she'd just bunched in her fist without realizing, and spends a few quiet moments simply focusing on where they're walking, what they're doing, what they'll need to do before they're well and truly safe.
"Do you think there's a way to fall out of love on purpose?"
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There’s no time or space now to curl around the sharp hurt of Athessa’s words and indulge in feeling sorry for herself. Or to let herself consider the possibility of...
She shakes her head slightly and concentrates on the feel of fabric on her fingers, and her lips twitch with dry mirth. “I shall let you know when I find out.”
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aaaand scene
ii
Instead she says, "You're very good with you're hands."
And if that sounds like a come on... That's because it absolutely is.
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"I am," she replies, tilting her head in acknowledgement. Modesty is for Fereldans. "This one my lord husband taught me."
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"What a lucky pair the both of your are. You must have been his loveliest student in the art."
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"I have never heard otherwise," she says, "although whether it is true because it is true or true because hearing otherwise might induce me to attempt to make a rather more precious set of stones disappear..." She bats her eyelashes back with an immensity of innocence.
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"You are wicked! How lovely! I do wish we were at a more pleasant affair with your husband so I might be wicked with the both of you in turn."
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"I have let the sun be most wanton with me."
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She wiggles her fingers illustratively such that she taps Poesia's hand gently with the tips of them. It's not where the calluses are, but that hardly matters.
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"But surely there are other parts of your anatomy that the sun was not so wanton and the kitchens not so harsh? I might use them for a comparison."
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She doesn't move, though, waiting to see if she'll be permitted or scolded.
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