open | you know you love me

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie, Gwen, Wysteria, Bastien, you
WHAT: Hot weather, hot goss
WHEN: Various, mostly now~
WHERE: Kirkwall generally
NOTES: I've put the starters in brackets but do you and I'll match!

gwenaëlle; crystal (back when this happened).

[ one afternoon, of a sudden: ]

Gigi! You shall never guess how I spent my early afternoon.

[ she sounds delighted. ]



wysteria; on the veranda at the asgard estate.

[ It being hard to properly enjoy chilled wine through a veil, Alexandrie's is currently thrown back over her hat. She needs neither covering, the veranda is perfectly shaded at this time of day, but she wears them in any case in the hope that the extra protection will induce her skin to return to its customary—and much desired—unblemished fairness.

She lifts her glass, observes the frozen strawberry gently bobbing in the straw-coloured liquid contained within it, and frowns as mightily as she can without encouraging wrinkles. ]

It is such a lovely day to sit out at a café, and I hate it.



bastien; showing up unexpectedly at his room.

[ knock knock knock knock knock~ it's exuberant, and lacks the hard edged sound of bare knuckles. Wonder who it is. ]



everyone else~

[ drop me a top level with something your character knows (of any level of import) that Alexandrie might have conceivably heard tell of or some piece of gossip about them you'd like to have reached her, and prepare yourself for the advent of a terrible busybody ]

Comments

[heirring]

[In contrast, Wysteria had promptly rid herself of her broad brimmed hat with its lovely blue ribbon the moment she's arrived at the house and has already forgotten it entirely. This is her second year of tragedy, and eventually one becomes embittered to such things as hope.

(She is quite freckled, perhaps even tan as she sits there opposite of Lexie, blonde hair more gold than yellow. And thanks to all the work in the Hightown house, and the fieldwork of assisting Mr. Stark and the dreadful imposition of being forced to attempt archery, her hands are looking rather worse for the wear.)]

I hope you never stop hating it, for it is the very worst thing to become inured to the prospect. Sometimes I find myself thinking I will never be good looking ever again.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie emits an empathetic sound of despair, raising her glass to press it to her temple. ]

I have not since my childhood been subjected to such extreme misuse on behalf of the sun.

[ She sits up, suddenly, the wine (her third glass, poured just prior to this moment) coming perilously close to escaping its enclosure. As it is, only a few drops make it daringly over the rim to soak into her glove. ]

Mais non! It was on behalf of Riftwatch! [ She settles back down and her lips thin further. ] And no-one at all—save you—has expressed the slightest condolence or gratitude. [ A turn of her head to her similarly injured companion with great solicitude. ] Have any to you?

[heirring]

Not at all. Not a one. Well-- [she pauses, her own glass halfway to her lip, then amends:] With the exception of Mr. Ellis. But that hardly counts for any number of reasons, the least of which being that it was in response to my own misery over the subject.

[coquettish_trees]

[ A 'hmph' of displeasure and then a sip, largely as further dramatic punctuation. ]

I shall never understand why nearly everyone here insists upon stubbornly proving themselves entirely ineligible.

[ She rolls her eyes, extends a leg briefly in an idle stretch, and returns it to its place part tucked behind the other. ]

What are the other reasons?

[heirring]

Why, all the reasons in the world.

[As if it is an absurd question, but she will forgive Alexandrie the oversight seeing as she has been so engaged in the business (until recently) of being a Project Lead, and then with all this other subsequent nonsense.]

Because he hadn't noticed on his own, and because he is rather old, and because we are familiar friends and a friend's insistence of your fairness while kind means almost nothing at all. Furthermore, [she takes a drink from her glass] we have established a certain mutual disinterest and so it means considerably less even than that.

Mr. Ellis means well, to be sure, but he is a Warden and can't be expected to know anything at all about what makes a young lady attractive to polite society.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Her glass raised—hear hear—and then a moment afterward set down emphatically on the small table beside her. This time it does slosh over, but it's already been forgotten. ]

Let us have our own polite society until midwinter. It is not in the least bit fair that everyone else should be enjoying the display of their new summer dresses whilst having a light picnic luncheon and promenading in the early evenings [ which she loves, this is tragic, and they are in a war at the end of the world, what if there isn't another summer season ] whilst we, through no fault of our own [ debatable, but ] are banished entirely.

[ She's not quiet figured out how that would work, but that's currently irrelevant. ]

[heirring]

Would that I could, [Wysteria sighs; it sounds like such a romantic idea to spend the season locked dramatically away only to reemerge as something fair and lovely and exceptionally fashionable.]

But my work— Oh! [The cry is very sudden. She sits straight up, only narrowly avoiding a cascade of wine over the glass' lip.] Dear Alexandrie, that reminds me! You must lend me the use of one or two of your lovely entertaining rooms. Monsieur de Foncé and I have come up with a scheme to raise funds which would benefit monumentally from a well appointed series of rolms in which to hold the party.

[coquettish_trees]

But of course you must have them! Everything is terribly quiet with my lord husband absent. [ She pauses to sigh and muse fondly. ] Is it not curious, how a the presence of a single person can fill an entire estate when you love them?

[ Ah, l'amour. But back to the subject at hand. ] You and Monsieur de Foncé are more than welcome to wander through the estate and use whichever entertaining rooms you think best suited to your purposes.

Assuming you do not mind the use of a home with a distinct Tevene flair to its decoration. [ She waves a hand dismissively. ] We might always redecorate.

looks at my phone tag typos, looks away

[heirring]

[She brightens considerably. Not, of course, that she expected any other answer - indeed, she wouldn't have so much as breathed a word of her plan to de Foncé had there been any doubt -, but still. It is heartening to be so correct about a think.]

No, no! I should think the style of the decor should add a certain flair of the mysterious which suits the whole affair wonderfully. [She extends a hand across the table, so she might take Lexie's with it. This is the confidence of friendship:] In that case, I have just one more favor to ask. You see, this particular fundraising effort requires a certain caliber of guest. Or at the very least, of their pockets. I thought you might have some friends in Hightown, or perhaps even beyond Kirkwall who might be persuaded to invest in the war effort through a little frivolity. I can of course avail you with all the details if you like.

[cozen]

[ Bastien guesses, of course, but he isn't certain until he opens the door, and then his smile is quick and warm. ]

Madame.

[ He opens the door wider, ready to let her in or to step out, either way. Behind him, the room is neat largely for lack of things to be out of order in the first place. The bed is only half-made—a fairly obvious spread the blanket flat to look respectable rush job at the sound of a knock—and the uncrowded bookshelf in the corner is scattered with knick-knacks and horizontal stacks of books in no particular order. He has clothes over the back of the desk chair, too, but they are at least draped neatly. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ 'in' is the choice, naturally, although it's really more of an exaggerated lean into the space to peer around it with bright expectation, steadied by a hand on the doorframe. ]

Monsieur le violoncelliste! Did you find it?

[cozen]

Ah, no.

[ It's a Work In Progress. Probably. What are timelines. Regardless: there is no cello in the room behind him, nor—of lesser concern—a lute. ]

But I have hope. We will call on the man who might have it soon, and then...

[ A helpless gesture, encompassing a world of possibilities, ranging from theft to crying until pity is taken to involving the guard, all hopefully ending in the safe return of a cello. ]

In the meantime, [ more brightly, ] an anonymous benefactor has given me a mouth harp. I do not know if they are sorry for my loss or sick of my whining. Or perhaps sick of my singing?

[coquettish_trees]

I should say 'pourquoi pas tout', but it is so terribly taxing to have more than one feeling at a time and I should not wish it on anyone.

[ she moves to sit, dropping herself with a flounce onto the side of his bed least likely to have crumpled bedclothes beneath the hastily spread blanket and arranging herself with primly smoothed skirts, neatly tucked feet, and the smile particular to people who know very well they're making cheeky nuisances of themselves. ]

You must whine for me, and then sing for me, and then play mouth harp for me and I shall tell you which is worst.

[cozen]

[ Bastien leaves the the door hanging open, for the sake of propriety, and pulls his desk chair around to sit on it backwards, for the sake of impropriety. ]

Very generous of you, to help me solve this mystery. Mm. Let me work backwards.

[ He reaches behind himself to recover the mouth harp from the desk, and after some arrangement of lips and fingers produces a humming sound, with a faint and simple melody under the buzz, like a swarm of bees trying to sing. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She has steepled her fingers and pressed the tips just below her lips, wearing an expression as if she deeply contemplated the finest of paintings in the Grand Musée d'Orlais. A long silence of gently furrowed brow, and then... ]

Terrible. [ she proclaims definitively, and then bats her eyelashes at him. ] But also charming. Do continue.

[cozen]

[ He laughs through the harp, which is, you know. Odd. A swarm of bees saying heh heh heh. But then he extracts it from under his lips and sets it back on top of the strewn papers that had been the target of his focus before the knock. ]

My singing you have heard, of course, but if it helps to have it fresh in mind...

[ He thinks, nods, stretches his jaw, and starts into a rendition of "The Girl in Red Crossing" that is, quite on purpose, pitchy and off-key. The sort of thing he used to do to make Ines lose her temper with him for fun. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She will let him finish the entire rendition, wearing much the same look of devout concentration she had for the playing of the mouth harp. ]

Truly astounding! [ She claps as she might for a quartet at a salon. Then, brightly: ] I am sick of it already!

[ And gestures him onward, holding an arm across her body so she can rest her other elbow on it, allowing her to prop her chin with impish expectation on the back of her hand without anything so vulgar as leaning forward. ]

[elegiaque]

Well,

( in an amused drawl, )

I assume I'm not going to have to.

[coquettish_trees]

Of course not.

[ what a silly concept ]

I was shopping in Hightown, and who should I come across but Enchanter Julius, standing before a flower stall and staring at it as if it might hold the secrets of the universe, if only he could divine them.

[elegiaque]

What on earth for? He doesn't seem at all the type.

[coquettish_trees]

For an anniversary celebration, and that was precisely the difficulty.

[elegiaque]

Mmm. I'll have to put paid to my uncle's lingering hopes that's ever happening again.

[coquettish_trees]

Oh! is your uncle pining away terribly? How on earth do they know each other?

[ beat, and then, delighted: ]

Again?

[ all together pronounced: tell me everything ]

[elegiaque]

( laughing, ) I doubt he's pining, but he asks after him when he writes. They fucked.

[coquettish_trees]

[ a single high pitched 'ha!' of infinite jest ]

You cannot fuck someone and then proceed to ask after them every time you write and not be pining, Gigi.