WHO: Dumas, Florent, others pending. WHAT: Dumas keeps the Gallows safe while Riftwatch is away. Wildcard me or we can talk specific scenarios in plurk! WHEN: August through Kingsway WHERE: The Gallows NOTES: Pending.
Then heavy footfalls, advancing slowly through the apartment space for the master bedroom.
Once he’s in here, there’s really no mistaking Florent’s likely location, from whatever muffle, or the angle of his speech. Dumas considers his options. He could lift the bed. He could reach under it. He could set it on fire.
His boots, from the perspective of the floor, are truly enormous.
They advance, deliberately, upon the beside. He turns to take a seat.
The frame around Florent groans at its middle, thick beams straining against the strength of their own grain, begging to give. From beneath it, there is the softest feather of wood fraying around the heads of long-driven nails closest to where his weight is centered, close to the side.
“That’s cute, monsieur,” he rasps, piratey low in his throat and more quiet one to one, once he’s comfortable. “The last stowaway was cute too, until we brought out the deepstalkers.”
Florent kind of swivels away from where the bed bows, still intent on staying exactly where he is for as long as possible-- at least until the large man, or perhaps qunari, or minotaur? Until he speaks. Then, he very gingerly sets the wine bottle down so as not to announce its presence, and pulls himself towards the other side of the bed.
As he says, "Surely you won't expect one to walk the plank," and appears at the other side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, head only just coming up over the edge. Assessing from a safe distance with obstacles between them what he is dealing with.
Only a man, it seems. As dignified as someone who has just emerged out from under a bed and is still sitting on the ground with his legs beneath its shadow can be, Florent asks, "Can I help you?" Eyebrows arched, head tipped.
“Och!” says Sylvestre, pitched kettle shrill right up out of his throaty bellowing only a moment ago. The twist in his side where he’s turned to see helps, sing-song air pinched off thin: “Cor blimey, there ‘e is, my fancy little lad.”
He pats the side of the mattress next to him with a palm like an overdone steak, pop pop, as he would call a pup, or an especially stupid baby. He flushes his throat like a toilet, also, more out of necessity to clear it for normal conversation than any desire to further affect nonsense babble at this wayward elf.
“Come over here and sit with me, won’t you?”
Smooooth. He smoothes the bed covers and gives them a little tug. Tidy.
“I’d like to have a chat.”
Edited (you didnt answer me quiclky enoug) 2020-10-01 05:52 (UTC)
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Then heavy footfalls, advancing slowly through the apartment space for the master bedroom.
Once he’s in here, there’s really no mistaking Florent’s likely location, from whatever muffle, or the angle of his speech. Dumas considers his options. He could lift the bed. He could reach under it. He could set it on fire.
His boots, from the perspective of the floor, are truly enormous.
They advance, deliberately, upon the beside. He turns to take a seat.
The frame around Florent groans at its middle, thick beams straining against the strength of their own grain, begging to give. From beneath it, there is the softest feather of wood fraying around the heads of long-driven nails closest to where his weight is centered, close to the side.
“That’s cute, monsieur,” he rasps, piratey low in his throat and more quiet one to one, once he’s comfortable. “The last stowaway was cute too, until we brought out the deepstalkers.”
no subject
As he says, "Surely you won't expect one to walk the plank," and appears at the other side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, head only just coming up over the edge. Assessing from a safe distance with obstacles between them what he is dealing with.
Only a man, it seems. As dignified as someone who has just emerged out from under a bed and is still sitting on the ground with his legs beneath its shadow can be, Florent asks, "Can I help you?" Eyebrows arched, head tipped.
no subject
He pats the side of the mattress next to him with a palm like an overdone steak, pop pop, as he would call a pup, or an especially stupid baby. He flushes his throat like a toilet, also, more out of necessity to clear it for normal conversation than any desire to further affect nonsense babble at this wayward elf.
“Come over here and sit with me, won’t you?”
Smooooth. He smoothes the bed covers and gives them a little tug. Tidy.
“I’d like to have a chat.”