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[ hmu on plurk or disco if u want a starter, athessa's only gonna be around on an as-needed basis before her february hiatus ]
a. Byerly
b. Vanadi
c. Bastien
a. Byerly
Athessa has found her way back up to the Diplomacy office, as she is wont to do, and parked herself in the most comfortable chair. If that ends up being Byerly's chair, that itself is par for the course when she arrives and he isn't already occupying it.
Perhaps the only unexpected element of this visit is the dream that their company shared mere hours ago, but whether or not that happens to be the reason Athessa is here is yet to be seen.
b. Vanadi
Of course it's one of the nights that they aren't sharing a bed that the shared dream occurs. It'd be far too easy to have shared a bed and then been able to talk upon waking, and as she's learned over the past year, spirits don't do anything that make lives easier.
Except healing. But that's different, obviously.
Athessa doesn't mean to let the subject hang over her like a sword on a string, but for whatever reason she can't bring herself to message Vanadi via crystal to broach this topic, so hang is exactly what it does, looming over her consciousness until she sees him and makes a beeline across the courtyard to body him into a hug.
"I don't want kids. By the way. That was just...I don't know, spirit trickery or some kinda magic bullshit. I mean just look at me, I am the last person who should be in charge of a tiny person who can't even eat solid food! Or walk. There are so many stairs here."
c. Bastien
This time, Athessa is bringing Bastien coffee before their usual Bard training stuff. Listening games, people-watching, hand-eye coordination drills, and the newly adopted music practice.
After stepping in a patch of pristine snow because who can resist, Athessa falls in step beside her friendtor (that's a friend-mentor) and passes a steaming cup of coffee from her gloved hand to his. And then, a few crunchy snow-steps later, she says:
"You can tease me about Vanadi. If you must." She sounds resigned, but she doesn't look like she'd mind much at all if he felt compelled to make kissy faces at her the way he did when Deimos was around.
Byerly sighs when he comes in and sees her in his chair. He looks tired - partly because, to be fair, he's just scaled all those stairs after taking Whiskey out to do her business, but partly because that sleep had been rather...fitful.
"Do you mind terribly?" he asks. He tries to sound irritable; all he can really manage is exhausted.
"Do you mind terribly?" he asks. He tries to sound irritable; all he can really manage is exhausted.
She looks about as tired, though who can say whether Byerly keeps track of that kind of thing. Athessa's been tired for a whole year, it seems, and sometimes even she has a hard time differentiating between tired and stoned.
"Yep—" It's not a word as much as it's just an acknowledging grunt as she slides out of the chair and ambles around to flop into her usual, less-comfy chair. "Whiskeyyyy, c'mere darling baby doll-face honey."
Her arm just hangs limp over the edge of the chair, fingers waving at the hound to try and lure her over with the promise of affection.
"Yep—" It's not a word as much as it's just an acknowledging grunt as she slides out of the chair and ambles around to flop into her usual, less-comfy chair. "Whiskeyyyy, c'mere darling baby doll-face honey."
Her arm just hangs limp over the edge of the chair, fingers waving at the hound to try and lure her over with the promise of affection.
Doesn't take much work. An outstretched hand, after all, holds the promise of food; and if there is no food, then it will offer pets, and that is good enough for Whiskey. So Whiskey goes and cheerily shoves her snout under Athessa's fingers (though Athessa is in for it now, because Whiskey demands energetic petting).
By, meanwhile, takes his seat, and then plants his forehead on his desk.
By, meanwhile, takes his seat, and then plants his forehead on his desk.
Energetic petting is not what Whiskey is gonna get, unfortunately. Athessa manages a few enthusiastic pats and scritches before Whiskey flops over to expose her belly for rubs, effectively removing herself from arm's reach.
"This place has too many stairs."
"This place has too many stairs."
Athessa will find, at some point, a stack of increasingly-worried messages waiting for her on her crystal. But until then she's got the sender himself, quick to meet that beeline with one of his own, and quicker still to wrap Athessa in a hard, tight hug. The heavy fabric of his cloak follows suit, closing around her with his arms.
His heart is racing, threatening to beat its way out of his chest. It hadn't mattered how many times he'd told himself this rising panic was ridiculous, it was only a dream (a strangely involved dream, an accurate dream — but still just the false tale of a dream), and furthermore proven useless by everyone today knowing him who ought to know him. His wandering search through the Gallows had, like the messages, grown steadily more frantic, culminating finally in this desperate, clinging hug.
Despite all that, though, the slightly-breathless words sound otherwise calm enough, if slightly tight: "Good morning. How are you?"
His heart is racing, threatening to beat its way out of his chest. It hadn't mattered how many times he'd told himself this rising panic was ridiculous, it was only a dream (a strangely involved dream, an accurate dream — but still just the false tale of a dream), and furthermore proven useless by everyone today knowing him who ought to know him. His wandering search through the Gallows had, like the messages, grown steadily more frantic, culminating finally in this desperate, clinging hug.
Despite all that, though, the slightly-breathless words sound otherwise calm enough, if slightly tight: "Good morning. How are you?"
"More buildings, more windows. Maybe doors for dogs."
She snorts at the concept of doors for dogs and gives up on trying to reach Whiskey. It's less comfortable in this chair than Byerly's, but she still slings her legs over the arm of the chair and wedges her shoulder against the back like she's preparing to take a little grumpy arms-crossed nap.
"Whaddya reckon, one more winter of bullshit before we all stop sleeping between Firstfall and Wintermarch?"
She snorts at the concept of doors for dogs and gives up on trying to reach Whiskey. It's less comfortable in this chair than Byerly's, but she still slings her legs over the arm of the chair and wedges her shoulder against the back like she's preparing to take a little grumpy arms-crossed nap.
"Whaddya reckon, one more winter of bullshit before we all stop sleeping between Firstfall and Wintermarch?"
"Exhausted. You?"
Judging by the thudding of his heart, felt through her cheek where it's resting against his chest, the answer isn't likely to be well-rested and calm. She can't imagine what must've plagued his mind between waking and now, the fear he must've felt at being thrown forward and backwards in time by some fickle spirit.
Athessa's been through this once before, she at least has that going for her.
Judging by the thudding of his heart, felt through her cheek where it's resting against his chest, the answer isn't likely to be well-rested and calm. She can't imagine what must've plagued his mind between waking and now, the fear he must've felt at being thrown forward and backwards in time by some fickle spirit.
Athessa's been through this once before, she at least has that going for her.
He's reluctant to release Athessa, so — he doesn't. He keeps hold as he gathers himself in, reeling in the distress and agitation, talking himself back into reason before he can say or do anything truly embarrassing. Everyone else seems to be managing all this well enough, there's no reason he shouldn't.
It takes him a moment, but he answers eventually. "Better now," he says, like it was just some matter of an unpleasant night and not a crushing, panicky despair that's been dogging him. "Possibly hungry. Have you eaten?"
It takes him a moment, but he answers eventually. "Better now," he says, like it was just some matter of an unpleasant night and not a crushing, panicky despair that's been dogging him. "Possibly hungry. Have you eaten?"
"You can tell 'em I've been teaching her bad manners. C'mere Whiskey, hop up—" She doesn't have to pat her lap more than once for Whiskey to wriggle her way onto the chair, which is less comforting than inviting a cat onto your lap because Whiskey doesn't want to sit still, wants to lick Athessa's face, wants to play and be played with instead of cuddled and napped with.
Also difficult because Whiskey is getting quite large. The former puppy is now nearly adult-sized - she still has a rather lanky and awkward look, but she's probably somewhere between one-third and half of Athessa's weight.
By lifts his head to watch the spectacle, then slumps down in his chair. "Don't blame me when you die."
By lifts his head to watch the spectacle, then slumps down in his chair. "Don't blame me when you die."
She shakes her head, or the closest she's able to without letting go. More of a rocking motion. Colin had made breakfast for the both of them once they were both awake, but Athessa hadn't any appetite.
"I haven't. Let's go hide out in the kitchens, I can make us some coffee."
And they won't have to climb four flights of stairs to get there.
"I haven't. Let's go hide out in the kitchens, I can make us some coffee."
And they won't have to climb four flights of stairs to get there.
It takes him another long moment to answer; he's busy with a hand to the back of her head, feeling the soft bounce of her curls, the brush of the tip of an ear. The solidity of her forehead against his chest, and the weight of her arms around him. Little pieces of evidence that Athessa is here, and real.
"Right," he finally says, and only then does he at last, reluctantly, let his arms fall from around her. But he's not quite willing yet to step away entirely, and both hands instead lift to cup her face. The smile that falls onto her is tired, and lined with worry, and warm.
"It's somehow been both a day and several years. I really did pick the wrong night not to stumble into your bed."
"Right," he finally says, and only then does he at last, reluctantly, let his arms fall from around her. But he's not quite willing yet to step away entirely, and both hands instead lift to cup her face. The smile that falls onto her is tired, and lined with worry, and warm.
"It's somehow been both a day and several years. I really did pick the wrong night not to stumble into your bed."
Yep. This was a mistake. Athessa grunts and laughs and wheezes as she gets trampled and slobbered on by this behemoth of a dog, and it takes a fair bit of wrasslin' and ear scratching to convince Whiskey to settle down.
"Well if I died, I wouldn't be around to blame you, would I?"
"Well if I died, I wouldn't be around to blame you, would I?"
What he finds looking back at him is understanding, and concern, and love, reflected in warm brown eyes and a wry humor in the slant of her mouth.
"I wasn't there anyway. I missed the last ferry and stayed at Colin's," she says, reaching up between them to coast her fingers over his face. The dream is slowly fading, the way dreams do, but few things stand out as starkly as his face. Standing up on tip-toes, she kisses the slight furrow between his brows and the starburst of a scar on his cheek, then the corner of that weary smile.
"C'mon," she takes his hand and kisses his palm, then pulls his arm over her shoulder to steer them toward the kitchens from beside him rather than before.
"I wasn't there anyway. I missed the last ferry and stayed at Colin's," she says, reaching up between them to coast her fingers over his face. The dream is slowly fading, the way dreams do, but few things stand out as starkly as his face. Standing up on tip-toes, she kisses the slight furrow between his brows and the starburst of a scar on his cheek, then the corner of that weary smile.
"C'mon," she takes his hand and kisses his palm, then pulls his arm over her shoulder to steer them toward the kitchens from beside him rather than before.
Looking into that face, more sympathetic and gentle than Vanadi really deserves, Vanadi finds himself recalling the other side of that dream. He'd remembered the terror and the loneliness most keenly when he finally jolted himself awake, but there was more to it. An entire second half of it, wasn't there?
He blinks as it begins to emerge piece by momentarily forgotten piece, but it doesn't stop him from falling into step next to him. His arm settles slowly over her shoulder.
"You ... " Gods, there was so much to that dream. His recently-kissed furrowed brow goes right back to furrowing. "What did you say? When we first greeted one another. I'm afraid I wasn't listening very closely."
He blinks as it begins to emerge piece by momentarily forgotten piece, but it doesn't stop him from falling into step next to him. His arm settles slowly over her shoulder.
"You ... " Gods, there was so much to that dream. His recently-kissed furrowed brow goes right back to furrowing. "What did you say? When we first greeted one another. I'm afraid I wasn't listening very closely."
"That I don't want children." She thought he'd remembered that bit, but apparently not. Then again, the memory of five years is fading faster than that of living with him, losing him, rescuing him, and the rest. And that's not including the other dream, the one where she fought Loxley and Erik as if they were threats to her sanity.
"In case you were worried that I did or something."
"In case you were worried that I did or something."
Children, that's right. A child, in any case. And it was all so dramatic, too. Vanadi shakes his head like that might scrub away the entire thing, the do-you-want-your-daughter question, and -- how had he answered her? He can't remember.
"Right, right." He takes a breath, holds it for a second as he works out the best response to this -- and then lets it out in a slow hiss as he realizes he has no idea what that would look like. A little lamely, he settles on, "Well, nor I. Good. Settled."
"Right, right." He takes a breath, holds it for a second as he works out the best response to this -- and then lets it out in a slow hiss as he realizes he has no idea what that would look like. A little lamely, he settles on, "Well, nor I. Good. Settled."
"Yep," she agrees. Settled.
Except how had Vanadi answered her? She can't recall, and she hopes this tense feeling of not knowing something really important is just the lingering effect of the dream and not a new emotion she has to classify and categorize.
Athessa clears her throat. "Witherstalk. I keep a steady supply, so it's not like we have to worry about it. It's a... contraceptive—"
She waves dismissively. Why is this conversation harder to have than discussing the specific features they wanted at that specialty store?
Except how had Vanadi answered her? She can't recall, and she hopes this tense feeling of not knowing something really important is just the lingering effect of the dream and not a new emotion she has to classify and categorize.
Athessa clears her throat. "Witherstalk. I keep a steady supply, so it's not like we have to worry about it. It's a... contraceptive—"
She waves dismissively. Why is this conversation harder to have than discussing the specific features they wanted at that specialty store?
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