[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Flint, Wysteria, Miriam, Cassius & You
WHAT: Catch-All
WHEN: Post-dreams, nebulously Guardian-ish
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Warnings (if any) in subject lines.

((OOC NOTE: Anything in bold is closed to one thread, though group threads a-okay.
Feel free to turn this into action brackets if The Spirit Moves You.
Wildcards welcome, bespoke starters available upon request.))

Comments

[heirring]

If she stares very hard in their direction, Wysteria likes to imagine she can see every little facet of the jagged cliff faces across the harbor. Never mind that the weather is so grey and overcast and no sunlight at all shines on them. Nevermind that in the drizzle-turning-to-sleet, they are really little more than smudged grey marks zigzagging up behind the Kirkwall dockyards. If she tries, really tries, the details will reveal themselves to her. And if they don't, then at least she will have effectively blocked out the most insufferable parts of whatever conversation Rutyer is carrying on.

Her fixation on the landscape does not, however, stop her from shooting a poisonous look at the Ambassador's back when he does finally move on and it is in the process of pivoting her attention back toward the ferry afterward that she catches the Qunari's eye.

And sympathetically eye rolls so hard that it's a miracle she doesn't pull anything as she navigates down into the ferry.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley follows in after with nimble steps, rucksack of supplies slung over a shoulder as he goes, a flap of coat hem.

When Wysteria settles, she'll find herself opposite the qunari who settles his things between his ankles, and doesn't seem to too much mind the fall of cold misting rain that slicks his hair to his brow. They might embark on a less-than-pleasant boat ride in civil silence, but alternatively—

"I suppose we ought to be thankful," Loxley says, eye catching the departing shape of Rutyer on the shoreline, "that the ferryman didn't throw himself overboard on the way over. I might have."

[heirring]

From her place on the bench seat, with her capelet drawn about her and her felted hat pulled very low, Wysteria scoffs. It's an automatic and largely involuntary noise—cut short either because she realizes she's doing it and has experienced some momentary instant of mortification or simply by habit.

Her pause afterward is very narrow, consisting of the briefest glance back over her shoulder toward the outline of the man in question. Her second scoff as she turns back to the qunari is much more intentional and significantly more well-rounded as a result.

So not a matter of mortification, then.

"Thankful? Not at all. A cold winter bath might shock some sense into the gentleman."