faderift | oh, when I dream it's in colour

WHO: Athessa and YOU
WHAT: Farewells, written and in-person
WHEN: ICly mid- to late-Drakonis
WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall
NOTES: Keeping all of Athessa's goodbyes in the same place, closed starters in the comments

open: packing

It's not difficult to see that something is happening, if you happen to be on the fourth floor of the old mage tower in the Gallows. At any given time of day Athessa's room may be wide open, with the elf within throwing things about in the typical spring cleaning fashion, only with more emphasis on putting things into a traveling trunk instead of tidying it.

Without looking, Athessa will call out to someone passing by her door, "Hey, hand me that, will ya?" and point at something or another. Yes, she could get up and get it herself, but she's sat on the floor trying to figure out how to fit everything she needs into this trunk. It'd be a lot easier if what she needs was confined to just her bug-out bag, but that's in the trunk, too.

Sometimes the door is shut, and there isn't much to see but the ruckus can be heard in the hall, the scrape and wheeze of furniture being moved around because when the fuck did she get all this stuff? It sure seems like she's preparing for something, and in a bit of a rush to do so.

open: docks

The day she leaves, Athessa can be found hauling her stuff down to the docks, one heavy trunk of what-have-you that thuds cacophonously down the stairs unless (or until) someone gets sick enough of the thudding to offer a hand in carrying it.

Once at the docks, that trunk will be hauled aboard by some deckhand or another, leaving Athessa to stare up at the sight of the ship that'll take her across the Waking Sea. It hasn't been all that long since she's been on a ship, of course, but it's been some time since she felt like this. Uncertain of what she's going to find where she's going.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bastien passes her door on his way to his rooms, arms laden with papers, and only waves—sort of, with his elbow, because his hands are full. Ten minutes later he's back, though, in rolled-up shirtsleeves and closer to empty-handed. In lieu of knocking, he leans against the outer door frame and sings: "Assehta the elf grew tired of feeling like she was on show, so she packed her bags, painted her face, and went to…"

"Val Royeaux," she says, finishing his rhyme even if it doesn't make sense. She sits back on the heels of her hands and rests her cheek against he shoulder as she looks towards him.

"A silly place to go to avoid being on show.

"Oui."

That's the joke. But it's a very old joke, by now, so he doesn't collapse dramatically while clutching his chest and gasping that she's forgotten.

"Here, I made you something."

He comes inside, close enough to hold down a little collection of papers, sewn down a center fold to form a booklet. The front says: PLACES OF NO INTEREST. Which of course is a lie. The interior pages—only ten or so of them—each feature a place in the city, with partial little landmark-based maps drawn from memory and notes like (for a roof) you can hear the symphony from here or (for a cafe) ask for the special and wink twice.

Athessa takes the booklet and reads aloud:

"Places of No Interest. No thanks, not interested."

She even pretends to hand it back, but too quick for there to be any sincere doubt in Baz's mind, she clutches it protectively against her chest and smiles up at him.

"Thank you. Maybe I'll actually get to enjoy the city this way."

"A little, I hope," Bastien says.

He loves Val Royeaux like a mother. A mother who is extravagant, colorful, larger than life, inspiring, fickle, demanding, critical, petty, and vindictive. If it were up to him, he would be going along to smooth the introductions and stand in the way of the barbs—so it is good that it isn't up to him, probably, and that Alexandrie has her equal say in what Athessa is or isn't capable of, so she doesn't wind up coddled and smothered and Bastien's actual job isn't left half-done.

He surveys the room, then invites himself to sit and begin folding clothes.

"You must protect it with your life. If the lordlings or the university students get their hands on it, everything will be ruined."

"Maybe I should stitch the pages into the lining of my least fashionable jacket," she ventures, setting the booklet down so she can retrieve something else that needs to be packed. "That way nobody would think to steal it."

She frowns at a stack of books and picks out only a select few to put into the trunk. The rest get put on some other horizontal surface. If she were going to present as nothing but herself, she wouldn't be going to all this trouble, but she has to do more than just be there. She has to infiltrate society successfully enough to garner an invitation to a stupid fancy party and for that she has to present herself as interesting.

"How would you do it? If you were me?"

"If I were you?"

A very different question than how he would do it if he were himself: human, unmistakably verging on middle-aged, already connected, easily overlooked unless he puts his back into demanding attention. But if he were a young and younger-looking elf, unknown but lovely and talented—

"I would let someone feel like they were discovering me."

Athessa hums thoughtfully. Being discovered, like a pretty stone in a creek bed, or a bug under a rock.

"Then I should pack lighter, I guess," she says, and starts taking things back out of the trunk. Bastien knows her well enough by now to be able to recognize the signs of indecision in her body language, especially with her doing nothing to hide it. Should she be a mystery, or a discovery? Are they different? A discovery wouldn't have this dress from such-and-such party, should she bother taking it? Or should she take it and keep it hidden, then unveil it only when it'll have impact to do so?

"I've never had to put so much thought into going anywhere before, seems like. I mean I had to prepare for under cover missions, but it's one thing to be like, look everyone, I'm a servant who can't read, and something else to...do this."

Bastien watches her while she talks, then catches her forearm before she can take the next item out of the trunk and begins putting the things she'd removed back inside.

"Do you know where you will be staying?"

"Not exactly," she says, then amends: "No. I figured I'd just look around for someone who'd rent me a room. Dress just nice enough for people not to turn me away at first sight, but not so well as to make people think I should already have connections. I have some coin saved up, still...'course I dunno what anything costs, there."

She sits back on her heels as he puts things back in the trunk, once or twice reaching for things while they're still in his hands to keep him from replacing them, but ultimately deciding she trusts him better than she trusts herself to know what to pack.

"It is like anywhere. It depends on the part of the city you are in."

Trunk restored, he resumes folding, then moves on to stacking things in neat and transferable piles.

"I own a building there. The woman I am renting it to, Madame Meisent Paquin—she is a good woman. It is not a good building for sleeping in, but I will write you a letter to take her, and she should let you store things there. So anything that is in the way when you arrive and see how things will be, you can leave with her."

Out of things to straighten in his immediate vicinity, he sits up straighter.

"And never mind what I would do. What were you planning?"

Athessa looks at the trunk, then at him. She wants to take that offer of a letter, but she's supposed to be doing this without the benefit of prior connections. Even one for something as seemingly trivial as storing some extra stuff.

"I only have a loose plan, or just ideas, really. I've only got until mid-Justinian to get invited, on the one hand. On the other, that's two whole months and a bit. So I reckon I'll get there, spend...a week or so getting a sense of the place, make a few friends if I can, and figure out where the best place to be heard would be," She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, forgetting that it's tied up in a bun that traps her fingers.

"But I dunno whether I should be trying to get invited by the man himself or if I should aim lower, like a plus-one or something. Plus-one is probably easier, if I can find someone who already has an invite, but...getting directly invited seems like it'd be the biggest win, if I'm thinking of it as a challenge."

oh, when I dream it's in colour

packing.

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