faderift | it is my duty to inform you that we took a vote all us women ( open )

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it is my duty to inform you that we took a vote all us women ( open )

WHO: Petrana + ?
WHAT: Nuggalope training.
WHEN: Current-ish.
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: No content warnings currently applicable. You are not hallucinating, this post does look familiar; it was originally posted end of last year, but mod plot took precedent so I have deleted the untagged original post and am recycling it for reasons.

It is rare, for much of the Gallows, to see Mme de Cedoux out of her office. Rarer still to see her out of her office and not presently engaged in being on the way to an office, possibly hers. Their respective obligations mean that more often than not, it is Enchanter Rowntree who takes Vysvolod for his constitutionals; her outings tend to be more Hightown-oriented than not. If she does take her nuggalope—yes he is named the Black Divine, no she doesn't see anything at all wrong with it—out for his constitutionals, it is typically somewhat further afield than merely nearby the stables and the docks.

And yet.

The physical exercise has done her a world of good, much as it has taught the Black Divine skills that she hopes will never be necessary and knows the sense in hoping; she is sufficiently confident, after some months, in both her own ability (less rusty than it had been) and his (unlikely to cause a catastrophe in front of an audience). So there is no need to take him as far as she's accustomed to doing for the sake of keeping both their hands in, and anyone nearby the dockside stables can,

if they so desire,

be treated to the unusual sight of Mme de Cedoux, in full skirts and corset but sans her sensible shoes, standing at her full five foot height atop the back of a saddled nuggalope, instructing him apparently by subtle shifts of her weight, and

there is a flurry of skirts. A running leap—and nothing beneath her bare feet but the opportunity that decent people will ignore to get a glimpse of knees and ankles until she lands hard and upright on her mount, beneath her at precisely the right moment, and precisely the right angle.

“Very good.”

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Well — he'd been headed to the stables, but it's hard not to notice or be distracted by the sight of a nuggalope, and Petrana doing, apparently, tricks atop one. He changes course to head in her direction, stopping some safe, short distance away.

With amusement,

"Is this what you do in your free time?"

“Jim,” is a warm greeting, Petrana turning — ever so delicately, on her toes — to lower herself down into the saddle sideways, patting the Black Divine absently as assurance that they might pause a moment. “It seems only practical, I think,” she says, more conversationally, a fascinating statement from a woman in full skirts and tight-lacing on the back of a nuggalope.

She gestures, loosely— “In a pinch, one might make do with an untrained animal, but in the event it is necessary, again, then we can both only benefit from his having the experience.”

He has to drop his head, briefly, as a smile overtakes his face — practical, of course, is the word he'd use for practicing tricks in fancy dress atop a nuggalope. And yet he is absolutely sure that, if pressed, she'd have a frighteningly reasonable explanation for why she'd need this skillset.

"Well, I know what you'll be doing if cryptography doesn't work out for you."

The momentary look of honest bafflement is also, sort of comedic—

“Fleeing assassins?” she hazards, certain that can't be what he means.

There it is.

Clarifies, "Nuggalope tricks. You could put on a real show if you wanted to."

Edited 2021-04-18 00:14 (UTC)

In retrospect, that feels obvious enough that she laughs, rueful, at her own oversight. It's not even as if she doesn't enjoy what she's doing — not everything she learned for some terrible reason has become some terrible thing — or that she's completely oblivious to the way other people may also.

But it can come as no great surprise to anyone who knows her even a little that her mind would not, naturally, run along lines leading toward the circus.

“I suppose I could, at that,” she concedes, patting the Black Divine on his neck, affectionate. She says a short word that sounds almost like Orlesian, and he obliges her by rearing up onto his back legs and holding in place, the angle of the saddle and Petrana's confident seat the only things keeping her from spilling off the back immediately; Jim is treated, briefly, to a perfect view of the nuggalope's enormous hand-feet flexing in the air.

Thank you, Petra, he really needed a reminder today that he hates Thedas. There was a time of his life when he'd never heard of a nuggalope, he thinks wistfully.

But that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the skill she's demonstrating, whether or not she's ever thought about the circus.

"I'm not kidding," he says, offers a brief round of applause. "What you're doing is impressive." But she's not, he thinks, one to linger on compliments, so — "Is he yours?"

“I acquired him on an excursion to Orlais,” she confirms, laying a palm flat against the back of his big head that prompts him to ease back down on all fours, Petrana adjusting so smoothly in the process that she barely seems to actually move, the pair of them seamlessly in tandem. “His name is the Black Divine.”

Yes, like in Tevinter.

Yes, she thinks she's hilarious, although she delivers it as if it's a perfectly reasonable thing to have named a war nug.

"I'm assuming you named him that, but tell me if I'm wrong."

He crosses his arms loosely, eyes bright with humor. It's possible, of course, that she got her nuggalope from an Orlesian with a very particular sense of humor. But even if she did, she's the one who chose to keep the name.

“I think it suits him,” she declares, ingenuous.

He casts a critical gaze back over the nuggalope, and her on it, as perfectly coordinated as the centaurs he used to read about as a child.

"We can hope the other Black Divine's as even-tempered as yours."

“That seems desperately unlikely, but what a piece of luck it would be if we could turn him.”

Imagine. Probably not going to happen under absolutely any circumstances.

"If anyone could do it, I'm sure you could."

He says it with a wave at her Black Divine. Like, she already has a great track record, clearly. Barring that, he knows from experience how well her Stern Tone can put the fear of God into people, so there's a two-pronged strategy here.

Edited 2021-05-03 12:32 (UTC)

Matthias, leaving the stables, has the urge to cover his eyes. This very much feels like something he's not supposed to be seeing, though--if pressed--he wouldn't be able to say why. She isn't doing this practice in some out-of-the-way spot, so it's not as if he'll be punished for observing--it's a free Kirkwall, a free stable--and he has eyes, and she's leaping on the back of a nuggalope, he's bound to look, even if just by accident. But even so.

He has his hands full--a big heavy ledger book, a satchel that mostly contains pencils--and while he might juggle these things so he could cover his eyes, he won't. That would be stupid. He also won't stop and stare. But is it strange to say nothing? Probably. He doesn't want to look like a weirdie, certainly not in front of Madam (Madame? Lady?) de Cedoux, so--

"I've never seen a nuggalope," is the thing Matthias comes up with to say, and immediately feels an idiot. "Er, so-- Yeah. Well done, as well."

It is invariably pleasing to see Matthias — she passes him often enough in and out of the Forces office, and though she wouldn't claim a great acquaintance with him she does hold him in a certain absent-minded, materteral fondness. Accordingly, she seems delighted to see him and not at all as if she's harboring secret thoughts he's gone strange in the head—

“Have you not! You must come and meet him properly, then,” lowering herself from her feet to seat, encouraging the beast with a nudge of her knee to change directions to intercept.

Placidly.

"Oh, I dunno," is what Matthias begins to say. He only manages up to du when she's back properly in the saddle, and then it seems too late to protest. So, this is happening, then.

He looks around and finds a nearby barrel, and ditches the ledger book and satchel there. Presumably he'll need to give the nuggalope a hand to smell or something. That's what you do with animals, right?

"You're even good at riding." Because she is, thoughtlessly graceful. "I'd as like fall off as not."

“It is only practise,” she says, warmly modest of what is not insignificant skill after all that long practise. “I raced horses when I was younger than you are now — I have always felt quite at home in the saddle. Though the Black Divine has required some adjustment of my habits, of course, to his size and maneuverability. Nuggalopes and horses are not perfectly analogous, though the principles remain.”

It's not even as if he were just already named that when she got him; she chose to call this beast the Black Divine.

Matthias gives a startled laugh. He was caught off-guard by that name. There's nothing else for it but to laugh. It's not a loud enough laugh to entirely interrupt Madame de Cedoux. He's spared that embarrassment at least.

"Wouldn't know," he confesses. "I've only spent more time around horses 'cause they're common. Riftwatch is the most riding I've ever done. And I'm not as like to be doing any tricks, even if they are only practice."

He pulls himself up a bit to stand taller in the presence of the Black Divine. Which, even thinking of that, is funny. A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"Can I ask--well, what's with the name, m'lady?"

The question makes her laugh, too, warm and a little sly when she says, “In a manner of speaking, the suggestion was Mssr Rowntree's.” Probably, Marcus objects to being held personally responsible for the decision made. However: it is hilarious to do so, and he cannot deny that he had put the idea in her head.

However unintentionally.

“We were discussing the name of my hound — Vysvolod. It is an old name from an old tongue, where I was raised; it means lord of all he surveys. Mssr Rowntree suggested that this, perhaps, accounted for his demeanor; he proposed that had he named his horse the Black Divine, he might have had more difficulty bending the beast to his needs.”

Her grin is conspiratorial. “But you see that I have had no such problem.”

Matthias manages to think, and not say: Oh, shit. Enchanter Rowantree. The little map in his mind now has a line drawn, making a connection between Madame de Cedoux and Marcus Rowantree. The line is bright red, to denote its importance. It's no surprise that Madame de Cedoux has manners enough to put a title before his name. That doesn't invalidate a connection, only adds respect to it. Naturally: it's Enchanter Rowantree.

"Not a single one, no." Firm agreement. "You look born to it. I reckon it's as you said--you were, sort of. Still, it's madly impressive."

Carefully, Matthias extends a hand toward the Black Divine, to coax the nuggalope nearer and give it its chance at having a smell, if it wants. His limited understanding of what animals care about places a great deal of emphasis on smell.

"I didn't know you knew Enchanter Rowantree," he says, as casually as he can. The title has twice the appropriate amount of reverence to it, probably; that can't be helped. "He's brilliant, I think."

The Black Divine, being a well-trained animal who Petrana has put at this point months of work into and who was accustomed to humans before she acquired him, is amenable enough to Matthias's presence and possibly somewhat sensitive to his clear nerves around large working animals. There's a bit of a sniff, and then he bumps his large head against Matthias's shoulder in a way that could be reasonably interpreted as friendly.

His horns gleam in the sunlight. She probably polishes them.

“Mssr Rowntree lives with myself and Enchanter Julius,” she says, by way of explanation. “We became acquainted when he first arrived in the Gallows — there is a great deal in him to admire.”

He is brilliant.

After a moment, “I don't term him monsieur to lessen him in any fashion — Enchanter Julius prefers to remain as he has, but Mssr Rowntree expressed a preference otherwise when I inquired. I am sure he would not think it inappropriate, of course, that many still call him by the Circle title.” But perhaps they don't need to always think of themselves in the context of Circles? Food for thought.

Matthias, standing very straight and tense but trying not to look like he's standing very straight and tense, tenses up even more when the Black Divine's nose comes close. He was prepared for this. He is still tense.

He was not prepared for Mssr Rowantree lives with myself and Enchanter Julius. His attention shifts abruptly to Madame de Cedoux, his eyes very round and his mouth dropped open. His arm flags in its rigidity.

"You," he says, "live with Ench-- with, like-- re, really?"

He heard the rest of that as well. Probably.

Did he, though.

Petrana pauses, slightly, and: “Well, since— for several months, now, yes, we have found it to be a very suitable arrangement.”

"Oh," Matthias says, first, then, "Yeah?", followed by, "Good," because it is good, isn't it, if she says suitable arrangement, 'suitable' is good, and so, yeah: good.

Meanwhile, the little map in his mind has sprouted several more lines between Madame de Cedoux and Marcus Rowantree and several strings of ???? and even ??!??!? ?, and more lines pointing to Enchanter Julius, who Matthias hasn't spared much thought for--up until now, at least, and now he will be sparing very many thoughts, and looking at him closely next time he sees him.

Roommates, she must mean. Surely. If he momentarily pictures, say, a kiss-- But he wouldn't. That would be weird of him. Roommates, surely. Those can be a suitable arrangement.

"Good," he says, again, and realizes that his hand has raised unconsciously to pat at the Black Divine's neck. Oops. But the great nuggalope hasn't taken his hand off, so, good at that as well. Different good.

What was he saying before all of--this?

"Did he, erm. Did he really tell you that? That he doesn't like to be called Enchanter?"

It is not completely clear exactly what's going through Matthias's head, and Petrana is uncertain as to exactly how he's interpreted what she's told him — but there is certainly no question of elaborating in greater detail, and she relaxes slightly when he circles back to a topic she is much more at ease discussing.

Etiquette.

(There is no etiquette she can find for explaining to your colleagues and companions that you've acquired an additional boyfriend, but she will quite like the word 'polyfidelity' if she ever hears it.)

“I don't know that he dislikes it,” she says, measured, “but it is not his preference. After all,” absently scratching the Black Divine behind one of his ears, tilting his attention back more towards his diminutive mistress than the nervy mage who is, it has to be said, being very brave and cool right now. “As much as it is well and good for those mages who desire to hold titles that they duly earned, and the formality therein is not without its use, we are speaking of Circle titles, and Circle bonds.”

She spreads her hand. “I think it is not much controversial to say that Mssr Rowntree is not a great advocate of making oneself continuingly beholden to the Circle system. It could be argued that to do so, without careful examination or exception, legitimizes a system that he and you both fought to be free of.”

In some ways, this is firmer ground for Matthias. He can toe his way back to the shore of Mage Politics and Debates, leaving behind the uncertain waters of Relationships and Connections. Less firm is applying these thoughts to Marcus Rowantree, who Matthias would build a statue in honor of. He turns over her words carefully.

"Not his preference means dislikes," he advises. And he shoots her a shy little smile, the corner of his mouth tugged up in self-deprecation. It's too direct to keep up for long, so, ducking his head, he turns his attention back to the nuggalope. Madame de Cedoux knows the creature best, so he tries to take his cue in the petting of the Black Divine by scrunching up his fingers and scratching, clumsily.

All of this buys him a moment of time to consider what she's said. "I don't like the Circles either. Obviously. Or being--beholden," her word, and it's as awkward as his attempts to scratch the nuggalope, "beholden, like, to the system. But--I reckon--people, mages, they earned those titles. Right? Even if it was in the Circle that they earned 'em, they still did it. Ench-- Rowantree--" He makes a little gesture, a wince, he's trying. "He definitely did. Not just 'cause of what he did in the Circles, more 'cause of what he did without. If anyone deserves a good title, it'd be him."

“I do not at all disagree with your premise,” she assures him, warmly, “only I would more closely examine the definition of a good title, when the means by which Mssr Rowntree has earned the esteem in which we hold him - well, by the strictures upheld by that title, the things he has done to deservedly earn our respect explicitly disqualify him from its use.”

If anyone is an apostate by the Chantry's measure, certainly it is Templar-killer Marcus Rowntree.

“To call him by it does not, to those who hear it said, indicate what he has earned or why. The title enchanter means something particular that he has chosen, and exerted himself strongly to choose, not to be. It is well,” thoughtfully, “for those who hold what they earned to be valuable. So long as Julius wishes to be known by that title I shall use it for him, but in this I understand Marcus and I to be of a mind.”

"Well, right, yeah--and he ought to decide for himself, and if he really, really dislikes it--'Enchanter', I mean, as a title--then 'course I won't be calling him that."

Not now that he knows, anyways. Matthias' scratching at the nuggalope's neck has tapered off as he thinks his way through this. He shifts his weight, chews at the inside of his cheek, then blazes on.

"But--like, the way I think of it--even if the Chantry is the ones what made up the structure--er, strictures," not a word that he knows, but he'll go for it, "and the title itself, and how you earned it, and all--then using it now is sort of a pis-- erm, a way to say 'get out of it', to the Chantry. 'Course, you and he likely know more about it. Or I'd guess, anyway, 'cause you're next to a mage, aren't you."

Or so he reckons. If Marcus Rowantree is willing to give her the time of day, share a room with her (and--? no, move on), then--even if Matthias wasn't impressed with Madame de Cedoux on mere presence--that recommendation would be more than enough for him.

“A witch,” she supplies the term, “my practise of magic is termed witchcraft, but I have often been called mage here and it is fitting, albeit...”

She considers, visibly, how to explain.

“Witchcraft is a choice in a way that magic is not, for you, but it is rarely one made freely. It is a means by which the helpless may become strong, and so it is a threat to those who prefer them as they were, and until the dismantling of the holy church it was a crime punishable only by death. In dismantling that, and in the dangers that it held when the church was yet strong as it was when I began, my experience - while different - has proven useful to me here. Practically, and in understanding.”

It is rather the tip of the iceberg, but she sketches it for him as best she can rather than delving too deeply into something that is, ultimately, only a sidebar to his interests. “It has been my experience that such a gesture as you propose is most effective when it needs not be explained. So long as most holdouts of such titles are loyalists, it will always mean the Circle, first, and that is an easy victory to hand First Enchanter Vivienne.” Wryly, “But Enchanter Julius believed himself a loyalist for a long time, and I would let him shed it in truth in his own time, too. His work now does speak for itself...it is only he may be readily mistaken for something he has not been in some years.”

"Right, but--" Frowning as he parses all of this out, Matthias abandons petting the Black Divine so he can scratch at his own ear, a sure sign he's thinking hard. "But if we don't use the titles, 'cause people might think we're loyalists, then they get to keep 'em without a fight. The loyalists. If someone says, oi, call me enchanter, and incidentally the Circles are crap--that'd stick in your mind, wouldn't it? Not yours, obviously. I mean yours generally, like."

There's a lot to take in here. Witch, for one. The holy church. Enchanter Julius the loyalist.

"I don't know Enchanter Julius well," he confesses, "or at all, really. S'ppose I didn't much think of him. So maybe that defend your point better'n mine, 'cause if I knew he wasn't a loyalist, I'd have thought more of him."

“Your point is not a bad one,” she says, to be entirely clear, “it is only that we are not yet in a place where yours might supercede it. As the Enchanter exemplifies — you did not know his position had changed, for his titling has not. You understand implicitly the meaning of such titling, in his case; that is the way it sounds to speak of Mssr Rowntree thus, when we do not know him well.”

She considers, for a moment, and then: “Here is a question. I do not expect you to answer it — I do not pretend to have an answer, whole and perfect, to give you. But why should they not have those old things? In leaving the Circles, can we only imagine mages thriving in the ways the Chantry determined they must or must not? Those things have not served you. Have not served Mssr Rowntree. It is one thing to wear the ashes of what has been burned down and call it victory, but we might build something better yet. It would be a true shame to miss the opportunity for cleaving to the past.”

She strokes the Black Divine's great neck. He seems peaceful enough with waiting while they wrestle with questions of philosophy and rebellion.

“But at its most simple, Mssr Rowntree does not care to be called Enchanter and Enchanter Julius does, and it pleases me to give each of them what best pleases them.”

(They're probably just roommates.)

Matthias frowns. Then he frowns harder, and scratches at his ear again.

"Well, I reckon," he starts, but then stops, because he doesn't know how to answer the question. He thinks about the stale air of Tantervale, and the cold air in the mountains, when you'd wake up and crawl out of a tent swaybacked by heavy snow. Then it seemed like there were two different words for air. One was stifling and hard to breathe and the other felt good in your lungs. Even when there was blood on the snow, if you were still breathing after the battle, that was good enough.

So titles might be like that, then. The same thing in a word, but different. Only how did you explain that to someone who hadn't lived it? They couldn't know. Magic done with your head down, magic done to spite everyone, magic done to help--they're all different. They should be called by different things. That's what she means, maybe.

"I dunno," he admits. "I never thought much of what might come after. After the war, I mean. Not until recently." And because he cannot--cannot--think too long about what she's said, and he cannot wonder if that's something you might say of a roommate--then again, he hasn't got good roommates--but even so-- "What would come next, d'you reckon?"

In the course of his time in Kirkwall, John's become accustomed to weathering a certain amount of unexpected circumstance. When confronted with the ever-expanding oddities of Riftwatch, he's more or less ceased to be surprised.

However, to round the corner with a pair of saddlebags over one arm and find Madame de Cedoux performing acrobatics on the back of a nuggalope exceeds all John's expectation. His eyebrows raise, momentarily caught off guard before he thinks to clap, just once, before drawing closer.

"I had no idea this is what you got up to in your off hours," John tells her, pausing to sling the saddlebags over one of the partitions and so increase the ease of his movement. "It's very impressive."

“I don't consider his training to be off-hours,” is her cheerful riposte, though there is a certain element of whimsy that her office hours — for instance — are rarely characterised by. (Perhaps not never, but exceedingly rarely.) For John, she rises delicate as any dancer upon one foot atop her patient mount, performing a bouncing pirouette and then curtseying most finely.

(Jim's circus remarks had clearly struck.)

With some wistful fondness, as she stops with her hands at her hips, “Had you ever the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Bonaventura?”

"We've spoken, but I wouldn't call myself any particular acquaintance."

As he speaks, John comes carefully closer. There's no danger of her falling, so all John is really offering here is a hand should she choose to dismount.

There is some novelty, in looking up at her to carry on a conversation.

"Why do you ask?"

Unusual, perhaps, but for a man still so unused to everything that surrounds him, there's hardly a way to describe the sight he takes notice of in passing the stables: horses as proper mounts had been steep enough to adjust to, but this. Those bare knuckles rise from muddied soil, hindquarters buckling in a leap as her own slight weight shifts in unison.

He aims to catch her—

He finds he has no cause to.

The beast is neither ferocious in nature (despite all strange, unsettling appearances), nor is she in any danger of falling from its back, as it seems. Still, it leaves him perhaps a touch too close to the grounds beyond gating, gauntleted fingertips tentatively outstretched, his posture keenly angled in her general direction in obvious concern.

Perhaps she's taken no notice, and he'll be able to slip away as silently as he'd arrived.

No, there is no such luck: Petrana turns in place, murmuring enthusiastic encouragement to her mount, and in the process catches the tail end of Gabranth's movement. It is quite the skill to redirect the Black Divine toward him by shifts of her feet and center of gravity, and to easily maintain her position as he lumbers in the direction she wishes — presumably this accounts for the surprise of her safe landing.

“Thank you,” she says, politely.

If it's the thought that counts, then his was a good one.

“Your gratitude is undeserved. I’ve done nothing to warrant it, save for my own unnecessary intrusion.”

Still, all the same, he takes a single step back— in part because he’s yet uncertain of her (wow so very large) chosen mount, and in part to offer up the formality of a bow: something of an apology for all caused trouble.

If her finery and poise is indicative of anything, he would be remiss to not make amends.

“Forgive me.”

Edited (typos everywhere it’s a bloodbath) 2021-04-23 03:35 (UTC)

She is not extravagantly dressed, as finery goes; it would have been beneath her dignity to dress so, once, and at another time again better quality than she could have afforded all her dresses to be. It would not be out of place in the home of a merchant's wife, perhaps, for quiet days — to the experienced eye, it does speak to comfortable if modest means. The fabric is not expensive and the cut is elegantly simple with petticoats to fill out the silhouette she favours and keep her warm, but the pieces are well-made and tailored particularly to fit her. She wears no jewelry save a jet locket at her throat, and her hair is pinned simply enough that she likely did it herself,

but the dress doesn't need to be particularly fine. On another, it might be taken for the relatively plain thing that it is. It is, most of all, the way that Petrana carries herself; it has always been the way that the air shifts around her when she smiles or she frowns.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she says, lightly. “Would that we all erred so kindly; it is hardly a bother to me. Are you newly arrived?”

The question could mean many things, but in this instance only that she hasn't seen him before, and she spends enough time cloistered on the Gallows island that she ought to recognize most of Riftwatch at least as Riftwatch by sight.

Edited 2021-04-24 05:46 (UTC)

"Your instincts do you no injustice, I am indeed."

It is a relief, in some ways, to speak with someone who holds herself well. Who he does not need to strain to comprehend, nor shift himself to alter his own proclivities in any way for the sake of comfort (that he does, of course, is a matter of camaraderie amongst allies, and he'd have it no other way when necessary— but it is exhausting all the same).

"Perhaps it is not my place to ask, but the beast you so favor..."

~~what is it though~~

“He is called the Black Divine,” she says, sinking down into the saddle — sideways, comfortably, though it is clearly not intended for a side seat and likely is not how she rides — to pat his great head. “The animal is nuggalope, or, 'war nug'. I believe the Avvar bred them, originally, though the how of it somewhat beggars belief. I must wonder if they began with the simple nug, or how closely related the two animals truly are.”

This may have raised more questions for Gabranth than it has effectively answered.

“And I am Madame de Cedoux.”

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it is my duty to inform you that we took a vote all us women ( open )

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