faderift | open | cloudreach

The best place to find Yseult is, as always, her office. The door is generally left slightly ajar during normal working hours to permit—if not quite invite—visitors, and it's not unusual to find the Scoutmaster ensconced behind her desk even before dawn or still reading through reports late into the night with the aid of lantern and wine glass and a grey tabby in her lap. Or, on occasion, hunting through a storeroom at some odd hour when the staff are all abed, in search of some supply or map or report that ought to wait til morning but apparently will not.

Other mornings find her in the training yard, before even the usual early-riser rush. The fog hangs low over the island this time of year, dampening sound and slicking footing, so the soft skid of feet on stone and thump of knife into target or fist on bag can barely be heard until you're upon their maker. Even the clash of blade on dummy, on the rarer occasion that she takes up a weapon too big to conceal, sounds like a phantom duel, drifting in and out of hearing on the sluggish breeze.

Riftwatch's approach to training has always been a bit ad hoc, like the Inquisition's before it, but for those interested enough to seek her out, Yseult is rumored (by whom? shhh) to be a willing teacher. Teaching the fundamentals of languages themselves is beyond either her capabilities or her time, but more immediately useful, especially for members of Scouting and Rifters, is the study not of whole languages but of various Trade accents. Anyone wishing to learn to pass themselves off as a Val Royan or Ander or Marcher of one stripe or another or nearly anything in between may find themselves with an excuse to pass an hour in conversation with the Scoutmaster.

Those in the Scouting division may also find themselves abruptly dragooned into hands-on training of a different sort. Taken aside one morning after breakfast or caught on the stairs before dinner and told to meet at the ferry in an hour, dressed for some particular part of town. Perhaps it's to pretend at errands while trailing someone through the market, or to linger in a tavern or gaming house with an ear on a certain table, to collect a package without being seen or pick a particular pocket. Sometimes the work seems more real: more attention paid to outfits and styling, maybe even the occasional wig produced from the Scouting sub-office that ought to hold an assistant but instead appears to house a prop room. Instead of merely blending into the crowd there may be particular roles: a noble and companion or servant taking a turn in a Hightown park, a pair of sailors passing time in a dockside cookshop, visiting merchants doing business in a coffee house, or any other cover that might be more plausible with two than one.

Or she could always just be cornered on the ferry. Nobody can avoid the ferry.

Telling time only by the bells and the position of the sun, Mado is nonetheless waiting at the ferry a little bit early, the finest cloak he could acquire tucked under one arm and a matching hat cocked atop his head.

It seems he made the attempt to dress the rest of the way, as much as he could on short notice: not wearing his usual comfortable Antivan street clothes, the Riftwatch footsoldier's uniform he has on is, he hopes, polished enough.

Grinning brightly at Yseult's approach, he doesn't wave to her-- she doesn't seem like the sort to like being waved at.

[ An invitation has been extended and accepted, tea prepared and served, small talk politely made and minor matters of crypotographical business covered. Second cups of tea remain at least half full, and there is still plenty of a surprisingly delicate lemon-lavender cake uneaten. Yseult maneuvers a bite of the latter onto the tines of her fork and leaves it waiting there just long enough to inquire, plainly: ]

There are a great many new rifters of late. Do you find it strange, having been here so much longer?

“Lady Yseult.”

It’s a harsh entry, his. By way of his armor mostly— pitch-dark in its mirror shine, so broad it might very well threaten to catch the doorway as he presses inside, framed by the dark fabric of a heavy cloak. His posture is tall, his footfalls heavy beyond the weight of layered metal. It speaks of authority, though now only the memory of it, like a living testament to another world played out in harsh lines and lowered voice.

And yet, in spite of that, it’s hardly disrespectful, for he pauses just there before her desk: lingering at attention, rather than overbearing demand.

She is the last he must meet with to fully know the structure of his newfound cause. And he does, in some small way, regret that it has taken so long.

Yseult surveys Mado's outfit as she approaches and produces a pin, badge, and feather sufficient to turn the color scheme of his uniform into something more generic, reminiscent of a half-dozen minor Marcher houses. Her own outfit is similarly fine but unmemorable.

"Good, that will do. We'll take a cab to Hightown," she explains, leading the way to the street. (They're already on the far side of the ferry, I've decided.) "If the weather holds, we'll spend some time in the market. If not, there's a cafe there that will serve for today. We can discuss on the way."

As they exit the Riftwatch dock area and make their way to a busier street, she arranges to walk notionally beside but a half-pace ahead of Mado, and finally stops at the curb and gestures him forward. "It will look strange if I hail the driver."

There is an entirely different brand of authority in the ease with which Yseult occupies the seat behind her broad, neat desk in this tidy, well-lit office, and the total lack of effect Gabranth's entrance appears to have on it. She looks up just long enough to gesture politely toward the chairs arranged opposite, proceeding all the while to finish whatever letter or report she is writing. Only when it has been signed, sanded, and set aside does she fold her hands on her blotter and turn her attention to her guest.

Her smile then is polite, as well. "I would appreciate it if you would remove your helmet while you are here. What can I do for you, Serah Gabranth?"

There’s no impatience to speak of: as her business is concluded at pace, he remains exactly as he is, declining the offer of either chair, and instead fitting his arms against the small of his own back rather than across the twin pommels of his swords. The slow catch of thin paper almost loud in that otherwise quiet space.

She knows his name. It shouldn’t come as a surprise in some respects— her title and position offer more than enough insight as to how (and there's something to be said for it, isn’t there? The memory of Byerly’s own words: I hope you don't think you cut a subtle figure, Judge Magister).

Her request prompts a slight incline of his head in dutiful acquiescence. It segues smoothly into the practiced matter of drawing his helm away with gauntleted fingers where they rest just beneath ornate horns, leaving instead a stare that’s far more human in nature: harsh hazel eyes shadowed by a sharp brow line, blond hair clinging to the edges of angular features, unweathered and unmarred.

Helmets. Apparently good at their job, if worn often enough.

He lifts his chin, squaring off posture by minute degrees.

“I've come to make my own introduction as asset and ally,” belated as it is, formalities hold worth with good reason. “And, have you time to discuss more than that, to speak with you about a man named Benedict Artemaeus.”

Edited (phone tags, so eloquent) 2021-04-28 23:44 (UTC)

Her smile ticks momentarily brighter at his compliance--not in triumph but approval--and if it doesn't linger there's nothing uncivil about the expression she settles into. Just businesslike, as is the nod she gives his explanation. If there is the faintest flicker of surprise at Benedict's name, it is only that. The internal Maker, what now does not show.

"Very well," she agrees, "I would be interested to hear what you have to say on both subjects."

"Knock knock."

—in lieu of actual knocking. It is well past what ordinary earth people might consider normal business hours, and likewise interesting to Tony to see whose door casts light well into the evening.

His, not so much. If he's going to be working late, which is often, it's more likely to find him in the Research workshops, or dungeon-level. Tonight, for whatever reason, he's likewise lurking in his office on a night that so is Yseult, and so: he appears at her door, elbowing it open, and lifts a metal pitcher thing, where the scent of coffee precedes him.

"You shouldn't have any of this after 3 pm," he says. "Got a cup?"

Approval is good, all things considered. Gabranth takes to its presence more than most, though that fondness hardly makes itself known in an expression as stolid as the helmet he now keeps tucked in against his side.

He’s hardly a man for guile or tact, there’s no subtlety to anything he manages, but for this— for a matter as delicate as past betrayals and present aspirations— he does try to keep his footfalls soft, figuratively speaking.

“I have been told he is of poor standing within your organization. That there are— justifiably— complaints against him that are entirely legitimate in nature, and not to be forgotten.” This, after all, is easier a topic to sink into than his own introduction or promise of usefulness; should she ask, he’ll not shirk response, but until then he would prefer not to linger on the subject of his own life's conspectus.

“Thus I feel it important to bring to your attention the matter of his conduct during the last mission I attended at his side.”

A slight pause, before:

“Which is to say, he performed admirably under duress.”

"I see," gives him nothing, Yseult observing this reference and the man offering it with the same steady attention as before. A slight pause of her own follows, made retroactively expectant when she prompts,

"Go on."

It suits him just as well. He, who had spent so long at the side of Vayne Solidor: Consul, stolen Emperor— a tactician without a hand to show anyone, least of all himself.

"It was his magic that afforded us a distinct advantage when we set ourselves against the stormrider, and it was his diplomatic prowess that did— in addition to the work of the others present— secure fair bonds in the aftermath of that battle, amongst gathered Orlesian nobility.

If he is known for cowardice, then let this stem the bleeding, at least in part, for the dragon struck him dumb with fear, and yet he did still act in our favor. Put himself at risk, so that we might succeed."

His gaze shifts slightly, lowering in brief consideration for the creature curled soft across her lap— though his focus returns only a beat later. He is, after all, better trained than to overtly show disrespect without meaning to.

"War, as I have known it, spares little concern in regards to upset, or past grievances. With this in mind, know that I only offer my perspective for future efforts, where unique adroitness may yet provide necessary benefit, regardless of the divide between divisions."

Edited 2021-04-29 05:21 (UTC)

( it is not unusual for petrana to be asked her thoughts on this or that with regard to rifters; what is unusual, in recent weeks, is the simple fact that occasionally she actually has an answer rather than demurring either of reasons of politeness or simply lacking anything to say on the matter. )

For the most, ( she says, in what she considers to be frank and what marcus rowntree would describe as what he has slowly realized petrana thinks is frank, ) others have come and gone and since my resignation from Ambassador Rutyer's current post it has not been my direct concern.

( problem. she means the rifters haven't been her problem, distinct from the time where they all were and it did her head in. )

But I have been surprised to find the population — overall less of one. I must admit, it has been some time since I have been made forcibly aware of rifters. A few more recent arrivals show promise.

This is more words than she might have expected from a walking suit of armor. Yseult absorbs them in silence, a hand straying to gently redirect claws away from blouse as Rosana, drowsing, stretches.

"I appreciate the information," she replies with a faint tilt of her head that suggests the matter is noted. And closed, for now. "And what of your own efforts on this mission?"

“My own?”

This time, when his attention flicks away, it’s in clear show of thought. Truth be told he’d expected to speak little— if any— about his own endeavors on the Exalted Plains, at least in comparison to all talk of past qualifications or bloodied strengths. Confessions that had sat poorly with Commander Flint, though Gabranth might argue Yseult's poised acceptance of everything said thus far might make her hypothetically better suited to endure such talk without (quite literally) throwing a book at him.

“I performed as requested, aide to the Daughter of Denerim and her allies.” Bulwark, shield, such roles he favors keenly. “The beast was slain without loss of life or limb. I claim but a fraction of responsibility, as any present would.”

The topic of diplomatic efforts he lets lie: there, more than anywhere else, he can promise no use. Limits that perhaps they’re both well aware of by way of armor and dour proclivities, track marks that speak for themselves.

The trend seems to be most who keep odd hours are in the service of some sort of work. And so too is John, making his way back in the wee hours of the evening from a tavern where he'd spun out a embellishments of stories for a gathering of sailors. They're stories he's told before, made new again with a scattering of embellishments, and they accomplish a certain objective.

But it also means some coin passed to Emlyn's youngest brother, to ferry John across the water to the Gallows at some absurd hour of night after Emlyn's closed the doors and the assembled sailors have slouched off to their beds. It's late and all is mostly dark, but the sound of shifting boxes carries along the hallway and draws John from his contemplation of the stairs towards the source of the racket, which turns out to be—

"I'd wondered if someone had snuck onto this island to burgle us," John says, by way of greeting. "What a relief for me to find you instead."

Darras, arms folded, leaning against a wall, takes a moment to observe his wife.

She no doubt knows that she's being observed. He's seen her sensibilities at work, that uncanny ability to pick up on such attention without batting an eye. She will also, no doubt, know who it is who is watching with her, even though her back is to his vantage point. She has a way of knowing such things. She always has, as far as he knows. Born with it, maybe.

All of this leaves him no choice but to be the one speak first. At least to establish some surprise here.

Well. First he watches another moment. She's very watchable, his wife. Especially when she's fighting, with all the grace of the actor she started life as. She makes it look like a dance, smoother than the brutal functional fighting Darras learned.

But, eventually.

"If I propose a duel, here and now, are you going to turn me down?"

"Beg pardon," comes a voice, preceded by the rasp of the door on it's hinges, swinging forward to reveal—

"Nikolai Lantsov," he says, one gloved hand lifting to his chest briefly.
I was told this was where I could find the Scoutmaster, and prevail on her for a few moments of her time?"

No point in asking if he's interrupting. She's seated at a desk, there is what looks to be a significant amount of paperwork at hand, Nikolai is certain he's interrupted her at something. He doesn't intend to prolong the conversation, only to take the measure of her, make a good impression, and leave while it's still intact.

Verbally, Yseult receives little more than a "yesser and noser" as she explains, but Mado grants her the rapt attentiveness of a working dog to its master, preparing to spring into motion on command.

As directed, he steps forward and waves to an oncoming cab in perfect mimicry of a well-dressed townsperson whose gesture he witnessed moments previously.

It's late enough that Yseult has quit her desk and is instead curled into a corner of the sofa beneath the rain-spattered window, though a stack of reports has made the trip with her. At Tony's offer she glances down, finds the wine glass on the side table empty and, after a beat of hesitation and with a faint shrug of eyebrows, offers it out. It's late. Whatever. (If he's without a cup for himself she'll indicate the sideboard against the wall opposite, where several styles of glasses and mugs reside next to a neatly curated collection of bottles.)

"What keeps you from your workshop?"

"They've already been and gone and taken all the good ink. And the pencils." Yseult doesn't sound at all surprised to hear John, but then he does have a particularly recognizable gait.

She is crouched low and just about shoulder deep into a shelf, digging through small boxes and parcels. Several shelves higher is a grey tabby, occasionally spotted around the Gallows these past few years, now helpfully batting at a package of quills.

"Are you looking for something?"

"Why would I do that?" is her reply. She may not need to look back over her shoulder at him--he's right, even here in the heart of the Gallows she's too alert to miss his approach and knows the sound of his footfalls on the stone too well to mistake it for anyone else's--but does, brows bending in opposite directions.

She pulls her blade free from the dummy and turns fully, stepping into the open center of the yard, where it's wide enough for proper dueling. Her blade today is a curved falchion, heavier than the rapier she actually prefers but not an uncommon choice for training. She spins it in her grip all the same, and spreads arms in invitation.

"A moment," Yseult replies, having no more inclination than he does to pretend he isn't interrupting, though it has no impact on the politeness of her tone. "Have a seat."

She is making markings on a map unrolled across her blotter, with reference to some letter or report at her elbow. It's only a minute or two before she apparently completes that work, loosely rolling the map and setting it aside on the floor to dry, quill returned to its rest. She fixes her attention instead on Nikolai. "What can I do for you, Serah Lantsov?"

From the curb Yseult watches with apparent disinterest, but once in the carriage--entrance executed in similarly accurate impersonation of the roles they're playing--she straightens her skirts and gives Mado a nod. "You're a talented mimic. Is that something you've done much of in your past career?" As...a musician? A dog? Whichever.

I'd like to see that map, to begin, is on the tip of his tongue, but—

Serah Lantsov. What a novelty. All the names and titles, and this is all he has claim to now.

Settling into the designated chair, Nikolai lifts one ankle to set upon opposite knee before answering, "I've been in the process of getting my bearings, but I am very interested in making myself useful to the efforts of this organization."

Surely a sentiment she hears all the time, but.

"So I should say the real question is what I could do for you, and for Riftwatch."

"So I read in the report." But she doesn't push for greater detail; his answer's limits are telling on their own.

"Would you say that missions of that type are the best use of your abilities, or are there others you might place at our disposal, as asset and ally?" Yseult may not be physically taking notes, but she's not doing anything to make this feel less like a job interview.

[ The lift of one brow is only a mild show of interest, a gentle encouragment to continue. ]

I would be interested to hear your opinion of them. I've had little opportunity to meet our newest members; few join the Scouting division. [ And why else would she talk to anyone in Riftwatch? ]

( petrana's expression is wry, over her teacup. )

I cannot speak much to specifics; I am perfectly satisfied to consider that they do not squawk endlessly nor fall over themselves to cause diplomatic incidents promising. It is certainly a departure from our history.

( and she doesn't actually have to talk to many rifters to observe that; it is the absence that she finds noteworthy, and worth considering that it might mean some of them will be useful as they adapt and not merely 'not problems'. )

But I spoke with the new witch, Madame Maximoff, shortly after her arrival; she seemed eager to adapt to her new circumstance, to understand the context in which she found herself. And I have become acquainted, since the dreaming we shared, with Mssr Holden, who I would consider to be a stout-hearted hard-worker that might be relied upon, if —

( a tilt of her hand. )

We do not lack for idealists. He has a streak of pragmatism that will serve him and Riftwatch both well, I think.

"Roadblock."

Tony enters the room, the door nudged mostly closed behind him with a tap of his heel. He's holding his own cup, hooked on a finger, but he will fill Yseult's wine glass first with dark, dark coffee, and then his own more expected vessel. He settles somewhere comfortable and opposite her, a dad-noise type exhale in the descent.

He leans, sets the jug down on a surface. "Figured I could use a break from almost burning down the Gallows tryna get this," a hand gestures, holding some abstract concept in the air, "stabiliser online with some non-threatening paperwork." He nods at what she's reading. "What's keeping you from,"

where do scouts go when they're not in the office, something he considers for a blank moment before settling on,

"hiding in a tree. Right now."

"Well, seeing as how the good ink is gone..." is the first thing said, flippant and mock-regretful, but as to the truth of the answer—

No.

"I was passing," he answers, more seriously. "It was a toss up which of you I might find."

Or whether it would be a wholly unexpected individual rooting through the storeroom. The Gallows' occupants all keep similarly odd hours and undertake projects that take up all their time.

He shifts his weight, the lean of his body against the crutch settling as he observes Yseult, asks, "Can I offer my assistance?"

"For playacting," Mado replies with a modest smile, seemingly just pleased she's pleased, "party tricks for coin. But it's easier to learn songs when you remember how they're sung, from all the notes to the words you don't know."

"Privacy."

He grins as she turns to him. Takes just one moment more to look at her, standing there with the falcion held graceful. It's funny how you can see someone and see all of what they've been before. There's nearly no one that Darras has known longer than Yseult by now.

He pushes away from the wall and goes to the weapons rack. "Maintaining the element of surprise." More for his list of whys. "Maintaining your air of secrecy. So as to not publicly embarrass me when you kick my arse."

Another falchion. Darras touches its hilt, first, superstitious. Then he grabs it off the rack and gives it an experimental twist, testing its weight. He shoots her another grin.

"Or will it be t'other way around today?"

He pauses there, head tilted slightly lower as he thinks, leaving his own sharp brow line cast in faint shadow. A narrow collection of seconds burned before he decides there's little point in sparing her particulars of his past. If she's willing to listen, she's more than capable of filtering out usefulness without his own assumptions getting in the way.

“In my world I was appointed to serve as sword and shield for Emperor Gramis Gana Solidor and his two sons, Vayne Carudas Solidor and Larsa Ferrinas Solidor. The elder of which was established as both Consul and tactician, and it was by his order that I did briefly discard my armor in favor of taking on the guise of Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg, trusted advisor to King Raminas of Dalmasca.”

Gabranth's own elder brother, Basch fon Ronsenburg. But he leaves that detail aside, for as he sees it there’s no need to drag anything beyond simple truths into his own assessment.

“With King Raminas’ witnessed death at my hands, the whole of his nation blamed Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg for his assassination, and our Empire thus gained sovereignty over Dalmasca and its people without further warfare or negotiated terms of surrender.”

It is, in fact, an undoubtedly long winded way of saying:

“To speak plainly: I have always been a blunt instrument, such is my own nature, but if necessary I am more than capable of breaching the confines of my own limitations. Better to succeed in war at cost, than to preen or posture over matters of comfort.”

It is not a sentiment she hears all the time. And as far as opening lines go, he could certainly do worse. But even for those who might purport to share the intention, the meanings of 'useful' and 'the efforts of this organization' have proven remarkably multifarious. So Yseult's smile remains, as before, polite.

"A question you are currently best suited to answer. What would you propose?"

Don't worry, Yseult's content to balance out his word usage and keep the conversation within its overall quota.

She's taken in everything he's said so far with apparent equanimity and that doesn't change now. Maybe this dour slab of armor stooping to sully his honor with deception should be a surprise, but everything about him thus far says he loves nothing so much as an order. That might be more remarkable. Whether it's useful is a different question:

"How will you decide what is necessary here, in an unfamiliar war?"

Yseult allows 'hiding in a tree' to sit in the air between them for a silent moment of roughly equal length to the one that preceded it, making eye contact all the while before she deadpans, "It's raining." Otherwise that's where she'd be.

There's a second armchair beside the one Tony chooses, the pair of them rearranged to face the sofa Yseult occupies now that the season has made the fireplace an irrelevant feature. A grey tabby cat occupies that other chair but now in two neat leaps it joins the Scoutmaster, curling up just beside her shins and reaching out a single paw.

"Reports from the Inquisition," she says once she's had a sip of coffee. "They have a wider network, some of which they are willing to share with me. What is a stabiliser for?"

Edited (idk) 2021-05-05 02:47 (UTC)

“It is not my place to decide.” The answer is simple, it comes without frustration or fanfare— or even a twitch of pinched consideration wound across his brow. Where he stands opposite to her, his chin lifts a little higher: order is order, and he knows that much.

“However in the event guidance is an impossibility, success will always remain priority. Should I fail in one aspect— I would give consideration to another approach.”

Though the door is ajar, there is a gentle knocking at it before Adrasteia pokes her head into the office, spots Yseult, and smiles. It's of note that this is not the usual, comfortable smile that Adrasteia often offers to all and sundry who pass through her visual path — it is no less polite but somehow strained nonetheless.

"Hello. I was hoping to speak with you about the Temple of Dumat."

"I've submitted myself to your Research Division," Nikolai tells her. "I'm interested in the development of technology that can be put to use in your work here, but what I would consider a help in the field is likely vastly different than what you might envision, considering our differing backgrounds."

Thedas is not Ravka, though Nikolai has very quickly picked up on the unending tide of complications and bad news. But familiarity with the sense of being saddled with an uphill battle doesn't give him any idea of what that battle looks like.

Yseult finishes blotting a letter and sets it aside in the stack at one elbow, pen in its holder straight ahead. "Warden, come in," she says, spreading a hand toward the chairs arranged in front of her full-but-orderly desk. "What about the Temple?"

Edited (like 10 words in the whole tag and half of them are typos) 2021-05-19 01:12 (UTC)

Well. Fair points, all of which crossed Yseult's mind in the time between noticing his presence and agreeing.

"None of that sounds likely," she says anyway, with a quick flash of a grin back. She attacks in the next heartbeat, a lightning-quick lunge forward as soon as he's prepared and not a second later. They both know he's bigger, stronger, and more experienced at this, so she takes her advantages where she can find them, aiming to slap the flat of her blade (edges dulled for just this purpose) just above his elbow and dance back out of the way of a return blow.

Bigger, stronger, more experienced, and not as light on his feet. Yseult's blow comes quick, and by the time Darras reacts she's already moved away. The slap of the blade leaves his arm stinging. He laughs anyways.

"Oh, so that's how it is? Tricky--"

He's shaking out his arm, apparently very distracted, right up until the point that his grip on his falchion tightens and he lunges at her, an overhead chop that he pulls at the last moment, switches to swipe at her side instead.

She steps further into the room and gently shuts the door behind her before taking a seat. "The darkened rift in the Fade still exists there, and it is... perhaps the more dangerous of the Temple's features and should be dealt with as soon as we're able."

We, in this case, being more specifically the Wardens than Riftwatch.

Yseult rests her hands on the blotter before her, fingers interlinked, her pose one of open attention. "Learning how to close these 'Gates' is a priority," she agrees. "Do you," the angle of her head makes that you both individual and collective, "have an idea?"

A nod. "Since the 'Gate' has a response to Grey Wardens and does not close in response to anchor fade shards in others, we've considered the possibility of one of us obtaining an anchor shard and trying again."

Gamely, Tony maintains eye contact throughout, deadpan in kind, but breaks when she points out the weather. Fair. He brings his coffee up to drink from, attention flicking to the cat that he may or may not have just not noticed was there until it moved.

"Kind of what it sounds like," he says, easing to slouch deeper into his seat. Not abandoning all propriety, or anything, but seeking some comfort that the upright chair at his desk hadn't provided. "It's a thrust device that'll stop, say, an airship from capsizing in bad weather, assault, that kind of thing. It'll need some kind of motion trigger—"

A hand wanders in the air, makes a flat line that wobbles so, like to demonstrate, before that hand drops.

"And also to be big. Lots of heat and force expelled in a blast. I've caused worse explosions for worse reasons."

open | cloudreach

yseult | ota

hands-on training

closed | madame de cedoux

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i said actor but i meant acrobat. i would swear i wrote acrobat. forgive me.

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never

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