open | busy busy busy

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Alexandrie, Benedict, Byerly, Gwenaëlle, yooou?
WHAT: lady about town
WHEN: wibbly wobbly mod plot
WHERE: Gallows, mostly
NOTES: will style match prose/brackets, lmk if you want a specific starter and one day it might appear



Alexandrie has not been this mobile— nor this tired— in a long time. In between stints sitting in the Diplomacy office taking minor meetings that don't require the Ambassador's attention and composing and compiling vast numbers of notes, missives, letters, she is delivering them by hand any time she can’t find someone else and make it their problem so she can take a moment to sit somewhere outside. Over the last days, since Byerly had taken over Yseult’s work as well, the white bell-shape with the red hair has become a fairly ubiquitous presence circulating around on the Gallows island, and one might run into her just about anywhere… and almost anywhen, as candles burn late into the night.


( Specific starters slowly appearing below~! )

Comments

for byerly - gallows

[coquettish_trees]

[ One afternoon, much like any of the others— the days having become so indistinguishable in the last weeks as to seem like a single day— there is a knock on the doorframe of Yseult-cum-Byerly’s office.

Alexandrie’s presence has meant work more often than not. While she’s done her best to take on what she can she is not the Ambassador of Riftwatch, and in the end there are still debriefings, letters and documents to summarize so replies might be detailed to her and later signed and sealed.

While she’s somehow managed to be as fresh-faced and immaculate as usual— if with a little extra paint beneath her eyes to make up for the long nights— today she looks particularly bright when she leans her head and shoulders into the room. ]

Put down whatever it is you are doing, a miracle has passed upon our heads: there is a fine breeze today and it is making the garden fragrant.

[bouchonne]

[ From Byerly: there's not even the barest attempt to be presentable. Which is unusual for him; even in his rumpled, stinking, end-of-the-long-night disreputability, there's an artfulness to him, a deliberate sort of arrangement of his nastiness. Here, though, he just looks gaunt and exhausted, not even bothering with rouge or powder to compensate. No time for rouge or powder.

No time, either, for fine breezes or fragrant gardens. Which, it's clear, is what he's about to say when he starts to wince apologetically. ]

Lexie, I'm so sorry, but...

[coquettish_trees]

But you cannot, because there is so very much to do.

[ It may seem, perhaps, an oddity that she doesn't seem crestfallen in the slightest. She dims a bit, yes, but it's in sympathy rather than disappointment. ]

There will continue to be so very much to do, mon coeur, for we do not know how long. It is neverending, which means if you take a single candlemark to sit with me, when we are finished there will be precisely the same amount of work to do as there is now.

[ She walks in with what seems to be a rather laden white wicker basket carried in both hands. ]

But if you do not wish to go outside, we may have our picnic right here so that your work might stay safely within eyeshot.

[bouchonne]

Ah.

[ His face softens. Still, he protests guiltily - ]

You had plans.

[coquettish_trees]

I still have them.

[ She pulls the cloth from the top of the basket, shoots him a mischievous look, then shakes it out with a flourish to cover the rug much as she would have the grass in the garden. ]