[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria & YOU
WHAT: Anchor-related adventures and/or drama in fantasy September.
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Some anchor and rift-related peril; open stuff is in the comments, but may use this as a catch-all. If an open prompt doesn't suit you, feel free to wildcard me or hit me up and I can write something bespoke. Prose or brackets is a-okay.

Comments

[bouchonne]

A thing Byerly Rutyer cannot abide: the sight of a young woman looking frail and unwell.

Another thing Byerly Rutyer cannot abide: Wysteria Poppell.

He stands, torn, at war with himself, for perhaps a good minute. Because - not talking to her is such an appealing notion. Leaving her be. Letting her plunge into the water and - It takes the girl swaying slightly to the side for him to act; he steps up beside her and offers, stiffly -

"It would please me to carry your parcels, if it would please you to be unburdened."

[heirring]

The upward jerk of her chin as she is firmly pulled back to the present tense from out of her wandering awareness makes her teeth clack together in her skull. When Wysteria stiffens where she stands, it as much to remind herself of where exactly her feet are beneath her as it is in response to—

"Oh. Good afternoon Ambassador."

Or is it evening? No, it is still light out enough that the word would seem poorly applied. Despite the faintly waxy quality of her pallor, Wysteria is quickly donning that habitually turned up nose look which she has so often adopted rewarded him with in the past.

"No, it is hardly so heavy as all that. Though I thank you for the consideration."

[bouchonne]

And what, is he going to fight her on that? When she's taken on a look like he's a pile of manure gently wafting odors at her? Absolutely not. Every time he has endeavored to help Wysteria, every time he has tried to engage with her in any meaningful way, she has rewarded him only with contempt and biting judgment. He will be on his way.

"You look poorly."

[heirring]

"How kind of you to say."

That is contempt. It is indeed biting judgement. It also comes while she visibly attempts not to set her chin back onto the crinkling paper of the wrapped parcel's topmost edge. Is there anything so terrible in the whole wide world as being forced to be pleasant to a person who finds you so very unpleasant when you are feeling just adjacent to being under the weather? Surely not. Truly this must be the sharpest kind of mundane cruelty imaginable.

(Thank the Gods she hadn't closed her eyes. She would prefer to be damned than to know Byerly Rutyer had witnessed her being so foolish on the quay.)

"One day I hope I shall have the opportunity to return the favor."

[bouchonne]

"Unlikely," By returns, which is such an easy retort that now he is deeply worried. Usually the girl's tongue is so disagreeable that he has to put some small effort into coming up with a response. This was far too obvious.

"Sit down. I'll hold the ferry till you've a chance to climb on board." And - "Have you been to see my wife?"

[heirring]

"Much as I admire your wife's abilities, I don't believe it an ill which can be cut off."

Surely that is marginally more respectful of Lady Rutyer's chosen profession than to call her a butcher to her husband's face. That would be quite rude and she had decided many weeks ago that she was finished with all this unpleasant business. But there are better circumstances under which to not be a barb in someone's side.

She doesn't need to sit down. She is quite steady on her feet, thank you.

"How is Lady Rutyer? Very much engaged with relief efforts and the refugees, I imagine."

[bouchonne]

"As is to be expected," he replies easily, hands tucked into his pockets. "Her heart is as compassionate as her wit is wicked."

Then, without pause, "So you admit that you are suffering illness?"

[heirring]

If she frowns a little harder at the ferry, maybe the oarman will sense some unknown flicker of dismay and pull a little faster. It's worth trying.

"These things do happen from time to time, Mister Rutyer. It is not entirely out of the ordinary, even at the end of summer."

[bouchonne]

"It is not," he agrees, exasperated, "but typically when illness strikes, the response is to lay abed and recover, not to - use one's parcels to keep one from collapsing."

He takes a step closer.

"You should be on bed rest, Miss Poppell. Who sent you out on this errand? Was it Stark?"

[heirring]

"It is my own errand. Mister Stark has nothing at all to do with it."

Never mind that the large parcel clutched to her is stamped with the mark of some known maker of rope and field leathers and all manner of things a respectable young lady would be unlikely to purchase for herself.

"And I was quite well this morning. And—" A pause. She looks abruptly around at him and is frowning still when she says, "You are meant to be calling me 'de Foncé' now, you know."