[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

[heorte]

Yes, Ellis is here. He has been reliably present, but for short absences to conduct other business, attend to duties required of members of Forces, and return after to take up his place again.

His gambeson is hung over the back of the chair. The sleeves of his tunic are rolled back, laces loosened at his throat. A book is set over his knee, placed having been held beneath one palm when Tony walked in, now closed in deference to Tony's presence in the second chair.

Ellis' welcome is understated, silent. A nod across the bed, as Tony settles himself, produces a deck of cards. After all, it's not Ellis who will want news of the party, and he defers to Wysteria's clear interest as he leans back in his chair.

[heirring]

There is something distinctly unnatural about Wysteria idle in any bed, much less one tucked in the Gallows' infirmary—at least as far as any witnesses may be concerned, for let no one know that she historically has spent quite a lot of time flopped across her bed reading and writing, getting ink on pillow cases and crumbs on blankets and so on when indulging in the luxury of a closed door and no company. But for a person who is by any third party account relentlessly animated, this business of lying about and sweating out a fluctuating fever under blankets is ill-suited to her in the extreme. It likely doesn't help that her hair, unpinned and loose for so long, has lost most of the curl regularly beaten into it by her coiffure and that the sallow tint of her complexion has made her summer freckles very stark in her face.

'Oh,' she'd remarked at some earlier point. 'If only I'd been more diligent about a hat, I might look fantastically wistful.'

As it is, she is very aware that she looks like a half-drowned or very sweaty speckled rat. Or like—

Something she will not think of. Not while she is being presented with the rare treasure of, "Ill gotten gains from the Duke's estate! How marvelous! Do you know that when King Basilis had his coronation that there was a great to do at the Green Palace and they let all sorts of people in the little ballroom and I have heard that they lost twenty thousand pieces of flatware in a single evening. My cousin, Argo, has a spoon."

The box is well enough made that it's easy to slip the gilt lid free with one hand, her other hand and much of the forearm being securely bound in a heavy clay-like poultice and bandage. Extracting the cards however is work for two hands (or a more flat surface than her lap provides), and so the bottom half of the box is promptly returned to Tony so he may see to the appropriate handling of its contents.

"I believe it possible, by the way, to have a perfectly fine time at a party where no one is bludgeoned or kidnapped or assaulted by spirits. Riftwatch might consider following the Duke's example a little more closely."

[propulsion]

He is quietly if still very plainly pleased with himself when she responds brightly and hilariously, but moves on a delay when his souvenir is passed back. But after that he doesn't skip a beat, emptying the cards into his own shard-riddled hand with a controlled, Vegasy flutter of shining card that reforms back into a neat rectangle in his palm before handing them back for her to inspect.

Like the carton they came in, they're very lovely, shining gold, deep ink, and apparently unused, rounded corners and sharp edges crisp.

"Perfectly fine is fine," Tony says, slouching back into his chair and then casting an eye out for something, looking over his shoulder, then down by floor near the bed, then towards the corner of the room all while he says, "But it's not fun, which is the point of parties. At least where I'm from. Probably a cultural difference."

[heorte]

By contrast, Ellis has straightened in his chair from what had been approaching an uncharacteristic slouch. Boots planted on the ground in front of him, elbows on arms of the chair, eyes moving between the two of them as they speak.

"Orlesians have a different idea of what's fun," is Ellis' quiet, diplomatic contribution.

One which only glancingly includes his distaste for Orlesians and all things associated with them. That's beside the point of this conversation.

[heirring]

Inspect the cards she does, balancing the deck carefully at her side so she can paw through them and examine the various suits with some semblance of order.

"That's precisely why it ought to have been enjoyable. I've always wanted to see Orlesian nobility in their native habitat. I imagine it must be hilariously mannered."

This is, of course, all very easy to say from a sickbed. Even a very dull party must be preferable to no party at all in an infirmary.