[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

[heirring]

It's all very normal and doesn't strike even the faintest cord of dissatisfaction or unhappiness or regret in her. For naturally she can sense when he is digging his heels in for the sake of being stubborn—she had but said as much just a moment ago—, and obviously it is very satisfying to be entirely correct in her assessment and of all people in the entire world, Val de Foncé would be the very last person she would ever wish to clutch her hand over her sickbed and reassure her that all would be well. How very dire a picture that would be for any number of reasons, the most significant being that she can think of no time where the man has chosen to be anything but relentlessly—

Well, not practical. But reasoned? Certainly. And how damning would any alteration in that temper be? No, it would be very dreadful, Wysteria decides as she listens to him reading, if he were to suddenly choose to be anything different simply on account of her being trapped in some bed with her arm about to be struck from her body. In fact, she would never forgive him if he expressed some point of anxiety that proved to be entirely unfounded. How dare he concern her unnecessarily? After all this time of snub-nosed confidence, the absolute highest crime he might commit would be to prove otherwise at some crucial moment. There is nothing at all worse than a partner proving themselves as somehow secretly unreliable.

Having so thoroughly convinced herself of this simple fact, Wysteria submits herself as an audience to his reading with a characteristic petulance which fades into sharpened interest only once fed by a few paragraphs. She knows almost nothing about Orlesian theater, to say nothing of opera, but has read a great deal of Orlesian chivalric tales and the allegorical movements of art through the Ages and somewhere in the middle of the reading begins to confidently interrupt him in an effort to demand some bit of context, or to interject incendiary suggestions along the lines of 'You know, this is very in the same vein as Connell McCann's 'Stories Without Pages: The Oral Narrative of Ferelden'. You ought to read that.'

And if at any point Val does attempt to put one of his boots up onto the edge of her bed, Wysteria will faithfully protest its presence. It would hardly do if only one of them were dependable.