WHO: Bastien & Kostos + Various WHAT: A catch-all WHEN: Harvestmere 9:47 WHERE: Mostly Kirkwall probably! NOTES: No open things but I will be delighted to plan & start things for you if you hit me up.
"Riabald," Bastien echoes in a whisper as he slips through the door. His tone is all delight, even while he has to do a one-legged tip-and-reach to keep one of the glasses from toppling. "Comment vas-tu, mon beau garçon?"
They haven't met yet, directly, but they have in common that they have never met a stranger.
He's dressed not to draw a second glance from a Tevinter (they love their dark colors here), with a hat to innocently obscure his face under the enchanted streetlights. He sets it aside with one hand, pets the dog with the other. When he gives Richard his attention, Bastien's pulling gently on one of Riabald's silky ear. There is silent space in the once-over he gives that might have contained a comment—something about nice times, or a good job, or the crossover of business and pleasure—if he were someone else. Someone who'd taken fewer people to bed for work himself.
”Ça va bien,” Richard murmurs to himself, one hand flattened to shut the door (click) at Bastien’s back. He leaves it unlocked, a glance for the caught glass, late approval.
Riabald’s tippy taps notwithstanding, the quiet is roaring at this late hour, with only the sounds of the city through the walls to slink against. The muted creak and rattle of a shutter closed against the wind provides a threshold for acceptable clamor.
“Where doesn’t she?”
Between the candles and the paper kindling bound on every shelf and surface, the place is a death trap. The small pony glued to Bastien’s side has further seen to it that some of Natasia’s papers are on the floor.
“There is a desk that looks promising.” There is a warning wariness to his saying so. It’s not in this room.
https://media0.giphy.com/media/1SzLZCjNXJzoy97P35/giphy.gif (you can so so righteously ignore this)
So warned, Bastien looks only more chipper. Creeping through other people's things in the dark—he is a fish returned to the sea. He picks up his hat again. Never anything more than a step and reach away, when escaping through a window is a reasonably likely outcome.
"Lead the way, mon autre beau garçon," he whispers with apologetic emphasis, as if that was his impolite oversight before, as he squeezes in one last scratch under Riabald's chin. The particular place that will make this particular dog be still and shut his eyes in overwhelmed ecstasy might come in handy, if they need a moment of particular silence. But the chin's not it. Maybe Richard knows.
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je suis ici et desolee
They haven't met yet, directly, but they have in common that they have never met a stranger.
He's dressed not to draw a second glance from a Tevinter (they love their dark colors here), with a hat to innocently obscure his face under the enchanted streetlights. He sets it aside with one hand, pets the dog with the other. When he gives Richard his attention, Bastien's pulling gently on one of Riabald's silky ear. There is silent space in the once-over he gives that might have contained a comment—something about nice times, or a good job, or the crossover of business and pleasure—if he were someone else. Someone who'd taken fewer people to bed for work himself.
Instead: "Where does she keep her papers?"
no subject
Riabald’s tippy taps notwithstanding, the quiet is roaring at this late hour, with only the sounds of the city through the walls to slink against. The muted creak and rattle of a shutter closed against the wind provides a threshold for acceptable clamor.
“Where doesn’t she?”
Between the candles and the paper kindling bound on every shelf and surface, the place is a death trap. The small pony glued to Bastien’s side has further seen to it that some of Natasia’s papers are on the floor.
“There is a desk that looks promising.” There is a warning wariness to his saying so. It’s not in this room.
https://media0.giphy.com/media/1SzLZCjNXJzoy97P35/giphy.gif (you can so so righteously ignore this)
So warned, Bastien looks only more chipper. Creeping through other people's things in the dark—he is a fish returned to the sea. He picks up his hat again. Never anything more than a step and reach away, when escaping through a window is a reasonably likely outcome.
"Lead the way, mon autre beau garçon," he whispers with apologetic emphasis, as if that was his impolite oversight before, as he squeezes in one last scratch under Riabald's chin. The particular place that will make this particular dog be still and shut his eyes in overwhelmed ecstasy might come in handy, if they need a moment of particular silence. But the chin's not it. Maybe Richard knows.