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.
”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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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.