open | and now that you don't have to be perfect,

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Baudin, et menagerie, and you?
WHAT: Baby got a houseboat, and it's move-in day. Find her at the Kirkwall docks as things are unpacked into it, or after that across the harbor at the Gallows slip where it'll be secured for the foreseeable future.
WHEN: Shortly after the return from Cumberland.
WHERE: Kirkwall harbour.
NOTES: Y'all I have coveted that houseboat since it went up on the rewards page.

Originally some manner of riverboat not intended for the purpose it presently serves, the houseboat that is for now moored perfectly in line with the anchored Walrus in the harbor is— something of a monstrosity, an eccentricity built up over time, not impossible to move under its own power but more commonly affixed to a more purposeful vessel and tugged along behind it. Having won it in a game of cards from a local who'd been tired of the lifestyle and tired of Kirkwall besides, it's taken some time for the Duke de Coucy to consider it sufficiently worthy to relinquish his granddaughter into—

which is to say, the interiors are now substantially finer, even if she'd put her foot down and insisted she didn't want anything done to the exterior that wasn't absolutely necessary. No need to turn it into obvious thief-bait, for a start, and besides: she rather likes the aesthetic. It's shabby and shambling but it was in otherwise good repair when it came into her hands, surprisingly sturdy and featuring beneath the water a wine-cellar kept cool by the ambient temperature around it where she's spent much of the morning while the rest of her belongings are brought in by de Coucy footmen and servants packing her stockpile of only slightly stolen Vauquelin wealth in the locked store-room behind the wineracks.

With only slightly stolen de Coucy wine, naturally.

Gwenaëlle emerges from below as trunks and furnishings are still being unloaded from carriages come down from Hightown, Small Yngvi the cat sleeping in a pinned up portion of the front of her skirts and Leviathan, the nug, doing laps of the exterior in an effort to understand his new environs. Hardie sits sentinel on the deck in front of the door, supervising the efforts of the de Coucy men (who are, in fact, being supervised by Guilfoyle—) and upon consideration Gwenaëlle sits down beside him, fingers in his fur, occasionally answering questions about where something needs to be put and if she would like it unpacked, also, or left to her (or Guilfoyle) to manage later.

Once everything's been securely stowed, a boat waits to haul it over to one of the empty slips surrounding the Gallows, where Gwenaëlle will finally have significantly less of a commute. The last thing to be done before that, of course—

“I have always wanted to do this,” Gwenaëlle says, and smashes a champagne bottle against the balustrade, just above the brand-new sign identifying the vessel as La Souveraineté.

Comments

[katabasis]

There are countless ballads and fiddle ditties written about the kind of things sailors find irresistible: pretty women (the sea included metaphorically among their number), and liquor, and the natural appeal of leaving places behind, or maybe the bittersweetness of coming back to them. But that's all trumped up rubbish. At the very least, those things are hardly universal. No, if there's any passion which unites all sailors, it must be rubbernecking the tedious or touchy maneuvering of other people's vessels. There is no joy quite like being critical of another person's seamanship, particularly from the lengths afforded by a spyglass.

"Or for fuck's sake," Flint remarks once to no one in particular while watching La Souveraineté come creeping across the harbor under tow. That the crew hired to see it delivered from Kirkwall's docks to the empty slip on the Gallows' island doesn't see the whole ramshackle monstrosity swamped in the process seems, to an eye taking considerably pleasure in being highly skeptical of the whole ordeal, semi miraculous.

By the time the houseboat (if it really warrants either name, a point on which he privately may be in rare alignment with a Duke) is being puzzled into its slip, he's come down from his perch at the top of the ferry quay's stairs to supervise more directly. The comfort of the spyglass is traded for bawling orders at the Gallow-side hands—Fend off there, haul away stern, belay that you stupid cunt—and seeing to the tidy handling of the shambling vessel's lines.

Those, at least, are in reasonably good order.

[elegiaque]

Having been determinedly unmoved by all criticism thus far, Gwenaëlle is only delighted with the end result of La Souveraineté, secured— having spent most of the short journey from one side of the harbour to the other standing on its deck, at the top of the steps up to the house proper, and come down from there (cat and nug both shooed indoors and out of the way) to do her bit on her end.

Satisfactorily settled, she plants her hands on her hips and quirks an eyebrow at Flint,

“You can't say anything about my taste in women I don't know. Do you want a drink?”

[katabasis]

Actually, he suspects there's plenty he could say and may in fact have a list detailing the finer points halfway composed in his head already,

says the look that slides inexorably to meet her from where Flint is whipping the tail end of a heavy spring line into a neat coil at the base of the cleat to which it's been hitched.

"All right."

Sounds like he may need one.

[elegiaque]

Once all is secure—

Gwenaëlle leads the way inside, which aside from the eccentric shape of everything is nearly as different from the exterior as night and day, polished wood and plush velvet, reasonably spacious, in a minor state of chaos as most things are where they're intended but little is properly organised. Enough is done to bring him through to a space somewhere between sitting room and study, where at least the liquor cabinet has been unpacked and secured.

“If I'd known I was going to have my own wine cellar,” she remarks, “I'd have cleared out the High Quarter townhouse's when I had the chance.”

Not that she didn't clear out a good deal else on that discreet trip to Halamshiral.

[overharrowed]

Julius didn't come to visit expressly, but he'ss returning from a visit to town when the activity catches his eye. When he approaches, it's with good humor (better humor, arguably, when he sees Hardie, who gets a hand to sniff as soon as Julius is close enough, with a murmured you remember me, don't you for good measure). Gwenaëlle is sitting close enough to Hardie he could hardly avoid greeting her if he wanted to, though he shows no sign of being sorry to see her. Instead, he says, "Are you thinking of commissioning any wards, or have you already done it and I should be jealous?"

[elegiaque]

“I should ask your scary boyfriend,” she drawls, “but no, I hadn't got so far. And I thought you'd probably be busy—”

Probably with his scary boyfriend, at that.

Hardie butts his head against Julius's thigh, affectionate where Gwenaëlle is just sly, but it's a peaceful moment amidst the continuing controlled chaos. “What do you think of her? You can lie.”

[overharrowed]

Her initial comment gets a small laugh; her following question gets him to consider the houseboat as a whole for a moment. "...I think it suggests you were ready for a change from Hightown." Which is diplomatic, but not a lie.

[elegiaque]

“Rutyer should give you a raise,” she says, laughing. “Whatever you're being paid, it can't possibly be enough.”

[laruetheday]

Just when Clarisse is starting to think she's getting used to shit here, something happens that changes her mind. First everybody went off somewhere to have a bunch of meetings, and she got used to hanging out pretty much by herself around the Gallows, which was fine with her. Then everybody came back, and she had to get used to that.

Now the weirdest boat she's ever seen is being towed right to the dock, where she's been sitting and staring out at the water. Can she even call it a boat, since it mostly just looks like a fucked up house and doesn't seem to be able to sail on its own? Something to consider.

It's such a strange sight that Clarisse doesn't even notice Gwenaëlle until they're close enough to either have to acknowledge each other or very obviously pretend not to see each other. She considers doing the latter, for a second, but it's not really her style. Instead she makes eye contact with the woman, raises her eyebrows, and says "You have a... boat."

[elegiaque]

“Ouais.”

The last time they saw each other, Gwenaëlle had been dressed to work — all slim-fitting leather and openly carried weapons, her bladed coat and tightly braided hair. Now, standing on the deck (porch?) of La Souveraineté, her curls besides those pulled back from her face occupy nearly as much space as the rest of her and she looks nearly harmless in a light-weight, tightly-laced summer dress of green and grey, the skirts pinned up around her knees for ease of motion and the bishop sleeves pushed up to her elbows and tied in place with black velvet ribbons. No obvious weapons in evidence, deceptively petite.

A sleepy cat rolls over in the apron pocket created by her pinned skirts, casts one yellow eye over Clarisse, and goes back to sleep. It is, in its mostly-hairless state, almost more alarming than the nug.

“A houseboat,” after a moment, mild enough, “she's a new acquisition. Some work still needs doing.”

[laruetheday]

Clarisse looks the same as last time, in her combat boots and camo (she obviously hasn't been making an effort to look more like she belongs in Thedas), but today she's got her spear strapped to her back. She takes in the skirts, the cat, the dog, the nug, and then looks up at the houseboat again.

"You going to live in there?" She sounds skeptical. The thing doesn't look exactly steady, from the outside.

[heorte]

How did Ellis end up on the deck of Gwenaëlle's house boat?

Likely simply by being in the right place at the right moment to be made specifically aware that there was manual labor to be done.

In fairness, the deck itself is more or less splinters. Ellis had underestimated the condition of it, had paused to sweep a considering gaze across the deck once he'd set boots properly onboard. All splinters, all in need of sanding down and a proper finish. (Has this deck ever been finished? Perhaps in another age, maybe.) It might be daunting, but Ellis had simply taken a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves, and begun his work at the bow.

By midday, there are patches of sweat soaked through the loose drape of his unlaced tunic. At the sound of footsteps, Ellis sits back on his heels, looking briefly over his work before considering the appearance of another soul aboard. He has a ways to go.

And that's not considering the jut of the cabin itself—

[elegiaque]

This thing has too many balconies. What does any building or vessel need with even half so many as this thing boasts? They provide a dangerously good angle for—

“If I threw this water over you, I think certain elements of Riftwatch would give me a medal,” speculatively, which is a joke (this time) (from Gwenaëlle, anyway), “but do you want something cool down there? You look like I'm going to regret getting close enough to smell.”

It's affable, though, and with the obvious intent to do just that.

[heorte]

A flicker of humor, but the initial comment is allowed to pass without comment. It's not the sort of sentiment Ellis entertains.

"I'll dunk myself in the harbor before I go up to the Gallows proper," he says, good natured. Sweat is beading at his temples, the nape of his neck. There is a burn in his arms from the work, but it's a good kind of discomfort. Not so terrible that he feels the need to break for the day.

Which leads him to, "If you've something to spare, I'd appreciate it."

What exactly Gwen might have on tap in this floating monstrosity is anyone's guess.

[bouchonne]

"It's very ugly," Byerly comments, arms crossed, looking up at it thoughtfully. "Did you choose it despite its ugliness, or because of it?"

[elegiaque]

“I know what it looks like,” she says, serene, looking up at the highest point, “and no one is asking you and the rest of everyone to appreciate my vessel. I think she's beautiful.”

It is not, as it might be in someone else, contrarian irony. It's not obliviousness to the extent of how deeply alarming the houseboat is, this floating sacrilege. It's just: she really, truly, genuinely finds it utterly lovely and sincerely pleasing.

[deuselfmachina]

Florent does not need a formal tour. Before Gwenaëlle can summon the energy to show him around, he is already ahead of her, out of sight, excitable elf-feet pattering thrumming through the wooden bones of the house that is a boat. There are so many little rooms and crooked staircases and ladders, and he has certainly lived in a place like this before, you recall, perhaps, did I ever show you it, that apartment on Rosecourt—

But it was not seaworthy, obviously. Not like La Souveraineté. Which definitely is, because it is currently in the sea.

He ducks through one of the steep staircases. Tall, for an elf, his 5'8" having always been something of a point of pride, opened many doors, and he doesn't allow it to work against him too badly now as he hangs off a railing so he can peer down at her. "Are you going to live here now?"

[elegiaque]

Water-worthy, at least, which is enough— Gwenaëlle follows him, her diminutive stature and ease on the water suited to this unpredictable home's navigation, tilting her head up to raise an eyebrow at him. Pleased, probably; his is without a doubt the best reaction so far.

“For as long as she'll float,” she agrees, “that's the plan. When we're done with Kirkwall,”

as she goes back and forth on believing they will be, ever,

“I'll take her some other place. On a river, I think. We could get her out of the harbor if a guide vessel hugged the coast.”

[deuselfmachina]

"I hope we have both hands when we are done with Kirkwall," Florent says, with a little bit of theatrical wistfulness. "It will be hard to sail a houseboat without."

Is that what you do? Sail a houseboat? Whatever.

He crouches down further until he is sitting, peering upwards at all the odd angles, as pleased with the lush interior as he is with the delightful exterior. Full of character, where character is wanted, on the outside.

"Well, now, I will be able to visit you so much more," he says, with the blandly glossy tone of someone who is deliberately not directly referencing the way he simply cannot wander Hightown the way he would its counterparts in Orlais. "Perhaps if there is a room that can be spared, I can stay longer."

Florent has never made this suggestion without fully moving in once agreement is reached.

[armd]

The reputation of Gwenaëlle's odd houseboat proceeds her. Abby shows up hours later after most of the moving efforts have been completed, and with a little housewarming present. It's food so don't get excited: fresh bread from the Kirkwall marketplace, and a jar of something preserved to spread over it, pickled. There's nothing worse than moving all your shit and having nothing to snack on while doing it.

"Woah," is her assessment of the house. She holds the bundle of things out to Gwen wordlessly, wrapped in brown paper, "It's-"

She puffs up her cheeks and exhales in a rush, "A lot weirder than I pictured." (positive)

[elegiaque]

This is, judging by the way Gwenaëlle brightens, the correct reaction. Abby and Florent can stay; the rest of you can walk the plank.

“Some man just built a house onto a boat,” with a shrug, “but I think he didn't do it all at once? He just sort of added things as he was going. As he needed them, thought of them, had the resource. It's a little eccentric.” Ah, our lady of the understatement. “Come see inside—”

as she takes the bundle, of course, tucking it under her arm and leading the way in.

Inside, immediately: a different experience altogether. Finely polished wood and plush velvet interiors; hanging silks, and coloured glass lanterns hanging at varying heights from the ceiling, the firelight within casting a warm, varyingly-hued glow throughout. There appear to be no cupboards in evidence, but a great many drawers— and doors, and stairs, leading both up and down. The entranceway is surprisingly spacious, though it's probable — given the view from outside, and Gwenaëlle's description of her construction — that that varies, further in.

[armd]

A squint, at the towering property of the thing, "... Yeah, I can see that." And she wants to see the innards also, so she follows at Gwen's heels, and- whistles upon stepping inside. Fan-cy. It looks much more like Gwen's beautiful room did in the Hightown house all separated out into different sections and complete with large, roomy bed, draped in-

"The bear made it, right?"

Please tell her the bear made the cut.

mumblemumble days weeks whenever time is fake

[grindset]

"It's..."

A boat, that is also a house. A house that is a boat. A floating cabin. Much more than any combination of these words.

"A fine example of digressive ambition," Viktor decides. Nothing suggests this is a euphemistic assessment.

He's come to the slip, and now here he stands, looking up at this raft-chalet. Hadn't meant to attract the attention of its resident, but when you're the only one standing still and staring directly at someone's home—when you're already incredibly out of place, making little effort not to be conspicuous—if they're home, and awake, they are probably going to notice. Especially when it's been long enough since landing that the majority have had their gawp by now.

The respectful distance between him and the water shrinks by a step and a half. He glances down to make sure he isn't sticking his crutch's ferrule in a hole or something. (He isn't.) Back up, then:

"Would you happen to know who built it?"

[elegiaque]

“The former owner acquired it as a flatboat,” she says, regarding him with an expression that doesn't really— it's not unfriendly, it's not friendly. He's a stranger with an anchor-shard, which does narrow down the various likelihoods, but makes none of them a guarantee when one of those is lodged just as perceptibly in her own fist, holding her dark skirts off the deck.

(Hardie, an Anders Shepherd, is more clearly interested in the stranger, but much too well trained to do more than only show it in the set of his shoulders and tilt of his ears.)

“He built it up into a houseboat, and when I acquired it, we had it gutted and refit entirely on the inside. The bones of it were surprisingly sturdy, by all accounts. I believe them, too, they all sounded bemused when they said it.”

[grindset]

"So do I."

Believe them. Given the way he's looking at it, maybe he can see the bones in question—perhaps intuitively, by the joints and angles and the way they react, or don't, to the easy motion of the bay. He's not ignoring her by any means, but it isn't the owner, nor her companion(s), he's here to see. This isn't some social contrivance; he just thinks it's neat.

"If it were going to fail, I think it would have done so by now... or... at least threatened to, in ways you'd find difficult to ignore. On the water, the way it moves, it wouldn't be able to keep that secret for long."

His own anchor is likewise in a fist, pressed to the crutch's support grip. Neither hand would have been preferable—but at least it doesn't hurt. (That list is long enough already.)