closed / tall tales

[hornswoggle]

WHO: Gela, Viktor, Wysteria, Laurentius
WHAT: Propaganda, baby.
WHEN: What is time, really.
WHERE: Hinterlands, western Orlais.
NOTES: OOC Notes

Comments

[sprent]

Gela's elbow nearly slips from the table in her haste to sit up much straighter. Now she is intrigued. She holds herself quite still then, to keep her usual liveliness from disrupting the possibility of a good idea.

"Would you?" No false charm here, she is genuinely touched by the offer. "I would deeply appreciate it; and surely lyin' on paper is easier, anyway, because you have more time to think about the lie."

Nothing like real life.

Then, Gela considers him and adds, almost sadly, "But I don't know what I could offer you in return for this kindness."

[glossator]

"Consider it payment for your tea since I can't do anything better for you right now. Tit for tat."

Only here he pauses. Like a man very unused to budgeting his spending regretting an impulse purchase given the lightness of his wallet, the shadow of hesitation that passes over Laurentius's face is delayed partly because it comes so unnaturally to him. It develops into a grimace—rare chagrin.

(All this subterfuge business truly does chafe.)

"And you'll have to promise not to mention me. I'll come up with some other reason you knew to write them."

[sprent]

"It's worth more than the tea," Gela wheedles, but decides to let him have it in the end. If he wants to help her out this much, she should let him! Now she feels breathless. The apples of her cheeks have gone pink. This is what she came to Riftwatch for in the first place, and everything is falling neatly into place.

"Promise," she adds, instantly. "Of course I won't mention you. I'll help you with the reason, I could stand to do a bit of my own research before I go sayin' anything at all."

Just in case... but this really does feel like a good step in the right direction.

[glossator]

"Oh, it shouldn't be hard to pass off an excuse. Chantry healers are either generous or like any other scholar—desperate for recognition."

Might qualify as a sick burn if he weren't demonstrably cut from that exact cloth himself. Of the things Laurentius had seen fit to pack for this little excursion, half had been books and papers. Indeed if climbing the stairs were a less agonizing challenge to his saddle stiff body, he might otherwise have already excused himself to the relative quiet of one of the let closet sized room where he might resume scribbling out notes.

What it isn't is particularly self deprecating—just an offhand joke, buoyed by the sudden vibrant turn in Gela's demeanor.

"Do you mind if I ask what your question is?"

[sprent]

Gela smiles but elects not to say anything; this isn't the best place for her derisions on the Chantry. And she thought that he might ask her this because somebody always does eventually, and of course the healers will ask her when she writes to them but remains persistently, maddeningly vague about what she's truly asking for help with.

She sighs, looking to him. "It's to do with my late mother," she explains.

This is a lie, but she has told it so many times it almost doesn't mean anything to her any more. Sometimes Gela wonders if she made it up entirely, to account for why her mother hasn't tried to reach out to her over the years she's been gone. It's dramatic enough to be true, but she knows in her heart it isn't. That her father seldom lies. "And somethin' that could be hereditary, it's- why I'm lookin' for opinions."

[glossator]

Perhaps it would be most natural to take a little exception over this purposefully thin answer. After all, he's offered to chase down some assistance for whatever it is; wouldn't knowing the details do some good to that end?

But sitting there at the cramped little table in the roadside carriage inn and nursing the diminishing contents of his cup, Laurentius doesn't seem at all put off. Instead what he says, seemingly quite sincerely, is—

"I'm sorry to hear your mother's passed."

[sprent]

Knowing details would help. But you don't ask for details about somebody's dead mother, and anybody who dares is easily shut down. Nobody watching would think you in the wrong for it, so Gela lies, easy, practiced. She smiles too, a sad little thing.

"Thank you."

Family is a dangerous subject matter.

"I'm sorry," she simpers, brows knitting together, the picture of apology, "I didn't mean to bring the mood down. We should probably discuss how we're goin' to tackle all this once we get there."