if Gwenaëlle has demonstrated anything, in these jaunts through the worlds (or their echoes) that her companions have come from, it is a nearly aggressive willingness to adapt and learn and make herself useful. Proactive about it, even; determined now that the tables have been turned to hold herself to the same high standards she's always insisted upon for rifters in Thedas. Probably the only surprising part about that is that it matters to her so fucking much — that she clearly cares not to be made a hypocrite by her own actions.
So it's not that. That isn't why she is not much seen in any of the jobs she might have been well-suited to, none of the sewing or mending, not hanging over the shoulder of those in the know to learn more about modern approaches to first aid. Nor does she seem to be making nearly as much use of the satellite phone that she was given as she had the little rectangles Stark had handed out in New York — that she had been on constantly, and this one seems to be as often as not left with the rest of their belongings. Game to try different things. It's unusual to see her so little, except that she isn't, actually, very difficult to find.
The wolf that is Gwenaëlle is on the small side, as female wolves go; the scarring that circles her body — the chunk out of her thigh — leaves odd gaps in her thick, dark fur, the scars themselves not quite visible but the inconsistency of her coat speaking to the damage underneath it. Most immediately identifiable is the blank golden right eye, still there, still absent, how conscious she clearly is as she navigates of favouring her blind spot. Given the ability and the option, she spends most of her time in this form, circling the edges of gatherings, groups — herding children of any shape toward their adults but hanging back from following. Pacing the space, restless, seeking out her familiar people but rarely interrupting; checking to see what they're doing, watching, and padding away to find someone else, and check on them.
When she starts following Jude — at a distance, polite, stopping when she's looked at and laying down on her forepaws, but back up on her feet again and still there, later — it is not, exactly, to a purpose. Except the same purpose that she's had in every world: to make sense of what she's experiencing. Maybe she'll understand better, after she's watched him for a while.
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if Gwenaëlle has demonstrated anything, in these jaunts through the worlds (or their echoes) that her companions have come from, it is a nearly aggressive willingness to adapt and learn and make herself useful. Proactive about it, even; determined now that the tables have been turned to hold herself to the same high standards she's always insisted upon for rifters in Thedas. Probably the only surprising part about that is that it matters to her so fucking much — that she clearly cares not to be made a hypocrite by her own actions.
So it's not that. That isn't why she is not much seen in any of the jobs she might have been well-suited to, none of the sewing or mending, not hanging over the shoulder of those in the know to learn more about modern approaches to first aid. Nor does she seem to be making nearly as much use of the satellite phone that she was given as she had the little rectangles Stark had handed out in New York — that she had been on constantly, and this one seems to be as often as not left with the rest of their belongings. Game to try different things. It's unusual to see her so little, except that she isn't, actually, very difficult to find.
The wolf that is Gwenaëlle is on the small side, as female wolves go; the scarring that circles her body — the chunk out of her thigh — leaves odd gaps in her thick, dark fur, the scars themselves not quite visible but the inconsistency of her coat speaking to the damage underneath it. Most immediately identifiable is the blank golden right eye, still there, still absent, how conscious she clearly is as she navigates of favouring her blind spot. Given the ability and the option, she spends most of her time in this form, circling the edges of gatherings, groups — herding children of any shape toward their adults but hanging back from following. Pacing the space, restless, seeking out her familiar people but rarely interrupting; checking to see what they're doing, watching, and padding away to find someone else, and check on them.
When she starts following Jude — at a distance, polite, stopping when she's looked at and laying down on her forepaws, but back up on her feet again and still there, later — it is not, exactly, to a purpose. Except the same purpose that she's had in every world: to make sense of what she's experiencing. Maybe she'll understand better, after she's watched him for a while.