OTA | And She Was

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Alexandrie, et al
WHAT: Slice of life and catch-up catch-all!
WHEN: Mostly now~
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Adding as I go! ♥

The Lady Alexandrie's return to Kirkwall society is not so much a splash as a gentle slip into the water; for a long while, she was gone. Then, of a sudden, she isn't. She resumes her patterns with little fuss: goes to the theatre, frequents the Hightown market, can be found again in good weather wherever there is a good vantage point to paint the sea, the gloves she wears to shield her fingers from the cold doing little to hinder her practiced brushstrokes.

She does not come yet to the Gallows, but does go often to the docks, and anyone wearing Riftwatch colours may well find themselves the object of the lady's benign scrutiny. Perhaps she's vaguely recognizable from someone's reminiscence. Perhaps she's just another member of the Orlesian gentry being a bit nosy. Either way, she is here.

[ Here and happy to wildcard too; send ideas~ ]

Comments

Gwenaëlle

[coquettish_trees]

[ While gossip is always readily available wherever one goes, wine, fine fabrics, and a good solid afternoon spent with a friend are a little harder to come by these days; the last is something that must also be stockpiled against its rarity when able. All are currently available at the modiste in Hightown, where after some fluttering, and some exclaiming over the colours that are missing and the ones that are still here— that wretched yellow will still be flowing freely into Kirkwall even through full blockade because no-one will wish to touch it to stop it— Alexandrie sits herself firmly on a cushioned chair opposite wherever Gwenaëlle is standing. ]

So! I have not gone so out of fashion in the country that I cannot be salvaged save in one respect: I know nothing of importance. [ Only slight exaggeration. There had been letters, of course, but the way things had unfolded at Val Fontaine had meant she'd found herself writing much more infrequently than she had hoped. And so, with a theatrical forward lean: ] Tell me everything.

[elegiaque]

( an array of velvets in shades of brown, green and red are laid out on the table beside the small dais that gwenaëlle is presently standing upon, having various parts of the muslin for her new dress pinned and adjusted around her. the yellow, appalling and impossible to sell, was banished from it immediately. it will make her look jaundiced. she didn't want it at her last appointment and will not be interested at her next, thank you—

she catches alexandrie's eye in the mirror, and her smile pulls wry at the corner. )

Well, we still haven't won the war.

( just to get it out of the way, you understand.

everything. where even to begin? she's certain there must be a half dozen things (a day!) that alexandrie would find fascinating that she won't even think to tell, had she even noticed them happen; the fleeting moments of gossip-worthy insight are not so consistent as all that. still, they have been parted for so long, and occupied so much since her arrival back, she combs her mind for a suitable beginning. how impossible it seems that alexandrie has not simply been at her side all this time, as easy as it is to be with her again now. )

A reshuffling of the central tower, again, ( rutyer out, derrica in; stark gone, cosima remaining, ) there was ... Arlathan, with the spirits, and Granitefell.

( where they fell. where she had fallen. )

What have you heard already?

[coquettish_trees]

Some. Enough to know myself...

[ The painted, powdered perfection of Alexandrie's forehead wrinkles slightly as she raises a brow and looks down briefly into the glass she holds. Red, brought from the vineyards at Val Fontaine. Lips curl into a wry little smile to match Gwenaëlle's earlier one, and she looks up again. ]

Sheltered.

[ It hadn't been easy, taking over the running of the estate. Seeing her father struggle and suffer through a persistent illness that responded to little. Seeing her mother suffer with him. It had made her re-think the very idea of love-matches in the gentry.

But all of it paled in comparison to the tales that had started coming from the mouths of people she loved at the front of this war. ]

But none of the stories have been yours, yet, which renders them unsatisfactory for my current purposes. Start anywhere; I will trade you tale for tale if you like, although mine will be about grapes, cabinetry, and the war of attrition in the kennels. [ She leans back into the cushions, waves the glass slightly. ] Fashion related, no casualties.

[elegiaque]

( granitefell and the whole terrible mess of it will wait, she decides; no sense yseult having scolded everyone for brazenly talking about time travel to playwrights only to gossip about it in front of all and sundry of hightown's most sought after seamstresses. their discretion is half their value—

but even still. better to be mindful at least a bit. )

Arlathan, ( she finally says, ) was where I left my eye. It's been more than a year, you know? There are people close to me now who never knew me otherwise.

( that has been progressively true, the better part of this past decade: there is a degree of competence and experience she is now deemed to have probably always had, because it is all they've seen. that's been a strange enough sensation to grapple with, nevermind the people who don't remember a time she had depth perception.

her mind always ranges to iorveth, then, who she never knew different. she wonders sometimes what he'd make of who she's become in his absence, when he had seen her first stumbling steps toward it. )

We had to make sacrifices, all of us that went, and that was mine. But I think I wear it well,

( determinedly upbeat, golden eye gleaming. she'd worn an emerald in their recent trip to halamshiral, a bold reminder of her former status. )

[coquettish_trees]

[ It's been more than a year, you know?

It tastes sour for a moment. Time does. Thinking about time. Feeling left behind, feeling like a fool for feeling left behind— she'd done the leaving, after all. And left behind from what? It's not as if losing an eye, or colour, or half of sound were an inviting prospect. It isn't the pain of it all she's found herself uncomfortably envious of. It's—

Alexandrie tsks at herself quietly. Pay attention. ]

Of course you do. I cannot think of an injury the world has done you that you have not grasped with fierce hands, gilded, and worn like a crown. The spirits ought to be spitting with envy.

[ She's not stupid. She knows it would be preferable to have the eye, and to not have been nearly bitten in half, and to have fathers and mothers and sisters and husbands and lovers living and present and kind and close, and for there to be something resembling peace... but there isn't. Life's ravages come and one can collapse beneath them or gild them and wear their glittering as a kind of vengeance and Gwenaëlle is better at spinning blood into gold than anyone else Alexandrie knows. ]

Did you choose it, or did they?

[elegiaque]

( she would trade the other eye for her mothers, her sisters,

but it matters, too, this moment here where alexandrie says all of that and she feels — seen, maybe, in a way that in the earliest days of their friendship she couldn't have predicted. the seeing, or ... the way that it feels, a comfort instead of a threat. she sees the effort, not just the wound, not just the brazening. it had taken her longer to understand alexandrie than the reverse, she thinks; both of them easy to perceive only at surface level, and dismiss.

she's learned from that. she hopes. )

They asked for a life, first, ( she says, at length, stepping down off the dais as the muslin is taken from her and her robe offered back. ) Loxley and I both volunteered, and— it just wanted us to be willing. So, then we had our choice of sacrifices. Two options, mostly.

I didn't want to give up any of my memories.

( they made her. tampering with her mind— no, there had been no question of not surrendering her eye, instead. )

dox

[untiltheyarent]

"Welcome back, Madame."

The presence beside and below Alexandrie ought to be familiar in its stillness and formality, offering only a quick glance up at her face in greeting and then offering a curtsy should it be returned.

Fifi's basket contains a few bottles of mystery liquids and a nondescript little sack dusted with white powder, which would look ominously as though she's planning chemical warfare if one didn't know she uses it all for cleaning.

...which is its own kind of chemical warfare, but not against people, anyway.

[coquettish_trees]

The glance is, indeed, returned. First cursory and quick, a brief spark of attention that had to make it through the forest of numbers and logistics from the meeting she'd just been loosed from, and then, with recognition, the spark catches and blossoms quickly into delighted recognition, work swept away for the moment. (Probably by a fan kick.)

"Oh! Vulpesse!" The basket of cleaning materials is irrelevant context. In Alexandrie's mind, even up to her elbows in bleach-water, Fifi is always a dancer who works as a maid rather than a maid who dances. Still reductive, perhaps, but in a rhinestone studded way. Alexandrie's hand emerges from the confines of her cloak, a brief familiar squeeze of feminine greeting on offer. "You are here! And well, I hope?" The question is asked lightly enough, but there is something more earnest in the expression that accompanies it— it is a war, after all.

[untiltheyarent]

A pleasant little smile fixes itself on Fifi's face-- she hadn't expected that warm of a greeting, perhaps, but that doesn't mean it isn't welcome.

"I am," she replies, leaving it cryptically at that, "will you be staying with us long?"

[coquettish_trees]

"As long as the business I have requires," is the equally cryptic reply; although if Alexandrie's tone and face are anything to go on it seems to be so for expedience rather than any desire for secrecy. "I cannot tell how long it shall take, but at the end of it I shall be returning to Val Fontaine." A pause, and the smile takes on a rueful humour.

"I find myself oddly saddened by the idea. I never thought to miss Kirkwall, but—" A shrug: c'est la vie.

"Perhaps it is not Kirkwall I miss, but the company."

[untiltheyarent]

"It certainly has a character of its own," Fifi agrees, looking thoughtfully out over the water-- the water on which, not so long ago, she and Wysteria were trapped and subsequently saved by a strapping new Rifter before a giant red lyrium infused turtle could make off with them.
What a day.

"Managing an estate must be dull in comparison." She sounds surprised by how sincerely she means that.

[coquettish_trees]

"It is," Alexandrie confirms, amusedly.

"It has its own challenges and eccentricities, but they are all..." she waves her hand, searching for a way to describe that strong difference between trouble and Trouble. Finally she settles on "There was not a single magical artifact, restless spirit, or rampaging demon.

"Mm," she pauses, holds up a finger to correct herself, "unless you count the bull that got so bored it consumed half of a fence post and was loose doing mischief for an entire month. I should be forever in awe of how a three ton creature could evade capture so readily save that I maintain it was being aided by every farmer with an as yet unbred—" Alexandrie cuts herself off, perhaps finally hearing herself, and laughs.

"I fear I have become accordingly dull."

docks

[favoriteanalyst]

[He is aware of Lady Alexandrie by reputation more than anything. Their time overlapping in Riftwatch before she set off was not overlong, perhaps sat in some meeting together or spent the same time in the same room at some point or him aware of her perusing books or brief voices over the crystal. Not so much managing to converse in depth, to know one another. What he knew was more the ghost of her, the stylings and furnishings of Loki's residence that was also her residence. The leavings and the leftovers.

In a way, that was better. For as much as Loki insisted it was fine, how would one have even started off that kind of conversation? 'Hello, Madame d'Asgard, I'm sorry for the loss of your husband's interdimensional twin, he was a fine fuck' is not exactly endearing.

So he feels he can be forgiven if his gaze passes right over her as another Hightown socialite awaiting a package or missive, or perhaps awaiting a friend from one of the boats. That she would so wait and not, instead, a handmaid or house servant does strike unusual, but not unheard of. Sometimes peoplewatching is a sport.

It's when his gaze sweeps back over (used to being on the lookout, to spot trouble) that he notices her own gaze. Riftwatch is well-known in Kirkwall, and the cityfolk's opinions are as varied as the cobblestones of the streets. Well. Seems he has a little time to kill himself. He sets a congenial smile his face, what Stephen might be tempted to call a customer service expression, and makes his way over.]

Is there something I can help you with, messere?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Perhaps bizarrely, the conversation starter Mobius had abandoned would have served perfectly well. Oh, she would have been mildly taken aback at first, but then she would have laughed and laughed and invited him to come drink the wine she'd brought with her and if he had agreed perhaps by evening they would be accomplices— if not friends— and then Loki would have that to deal with.

But that would require knowing her much better (and more recently) than by the reputation that has been available, and so instead it's this, and her eyes are sparkling with muted amusement at the aggressively benign politesse of his address. ]

There may well be, serah.

[ The lady inclines her head in polite acknowledgement, and then gestures lightly to the island towers across the harbour. ]

The Gallows library— might someone not currently a member of Riftwatch avail themselves of its reference section?

[favoriteanalyst]

[Now the real question he might find worth asking is, did she know who she is speaking to, or is it mere coincidence? These days, he's not so sure about coincidences anymore.

In any event, it's a fair question. People don't usually like to come to the Gallows unless they have to, deliveries, jobs. But the library is nothing to sneeze at. Anything that's confidential or sensitive in nature is already housed elsewhere; it isn't as though she would stumble upon reports or battle maps. But even still, can't be too cautious. Rowntree would have his head if he let in a spy just because she has a pretty face.]

I'd be happy to assist in helping you find whatever you need. [Which is not an indication either way between 'come on over and take a look' or 'I'll pick out books and send them to you', but at least it isn't 'no'. He would never deny someone learning.] You've come up short at other libraries and booksellers? What's the topic of reference?

[coquettish_trees]

Sea charts and known local trade routes.

[ Entire coincidence. ]

If I am to negotiate with the captains here I should like to do so knowledgably, and I have always previously found the Riftwatch collections to be of good quality.

[favoriteanalyst]

[The smile turns genuine. A small and subtle thing, but there.]

The captains won't stand a chance. Most are hardy and stubborn, ruthless but fair to folk who know how to deal with them. They're just trying to get by these days like anyone else. [They'll appreciate someone who is a go-getter, who meets them head on and has at least a little knowledge under their belt.] You've perused our library before?

wildcard.

[cozen]

[ The house looked live-in hundreds of years before they lived there, but their contributions are: a bookshelf so full some books have been slid in horizontally above the vertical ones, dog hair, a long settee with only two legs that entirely match and someone's scarf hanging over the back, unwashed cups, one chair at the table left crooked, the cello in a corner, a burlap sack of laundry left by the door, sheet music, an improbably perfect Wicked Grace hand left laid out for admiration, letters, and the heels of a pair of fine boots peeking out from beneath the couch where they were slid for safekeeping. It smells like ink and smoke—partly their fault, partly the fireplace's, partly the foundries'—and man and dog.

They had done something about this before Alexandrie's first visit. Straightened up, endured the cold to air the place out, lit a scented candle. But this time, with less advanced notice and fewer nerves all around—their natural habitat.

For a moment Bastien is here. So is Franz, enormous and Ander, arms crossed and trying to make small talk with as many monosyllables as possible in between a peppering of commentary on logistics and printing errors from Bastien. He wasn't supposed to come now, and not without a second pair of hands. A misunderstanding. (And if Bastien did it on purpose, you won't take him alive.) Bastien hefts a tied bundle of papers into his arm, then another on top of it, and shoos him out onto the steps beyond the front door. ]

Sorry,

[ he says to Alexandrie, about his imminent departure so soon after she's arrived, again. There is another bundle of paper on the ground, and he hoists it up, and moves the new tiny puppy further from the door with a gentle foot, and rocks his shoulder into Byerly's to substitute for the one-armed farewell hug he can't give with his arms so full. ]

I will be back in a little while. Leave some of the preserves for me.

[ And then he's gone, chatter with Franz outside muffled by the thickness of the walls and windows, and the house is quiet for a second before Rat Red begins barking madly at the shoe beneath the settee as if it might be a threat. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly knows full well that this was completely on purpose, and he does not know whether to be angry or grateful. He will, he decides, figure it out later.

There are myriad signs that Byerly is not the same man he was as when she left. Who is, of course - But the change in him is especially marked. The garish colors of his wardrobe have turned subdued and sober, his ability to perceive color having been taken from him some time before. There's no wine in the house, nor liquor of any other sort. The books strewn about are not just Bastien's - Byerly has, it seems, begun to read for pleasure.

All of these things (save the last) are things he would have written Alexandrie about. Whether or not she read of them, though...Well, that depends on how her mail was filtered, doesn't it? ]

Please. Sit.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is a room full of spies— they all know. Alexandrie, too, is both grateful and a little not, perhaps because Alexandrie, too, is different. The cloak she has removed to lay nearby the scarf and the gown beneath are surpassingly fine, but to an eye that knows how to see it rather than an ostentatious shout of wealth and position. So, too, the coif of her hair, the jewelry she's chosen, even the energy about her. Smoother. Subtler. Less fractious. Less like to shatter.

Perhaps that's why it's been as long as it has been before they'd been able to take this longer breath of time together. Perhaps somewhere inside herself she hadn't wanted to truly sit and see how these newest versions of themselves aligned.

Sometimes, when writing letters over a period of many changes, they begin to arrive with the past as a marker of location as well as time.

She wonders, briefly, if the long and tumultuous way they'd met and come together again hadn't been something like that. Like suddenly being delivered vast mountains of old letters their hearts had written. How much of what they'd been together had edges crinkled with time, how much was truly written in fresh ink. It's a strange and slightly lonely thought, and the hand of it squeezes her heart a little as she takes the invitation to join him with grace that smells slightly of her reservations, even as she smiles softly because that squeezed heart still feels warmth upon seeing him. Because, too, the home that he and Bastien have built is so redolent with ease. She takes a breath.

What are we, really? What is this? What do we have? What do we want?

Would you still like to find out?

These cannot be the first questions. Instead, she glances pointedly towards the energetic terrier. ]

Does he know something about this boot I do not? [ Back to Byerly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with good humour, ] Must I be on my guard, sitting so close?

[bouchonne]

She.

[ A fond sort of correction. Byerly has always lived his life - and will continue to live his life - being utterly dominated by women.

He bends down and picks the tiny creature up. He can do so comfortably with just one hand. Rat Red seems mildly offended to be parted from her enemy, the boot. ]

She seems to think everything is haunted. And that the only way to drive out the offending spirit is bullying it out of existence.

[coquettish_trees]

In fairness, this is Kirkwall. She may well be correct.

[ It isn't paranoia if everything really is haunted. ]

I am glad you have such sturdy companionship.

[ She pulls one of her gloves off as she says so, finger by careful finger, so she can offer a bare— and respectful— hand to the small dog to check for ghosts. ]

sea painting;

[extortionate]

It's a good view - here, from a gazebo at the end of a Hightown lane, semi-public only by the charity of its present owner -

Whose servant (a burly dwarf) is currently shoveling Lazar out the door of his salon.

"C'mon, you know I'm right -"

He turns, and his left leg drags. Dwarf shoves. Lazar goes sprawling. Hauls himself onto an elbow to the heavy click of a lock behind him.

"- Ain't even a good fake!"

He spits dirt, voice pitching up to shout. Cuts off upon spying Alexandrie - scant feet away.

[coquettish_trees]

Alexandrie, scant feet away, has paused to look upon the suddenly emergent scene (and man) with the sort of bemused serenity that requires training, her paintbrush frozen halfway between palette and canvas. After a moment, it slowly drips the grey of the Waking Sea onto her apron.

After another, cordially: "Do you mean the emerald, or the bust of Andraste?"

[extortionate]

"There's an emerald?"

Stooping up to scrape off the mud. Lazar pauses to look back over his shoulder, considers the lock on that door -

Eh. Fakes aren't worthless, but they're hard to fence right. He sighs, grouses,

"Man's got some cheek to claim that damage is Storm Age," Anyone can break an ear off, sand it down. "But reckon I'm not the voice to say."

That's half a question: Alexandrie's arranged like she belongs here.