Stood there in line, Wysteria's attention appears to be more or less consumed by a small piece of paper she is carrying in—as Vega has so pointedly noticed—her one hand. The script on the page is very miniscule and is written in both directions, likely for the sake of using as little paper as humanly possible, and she is presently being forced to turn the page this way and that way and then squint very hard to make out the chickenscratch of a particular Ansburg College professor. The next letter she writes to Messere Brown, she thinks, will need to include a scolding as to the quality of his penmanship. For gods' sakes, this is practically illegible—
"What?"
Her head turns abruptly round. The young woman behind her has said something direct enough to penetrate the fixture of her attention. Squinting between her and the note, Wysteria mentally rifles between northern Marcher gossip and—oh. That's what she'd said.
"Lady Vega Arany of Vyrantium," is the swift response, attention darting very briefly to the piece of paper in Wysteria's hand, before returning to her arm (or lack thereof), "I only just arrived here from Tevinter."
It barely needs saying, when her accent is that thick, but she is being polite. That her initial question may not have been hasn't registered with her at all.
Now, she is waiting expectantly to be told the answer to it, hands brought together in front of her.
Vyrantium? What on earth is some lady doing here all the way from there? Wysteria's attention passes briefly beyond Lady Arany to the room about them as if she might identify some obvious motivation here in the dining hall with them. It can hardly be simply that they are fighting a just and righteous cause against an ancient darks pawn scourge. Presumably, they have already got their hands on all those principled Tevene citizens drawn under the banner for that. —Or the Inquisition did?
Oh, that makes some degree of sense, she thinks. Wysteria's attention reverts faithfully back to Vega, this time in search of identifying the anchor shard she must have. Otherwise there is little to compel someone here from the Inquisition. That her search is rewarded with confirmation is only reasonable.
The confusion in Wysteria's attitude slackens visibly.
"Oh," she says, folding the note absently. Goodbye, Messere Brown's poorly penned letter. "Yes of course. You will have been with the company in the Silent Plains, I imagine." Reasonable. Anyway. "The limb was amputated."
Waiting expectantly, the pleasant sort of half-smile on her face slips when Wysteria's attention slides off of her and skirts the room. She has to resist the urge to follow her gaze and see what she is looking at. Her cheeks redden and she stands up even straighter, arms suddenly rigid, folding across her chest. What, did she say something ridiculous? How could she have?
Clearing her throat, she notices Wysteria looking at the backs of her hands, which she has just tucked into her arms; she shows her what she is undoubtedly looking for, the neat seam on her palm, the mark that makes her special and one of them at the same time.
It's even more annoying to not know what the 'Silent Plains' refers to.
She opens her mouth hotly to argue this, but is cut short (ha) by Wysteria's sudden answer.
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"What?"
Her head turns abruptly round. The young woman behind her has said something direct enough to penetrate the fixture of her attention. Squinting between her and the note, Wysteria mentally rifles between northern Marcher gossip and—oh. That's what she'd said.
"Sorry, who are you?"
Probably also a fine question to ask.
me as well
It barely needs saying, when her accent is that thick, but she is being polite. That her initial question may not have been hasn't registered with her at all.
Now, she is waiting expectantly to be told the answer to it, hands brought together in front of her.
no subject
Oh, that makes some degree of sense, she thinks. Wysteria's attention reverts faithfully back to Vega, this time in search of identifying the anchor shard she must have. Otherwise there is little to compel someone here from the Inquisition. That her search is rewarded with confirmation is only reasonable.
The confusion in Wysteria's attitude slackens visibly.
"Oh," she says, folding the note absently. Goodbye, Messere Brown's poorly penned letter. "Yes of course. You will have been with the company in the Silent Plains, I imagine." Reasonable. Anyway. "The limb was amputated."
Obviously.
no subject
Clearing her throat, she notices Wysteria looking at the backs of her hands, which she has just tucked into her arms; she shows her what she is undoubtedly looking for, the neat seam on her palm, the mark that makes her special and one of them at the same time.
It's even more annoying to not know what the 'Silent Plains' refers to.
She opens her mouth hotly to argue this, but is cut short (ha) by Wysteria's sudden answer.
"Oh."
Yes, obviously. Vega puffs her cheeks out. "Why?"
no subject