[OPEN]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Flint, & YOU
WHAT: Catch-all
WHEN: Fantasy!March
WHERE: Kirkwall/the Gallows
NOTES: Predominantly wrap-up/endcap threads for Wysteria and Flint before they ride off into the sunset. If you want something bespoke, feel free to wildcard me or reach out for a starter. Wysteria's impending departure is known, Flint's definitely isn't.

Comments

the ferry landing.

[elegiaque]

It isn't completely unusual to see Gwenaëlle out near the ferry's landing at this hour, for the simple fact that La Souveraineté's mooring is not so far away from it, regardless of what hour she might or might not have traversed the harbour herself. In this instance it is clearly a personal errand rather than evidence of particular overwork— Flint will hear her before he sees her, a steady stream of scolding Orlesian that she doesn't expect to be heard by anyone except the lykoi cat presently swaddled in her rolled up skirts to prevent a secondary, even more irritating escape.

At this hour, she isn't expecting to see anyone else; the last ferry has been and gone, so it's most times a safe assumption anyone down here is moving towards her boat and not anywhere else, but she isn't expecting anyone. Isn't expecting him, and stops,

the abrupt cut off to her muttering making clear that she's seen him, in case he had it in mind to slip by.

“—what sort of time do you call this, then?” is an implied question wearing the clothes of a joke.

[katabasis]

He's moving slowly, but there's little reason not to at this hour. It is, as Gwenaelle's halfway joke has already underscored, extremely late, and presumably the man has had a long day first in the Gallows followed by whatever errands have kept him so long in Kirkwall. In any case, it is no great imposition for an already lagging stride to be drawn up entirely.

The moonlight is half effective at best where it peers through the towers and across the heavy fortified wall of the Gallows. It paints them both in uneven shadows, and Flint at least suffers for it. He looks tired, as if he has been frowning for a number of hours or is presently failing to fend off a headache.

"One for spoiling desertions, evidently." If the captive squirming around in the bundle of her skirts is any indication.

They're both hilarious.

[elegiaque]

Sensing stillness (and therefore opportunity), Small Yngvi makes a renewed effort to free himself from present imprisonment; Gwenaëlle tightens her grip around the fabric she's bundled him into like her skirts are a sack, still holding it far enough out from her knees to prevent easy swiping. It's not the most dignified for either party involved.

“Small Yngvi would sell us to the Venatori for a fish and a cuddle,” she concedes, “though I assume you're more expensive.”

She hesitates, teetering on not pressing him, then — as ever, reaching for the prospect of a useful task — settles on, “Do you need...? Tea or a remedy.” He looks sort of like shit, in an ordinary sort of way that maybe tea laced with pain relief could address, though he does also look as if he might become part of the furniture if he were to sit down long enough to drink it. Still.

Her gaze drifts over his shoulder, into the darkness where the boat had gone.

[katabasis]

(continued here)