faderift | [OPEN]

CRYSTAL.

[An official notice.]

HAUNTED HIGHTOWN MANSION.

Some years ago, Wysteria had successfully contrived to be afforded a monthly stipend for the renovations of her dreadful Hightown mansion in exchange for (eventually) allowing it to be used as a secondary meeting place or temporary residence for guests less than enthused about making their bed in a damp, dark mage tower. After all, why host intellectual symposium or board visiting dignitaries in the gloomy fortress island when you could put them in an even gloomier, less comfortable decrepit mansion?

But apparently someone had thought it would be a good idea (or Wysteria had thought it hard enough to convince them), and so here at last is the fruits of those labors:

To say that the house's renovations have gone poorly wouldn't be entirely accurate. There are whole rooms redecorated with bright Antivan wallpaper, windows scrubbed and floors refinished. Fine old furniture grown shabby from age and time spent in storage has been carefully rearranged and mostly no longer retains a whiff of mold! The paintings on the walls are only mostly dreary!

But it's hardly welcoming, and there are a number of rooms which require cleaning and scrubbing and refinishing if the house is really meant to serve as a meeting place for Riftwatch while Wysteria is gone.

Unsurprisingly, she's not actually doing any of that heavy lifting herself. Instead, having pressed a handful of her co-workers to do the work for her, Wysteria is flitting around the rooms in progress to criticize the hanging of wallpaper or be very opinionated about the order in which books are being returned to repaired shelves.

"Oh no, it's impossible to put Dechaump's collected work alongside Belgrin's essays. Anyone who knows anything about the field of metallurgy would be appalled. Here, let us make space beside A. Joquin for Dechaump—"

And so on.

LOWTOWN MARKETS.

There is a great deal of planning involved in any extended excursion, and by necessity a great deal of that planning involves the acquisition of an array of goods for packing up into crates and cases. So it's not unbelievable that one should, over the course of the month, stumble across Wysteria in various bustling Lowtown markets as she aggressively barters over a bolt of cloth or is chattering away with some stall owner with whom she is apparently quite familiar while trying on various pieces of cheap jewelry they both know she isn't actually going to buy. If another member of Riftwatch happens upon her in these moments, they may find themselves becoming her impromptu shopping companion. You can lift and carry heavy parcels, can't you?

But it's not all selfishness. Today, she can be found in the lower markets trawling the stalls with a single minded attentiveness that seems to suggest she's after something very particular indeed—ferreting around first among the sellers of shabby old books too faded and careworn for sale in respectable shops up city, and then closely inspecting cases of freshly imported liquors yet to be spirited (pun intended) off to the various wine sellers higher in Kirkwall, and thus highly likely to fall prey to falling off the back up a wagon and into the hands of an enterprising young lady willing to wheel and deal with the amused men and women charged with shifting the goods off the quay.

"I'll give you half that, but I will write a very finely worded note to your sister on your behalf," Wysteria is saying to one particularly gruff looking dwarf positively resplendent with Carta tattoos.

He scoffs, tightening a strap on the cart mule's harness. "I should cut your throat."

"That's very rude to say! Tabea would be very unhappy with you."

THE LIBRARY.

Certain conscientious young ladies, soon bound for far flung southern reaches on very official Research business, might take take a few moments during their weekslong preparations to carefully catalog the various volumes she might have very accidentally stolen from the Gallows library, and thus be certain to return them before making her way from the island fortress.

Rest assured that Wysteria is not that sort of young lady. Instead, she makes her way to the library in the dead of night one evening and brings no books with her. The satchel at her side is, in fact, conveniently empty.

This is not an all-together strange thing for a member of Riftwatch to do, of course. There are plenty of late night workaholics who occasionally find themselves roving the stacks at odd hours. Probably, however, they aren't usually being caught in the act of surreptitiously sneaking various books off shelves and into their bags.

WILDCARD.

[Wysteria will be spending Drakonis bustling around like a chicken with her head caught off. Find her in the research workrooms rushing to finish projects, the old Felandaris office working on airship stuff, around Kirkwall, and so on. Hit me up with anything/shoot me a pm or disco message if you want something bespoke.]

THE ROOKERY.

The griffon eyrie isn't the only place in the Gallows peppered with feathers and down. Stuffed full of grim colored birds waiting to do their business of carrying messages to and from the island fortress, the various croaks and barks of the ravens fill the rookery with the more or less the same enthusiasm as their larger, arguably less rowdy counterparts a few floors above. They're funny animals, easily as particular as the griffons are, and somewhat known for playing intractable despite being perfectly well acquainted with their work.

Case in point: presently, one of the ravens who knows the way to Antiva City is doing her best to evade capture. Rather than come down to nibble at the jerky Flint has in one hand, she's flitting from perch to perch with a swoop and a cheeky bristling of the feathers at the crown of her dark head.

"You shit," Flint grumbles, waving off another bird who's come to investigate. Would he consider sending his very important letter to, say, Denerim instead?

THE TRAINING YARD.

The weekly Forces division meeting has historically been led by the division's assistant, or perhaps Barrow, or literally anyone except for Flint. But in light of no longer retaining an assistant for the office, and presumably Barrow being very engaged elsewhere, the task seems to have actually fallen to Flint this week.

The meeting itself is short and unremarkable, including a spare summary of reports of enemy movements in the Free Marches, relevant intelligence conveyed from the Exalted March and various allied forces, and the usual issuing of assignments and duty rotas. In summary: it's nothing special, save for the fact that afterwards Flint is easily accessible without having to climb eight flights of stairs or first make an appointment to talk to him.

Which probably explains why he's making every effort to quickly leave the training yard.

THE FERRY LANDING. (closed to whoever gets there first)

It's late. The last ferry had left an hour ago, yet here is a dinghy bumping up onto the Gallows landing. A figure is spat out from the boat, clambering heavily from the little vessel as it bobs and weaves against the dock's edge. Then, given only the briefest exchange with the two men at oars, the little boat wheels around and speeds away across the inky black water of the harbor. The light from the lantern in its bow is briskly swallowed by the night, leaving Flint to work his way up the ferry landing in the blotted moonlight.

WILDCARD.

[Flint will be spending his month in the exact same way he usually does. Find him in the Forces Division office, taking suspect meetings with various scoundrels in Kirkwall public houses, or taking a griffon out for Important Business. Hit me up with anything/shoot me a pm or disco message if you want something bespoke.]

Lia was meant to meet a gentleman at a very late hour in the library. He lives in group quarters and they're trying to be discreet. They could've met in her room, certainly, but this seemed more exciting.

He is late and just as Lia is starting to think maybe he would insult her by not presenting himself she hears a rustle in the corner of the library. She bounds forward to see--

"Wysteria!" She yelps and then her tone changes more impressed,
"Wysteria! What are you doing here?"

Edited (it felt wrong for the title not to be all caps so i'm FIXING IT) 2024-03-14 04:50 (UTC)

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.

The news of Wysteria's impending absence had brought Petrana up short; that she has dawdled on the matter of her anchor-shard, that she has so taken for granted that Madame de Fonce should always be if not near to her then ... around, a familiar and similarly long-standing face of rifter assimilation, a reliable source of verve and proactivity. Perhaps they have never been close — perhaps that is her own doing, or their respective natures — but her fondness for Wysteria is sincere, and she makes up her mind to do something about it,

which is why she is standing in the foyer of the haunted mansion, her gloved hands folded together, taking in the bustle of busywork that she has visibly no intention of partaking in.

“Madame de Fonce,” she says, warmly, catching her eye. “Wysteria. If I may— I would like to take you to lunch. Can you be spared?”

Probably someone is even now hoping Wysteria can be spared.

Although she does not always handle the matter of her own mail her own self — what is the point of having two strapping gentlemen with much longer legs if not to send them on any number of errands they can achieve handsomely and be rewarded for — from time to time perhaps they are not at once to hand, or she has sat cooped up in her office for hours and all of those stairs sound refreshing,

though they feel less so, at the top. Petrana takes a pause in the doorway from said stairs into the rookery, and thus can fully appreciate the scene that she finds there.

“You are endearing yourself no end to that bird, James,” she says, mild, by way of light greeting.

At the first yelp of her name, she jumps. The book in her hand falls free of it, slapping to the library's floor with a resolute thunking. From the way her face shifts from being immediately very flush, and then the immediately very pale, it would seem the answer to that question is, Nothing very polite.

"Oh! What a surprise! I didn't think anyone would be here at this hour." True. "How fine it is to see you, Miss Fromme." Lie.

A series of desperate looks flicker momentarily in this direction, and then steer carefully away—as if looking at the chance of some peace and quiet might spook it back into non-existence like a delicate fawn picking its way through the undergrowth.

Wysteria, meanwhile, seems oblivious to this surge of optimism from those around her. She hesitates (much to the chagrin of those observing from the extremes of their peripheral vision). It's only after a moment of indecision that she finally seems to reach the conclusion that, yes, maybe she can set aside the length of curtain she is presently wrestling in favor of—

"That's very kind of you, Madame de Cedoux. I suppose I might be able to sneak away for an hour. Or two. But certainly no longer than that. We are rather short on time, you understand."

A note is folded up and tucked into Ruadh's collar. This seems the most expeditious way of seeing words delivered to the dog's master. Though short by necessity (there is presently a rather severe paper shortage plaguing the Gallows), it more or less covers the most vital points:

Mister Ellis,

I require your advice on a matter of utmost importance to Riftwatch. Please seek me out at your next available opportunity. It is somewhat time sensitive.

-W.

“I do,” comes swift assurance, and just as swift the business of bustling Wysteria out of the house — how kind of some terribly helpful and strapping young thing to be so ready to hand over her outer garments! — to the borrowed carriage (courtesy de Coucy, a useful connection to have pleasantly maintained rather separately from his brash granddaughter, sufficient that she may call upon his resources here yet in his absence), to rattle along the wide cobblestoned streets of Hightown to a most familiar haunt of Madame de Cedoux's. She has a standing reservation twice biweekly: one for lunch (as today) and one at the dinner service (next week).

It allows for a moment of reflection upon just how much they have, both of them, become a part of the tapestry of this place and these people. To the most casual glance, what should a stranger see?

“With regard to your being, presently, time poor, I did take the liberty of requesting ahead of time their usual afternoon tea.”

"Ser Barrow! Hold a moment, if you would!"

Surely this sort of request has a certain ominous ring to it—not because it sounds particularly serious, but rather due entirely to who is doing the asking. In fact, Wysteria sounds quite cheerful from where she has called out to him from the top step leading up from the courtyard to the Gallows' central tower. She is, evidently, meaning to delay him on the way to the ferry at least as long as is necessary for her to catch up to him.

She comes scuttling quickly down in his direction just a moment later, her small white dog bounding along at her heels.

He holds, looking up the center of the stairwell with a smile of fond exasperation-- he's not going anywhere important, so it doesn't put him out at all to wait on her.

"What can I do for you, my lady?" he asks, turning with a smile to face her on her approach at the bottom of the stairs.

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.

This, surely as intended, prompts the turning of his head, a palpable pause in which Flint can be seen considering his present indignities with some measure of resolved exasperation, and a cool smart remark. Or the first two, at least. The third one is interrupted by the Denerim raven hopping down from its perch to his upper arm, clawing it's way up his sleeve like a fat cat waddling from bicep to shoulder where it perches more confidently. It releases a demanding Croak!, as if to remind Flint that they were having a conversation first before some woman rudely interrupted them.

So, with a modicum more labor:

"I've some suspicion they imagine they've been neglected."

(Stop nibbling at his earring, you fuck—)

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.

"Oh, yes. I can't imagine that won't be delightful."

It is strange, she thinks only after the carriage door has closed and they have begun to rattle off out of the courtyard and the grim stoop of the Hightown house's shadow has slipped from view of the window, to be in a carriage again. A friend's, rather (of a sort). Obviously they were carriages in Halamshiral, but it has been a dear many years riding about in dog carts and wagons pulled by mules, or scrambling up onto horse or griffin-back. What a novelty it is to actually relax backward into the seat—a thing that she couldn't have done even in Halamshiral!

Granted, the Kirkwall streets make it instantly apparent why one shouldn't do that (Wysteria's head thumping hard against the cushion after a particularly bumpy bump), but the sentiment is more or less the same.

"I have explained all of this to the Seneschal and to Provost Niehaus, but I expect at least a few of the rooms to be useful to Riftwatch before I make for Orzammar. I would like it to be used for some productive purpose rather than stand all shut up for however many months I'm away. This is," she says, the temper of her blathering altering in the direction of something marginally less compulsive. It bears restating: "Very kind of you."

In short order, both Wysteria and her horrible little white dog have caught up to him. And made to pass him, an urgent hand at his elbow implying this is to be a walk and talk in the way to the ferry. Presumably, she has business in Kirkwall of her own.

"Oh you? For me? Nothing, nothing at all. No, I actually meant to offer the very opposite thing. You will have heard that I'm traveling soon to Orzammar. Well I suppose that necessarily requires passing through Ferelden as well, which naturally led me to consider ever Fereldan in the company"—naturally—"And I thought I might offer to carry a letter or two for you if you have any you wish to send. Or things too heavy for the ravens, and so on."

She's so gracious.

Somehow it's even more ominous that she doesn't need anything, but he still finds himself smiling as she talks, slowly catching up to where Wysteria's point is reaching. And it's quite kind, actually.

"Might take you up on that, in fact," he replies, pleasantly surprised, "ever been to Crestwood?"

"I have not," she announces as the three of them—dog included—make their way along the courtyard. The weather is uncommonly kind today; there is a scrap of watery sunlight laid here across the yard having fought out from between the shadows of the glowering towers.

"But if I'm not mistaken, I believe it lies at the northern bank of Lake Calenhad, yes? I have been through the region once or twice, and imagine the detour would come very easily."

"Bit up and to the right of it, yes," Barrow confirms, "...got its own lake." There was a whole thing about it, but that's not important right now.

"Right on the way to Orzammar, if you come down via the Storm Coast." He hitches in his step to avoid treading on a little white paw as the dog prances around his feet, sniffing at his boots. He looks down at it, letting the interaction happen-- it's bound to, with all the cats he has in his charge.

"...goes without saying, m'lady, but you'll be missed."

While Wysteria has a lot to do in Kirkwall proper, presumably she's not impossible to find in the Gallows in the lead up to her departure. In any case, Cosima makes a concerted effort to find her. When she does, she has a small portfolio tucked under one arm. (She's had the thought before, while climbing one tower or the other, that it's sort of ironic that the Gallows got elevators now that she doesn't have a lung disease anymore.)

"Mme. de Foncé," with a smile, whether she catches her on the stairs, in the workroom or someplace else relatively public. "Can I grab a couple minutes? I know you've got a lot to do before you head for Orzammar, so I'll try not to keep you."

Lia takes note of Wysteria's discomfort and delights in it. It is always the ones you don't suspect! Lia gives a polite curtsy to play along.

"Pleasure as always, Madame De Fonce. What brings you to the library at this hour? Surely, you are not unaccompanied?"

She glances around wondering where her suitor might be hiding.

"Oh please. I'm hardly the first member of the company to run off for a few weeks or months. And besides, I intend to write, and also Viktor and Jayce will yet be working on the airship. It will only be as if I were in the next room."

Nonetheless, she seems quite pleased by the prospect. How fine it will be to be missed! It warms something not entirely kind but certainly fond behind her ribs—the part of a person who likes it, just a little, when someone is sad to see you going. It's very slightly like a showing up to your own funeral, only this time there are lots of people crying.

(The little white dog, presumably, will find other exciting boots to huff in Orzammar.)

"You will have to promise to me that you will look after everything so everything is still in one piece when I return."

Wysteria is indeed not impossible to find in the Gallows. This afternoon, she is set up in one of the division's work rooms, busily scribbling notes on a few pages of paper. The handsome rifle is out of its cabinet, laid now on the table before her where she has painstakingly copied down a diagram which she is now annotating. Presumably, someone may need to refer to it while she is away.

Still, she is ready enough to out the pen down when Cosima appears. Her hand is starting to hurt, and it gives her the opportunity to shake some of the tension free from her knuckles.

"Certainly, Provost. Here, or elsewhere?"

Wysteria pales still further. Yes, what does bring her to the library at this hour?

Rather than answer the question directly, she bends to gather the fallen book from off the library floor. This gives her a handful of seconds to consider the possible answers and which among them is most reasonable, to calm her nerves, and to be certain that her face is arranged in a picture of perfect believability. When she straightens, she's perfectly prepared.

"I needed a few books for a project in need of finishing. Tonight. I am working in it this evening," she lies.

Badly.

"Of course," comes Barrow's easy agreement, "so long as you promise to let us know if there's anything you need." Stupid errands are the spice of life, and he finds himself saddened by the idea there might not be any more in her service, at least for a while.

"Here's fine." She slides into the seat opposite.

"First, I just thought ... not an assignment, exactly, but while you're there if anything should come up." She pushes the portfolio over to Wysteria. "We've had some on and off contact with Orzammar, and there some Research loose ends in a variety of reports, especially regarding red lyrium. I know you'll have your hands full, but if you run across anyone we had contact with or anything... Well. I've copied you some notes, and if you hear anything and have a chance to send a raven, it could really help."

In the full effect of her Hightown airs, Petrana's half wide-brimmed hat at its rakish tilted angle is threatening to take some of these carriage bounces amiss, though it has yet to be displaced— beneath it she is smiling, her hands folded in her lap, something about her expression nearly as if she is committing Wysteria to memory in this moment. They will, she has no doubt of it, see one another again,

nevertheless, it will not be so soon as she has been accustomed to taking for granted. Hearing her voice or quick step within the halls of the Gallows; listening on the crystal even to things she's not the slightest intention of weighing in upon publicly. Wysteria, in her office, pressing her case.

Perhaps they have not always agreed on its implications or consequences, but how lovely it has been to have someone who appreciates fully their position. Had she ever known Mademoiselle Bonaventura? It seems unconscionable to imagine that she might not have done, but that is not a line of inquiry she trusts herself entirely to pursue without becoming overwrought and so instead:

“It would have been unthinkable to allow you to depart otherwise. Besides, I rather think my requests for any dwarven language materials you might put your hands upon will be all the more compelling for being so delivered—”

is a joke, just lightly.

“Madame de Fonce,” after a moment, “you are a force. A most marvelous mind to which we inarguably owe a great deal. It is the very least that I might do, to offer you a small reprieve.”

Observing these developments, Petrana does not very successfully conceal her amusement, her own intended purpose here neatly clasped in one hand—

“It is terribly confident in your ability to right that wrong,” she says, in the same way, trying and failing not to smile. “Most bold. Is it this one in particular you've need of persuading?”

Lia doesn't buy it for a second.

"Because of course, the lighting is best in the evening to work on projects. And sleep deprivation is historically known to aid scientists and researchers, not hinder them."

She puts a gentle hand on Wysteria's shoulder.

"Please, Wysteria. We're friends. I shan't tell." Lia smiles widely. And it's true, she wouldn't. (Probably)

The folio is naturally turned immediately open, its contents rapidly skimmed as Cosima speaks. From the flicker of recognition in Wysteria's open face, this either isn't the first time she's seen notes alluding to this particular discovery. Presumably, her and Valentine had at one point discussed it between vehement arguments. Or maybe during one.

"I doubt there will be time for forays into the Deep Roads"—maybe; if she is being reasonable. Ellis would very much disapprove—"But for questions and reporting back any rumors or findings, certainly."

One day, you're beating a demon to death in a half-empty sideroom, ducking swiping claws or gouts of ichor; the next, you're sat at a desk discussing protocol about the future prevention of this occurrence. Such is employment at Riftwatch.

It's been enough time for everyone to get a fair night's sleep, and there are loose pages in front of Marcus, including half-written report on one of their problems. "I'd had the thought the rifter," and he means Tav, the current topic of conversation, "might only be as dangerous as an addled man with little in the way of killing ability or, even, magic. But he's taken to—"

What's a good word for 'fucking with people', asks the searching look steered past Flint's head.

"—manipulation," that's the one. "Trying to bait those guarding him, trying to collect sympathy. If everything he says is a lie, he's still a disturbance."

"Yeah, to be clear, definitely not asking for a Deep Roads side trip. Just if you can pass on anything you hear. I'm still working on triaging things Tony had in the works and other things that need follow up, so right now, the more information I can get, the better." Even if Wysteria's mainly occupied in other ways, it can't hurt for her to keep an ear out.

"I assume Viktor and Jayce have already promised," been maneuvered into promising, maybe, "to keep you updated on developments here but if you like, I'm happy to include what I can in my replies. To the extent we're not like, worried about loose lips sinking ships and that sort of thing."

Time sensitive can mean any number of things with Wysteria, is the thing. Matters of great important tends to cover a very broad category of items.

But Ruadh makes his delivery, and Ellis trails him back through the Gallows in search of Wysteria de Foncé nee Poppell. The circuitous route tracks back up the pathway, through the main hall, and out into the little side courtyard where Ellis has occupied quietly on more than one occasion.

Ruadh romps ahead, inclined to reclaim whatever space he had vacated. Ellis lifts the folded bit of paper, eyebrows raised as he crosses after him, angling towards the empty stretch of bench beside her.

In the watery early spring daylight, Wysteria cuts a figure that is both familiar and odd where she is sat on the low stone bench in the courtyard. On the one hand, her attention is bent to an open book in her lap. On the other, she is still without her left arm. She is worrying absently at the edge of her right hand's cuticles with her teeth when Ellis arrives, but Ruadh's swifter approach leads her to raise her attention. For her hand to drop away. She brightens considerably at the sight of first the mabari, and then the dog's master trailing at a distance behind him.

How good. She wasn't actually certain that was going to work. It's a relief to not have to engage more seriously in the effort of tracking the man down.

The book in her lap is snapped readily shut. It has been set aside entirely by the time Ellis reaches the bench.

"How effective you are, Ruadh!" she praises the mabari. "I will have to remember this for the next time."

Meanwhile, from a nearby planter, Tab surfaces with a sniffling and scuffing. His nose is dirty, as is his belly as he hops up onto the little retaining wall with his tail all a-wag. From the looks of it, he's been digging up the scraggly shrubs.

"Oh, most certainly. There will be no escaping my demands on your time, Ser. Not entirely, at least. In fact, I suspect the lyrium studies to continue in some respect. Viktor has a great interest, you know, and I have recommended yourself as an able and knowledgeable consultant on the matter. And I imagine I will be well placed to assist in that work in some respect as well."

Just what Barrow wanted to hear, right?

(Maybe don't miss her too much.)

"In fact I do wonder whether you might ask after him from time to time in my stead. The man is very committed to wasting away in the work rooms, and it would do him some good to have a conversation partner other than Mister Talis every so often."

"That would be most appreciated, yes. And convey ient in both directions, I'm certain. While I would certainly never claim to be a qualified member of Scouting, it hardly takes a genius bard to listen to conversations around the dinner table or the smithy. If I am made aware of the work continuing here, I may pass along one or two things should the remarks seem relevant."

What, like it's hard to be an informant?

Wysteria's scoff is more surprise than an actual commitment to disbelief and skepticism. Indeed, of all the scoffs she has ever scoffed (which amounts to a considerable number), this one must be among the most pleased sounding. What a surprise this is! And perhaps just a little mortifying, somehow, to be complimented so genuinely by inarguably the most refined woman in the company. But mostly just a surprise, and a dearly good one at that.

Suffice to say, this is not how she imagined her afternoon.

"Be that as it may"—she could hardly argue otherwise; yes, she is at least a little clever, isn't she?—"I still thank you for the thought. It's kindly done. And also I can't stand to watch wallpaper being hung for another hour. It makes me entirely too nervous."

What if the pattern edges don't match? Terrible.

"Give it only a few weeks, and all will seem as if it's perfectly ordinary once more. I assure you."

(They have no way of knowing that Wysteria will board a packet ship for Ferelden and in the following week, the Gallows will come tumbling down. But that's neither here nor there.)

She turns a paper, chalkier white. And then, with growing awareness that she's been caught out, a shade of hot pink begins to crawl its way up the back of her neck and into the tips of Wysteria's ears.

Well.

Well.

She clears her throat. It's louder than she means it to be, and so the second time Wysteria does it, the sound is a soft whispered heh-hem. Her actual voice, following, a downright hiss:

"You must swear it. That you will say nothing. That you will repeat none of what you may see or hear here tonight."

Ominous.

Lia wants to laugh at Wysteria's reaction, but her face falls to one of utmost seriousness. Never has she ever wanted to know something so desperately.

Lia comes in closer, lowering her voice.

"I swear on my life and our friendship I will not tell."

She wonders if that's enough, so throws something else in.

"Just as you will not mention to anyone that I may have been here to meet a gentleman. He isn't here." The bastard! Not only scandalous, but embarrassing!

"Ah," Barrow says haltingly, but as she continues, it occurs to him that there's no reason not to check on Viktor: the man had been genuine in his efforts to learn about the siege weaponry, and the least Barrow can do is return the favor.

"I'll do that," he agrees after a pause, "seems like a decent bloke."

(continued here)

(continued here.)

(continued here)

"Are you enlisting me to help with Tab's bath?"

Is a facetious guess, really. Maybe that's a task that might fall to Ellis, sooner or later, but it's unlikely to be the reason why Ruadh was dispatched.

Ellis settles alongside her, coat open, scarf hanging loose around his neck. Ruadh butts his head against Wysteria's knee, perhaps in search of more tangible expressions of praise.

The look Ellis turns to her is expectant. Patient. No further pressing questions follow after; Wysteria will make her point in due time, if given space for it.

(continued here)

[OPEN]

wysteria | ota

flint | ota

LIBRARY

the ferry landing.

hightown.

the rookery.

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for ellis.

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for barrow.

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Wildcard

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we love office settings.

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late, as always.

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