Doctor Strange is not the first man to attempt to offer Benevenuta Thevenet a pleasant, professional handshake, but it is sufficiently rare that she has yet to bother altering her own course: she places her hand briefly in his as she might a gentleman about to waft a greeting over her knuckles, and not for long enough that he could actually shake it. For as delicately manicured and moisturised as her hands are, he will briefly feel the likely-familiar calluses that reflect the regular use of a staff, subtler for her careful upkeep but present, all the same.
She would be easy to mistake for a fluttering, frivolous thing and not the sandstorm in woman form that she is; it seems likely she courts that more than she doesn't, her terribly intelligent eyes (and a terrible intelligence—) above her easy, oft-flirtatious smile.
“My,” she says, with a widening of those eyes, “a great responsibility!” This is playing nice, Vanya, shut the fuck up. “I had hoped to make your better acquaintance, in fact, Dr Strange, as I wish to press a favour from you— one that I believe shall be paid to you in kind, by virtue of carrying it out.”
He can reasonably expect a fair number of the Mortalitasi to talk in exactly these sort of circles; more of them are courtiers than not, even if it is far from all that any of them are.
The small package that she produces is not upon her person; she turns away briefly to collect it from a nearby alcove. “I understand,” warmly, “that you are enjoying the hospitality of l'Duc de Coucy during your visits to Val Royeaux. He will be in your debt if you would be so kind as to see this safely into his hands. You may tell him I said so.”
The full force of her pleasant expectation he will take it from her is nearly its own enchantment, although admittedly one that sometimes works better when the subject is not quite so focused above her neckline.
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She would be easy to mistake for a fluttering, frivolous thing and not the sandstorm in woman form that she is; it seems likely she courts that more than she doesn't, her terribly intelligent eyes (and a terrible intelligence—) above her easy, oft-flirtatious smile.
“My,” she says, with a widening of those eyes, “a great responsibility!” This is playing nice, Vanya, shut the fuck up. “I had hoped to make your better acquaintance, in fact, Dr Strange, as I wish to press a favour from you— one that I believe shall be paid to you in kind, by virtue of carrying it out.”
He can reasonably expect a fair number of the Mortalitasi to talk in exactly these sort of circles; more of them are courtiers than not, even if it is far from all that any of them are.
The small package that she produces is not upon her person; she turns away briefly to collect it from a nearby alcove. “I understand,” warmly, “that you are enjoying the hospitality of l'Duc de Coucy during your visits to Val Royeaux. He will be in your debt if you would be so kind as to see this safely into his hands. You may tell him I said so.”
The full force of her pleasant expectation he will take it from her is nearly its own enchantment, although admittedly one that sometimes works better when the subject is not quite so focused above her neckline.