Something about the way she repeats, “Kirkwall,” incredulously is so perfectly, flawlessly Gwenaëlle— her train of thought nearly visible on her face as she dismisses it as a place for criminals and vagrants and then considers the degree to which he appears to fall into the latter category.
He looks like shit, tidy habits notwithstanding.
Another thought tugs at the hem of her sleeve; Yngvi is from Kirkwall. Had gone back to… he hadn’t left, exactly, but that can’t be right, because he had returned to the Carta, in … Kirkwall. So he must have gone much further, surely, but,
her frown deepens, though it still sort of looks like she’s finding his hygiene wanting. The question she asks is more to herself than to him—
“Why would Yngvi have left us?”
How can she know that Asher is here and equally that Yngvi is not? She would remember a reason for him not to be. She would know. Maybe it makes sense if she allows that he might be telling the truth, but not— enough, not quite enough. Astrid was here when she had her daughter, she knows it; how could Yngvi have not been?
no subject
He looks like shit, tidy habits notwithstanding.
Another thought tugs at the hem of her sleeve; Yngvi is from Kirkwall. Had gone back to… he hadn’t left, exactly, but that can’t be right, because he had returned to the Carta, in … Kirkwall. So he must have gone much further, surely, but,
her frown deepens, though it still sort of looks like she’s finding his hygiene wanting. The question she asks is more to herself than to him—
“Why would Yngvi have left us?”
How can she know that Asher is here and equally that Yngvi is not? She would remember a reason for him not to be. She would know. Maybe it makes sense if she allows that he might be telling the truth, but not— enough, not quite enough. Astrid was here when she had her daughter, she knows it; how could Yngvi have not been?