faderift | i try my best to become poetry. i take a bath and stain the water with black ink.

"Oh, yes," she says, dryly, taking a handkerchief from some hidden pocket in those voluminous skirts and holding it over her mouth for a moment. "Very," as she presses the now slightly damp handkerchief a bit more firmly into the small wound than is strictly necessary, "effective, ser."

It would probably be all right, left on its own. He presumably washes his face at some point in his day, that would probably serve all right, he is unlikely to get an infection and take to his bed with a fever from this little scratch - but leaving it be would not afford her the satisfaction of smiling at him while she digs her finger in.

To be sure she's cleaned any grit out of it.

Obviously.

Maker.

Jerking away from her doesn't exactly make it better. It's a very small cut, so the dig of her finger is follows only by a small lance of pain. But it still hurts like a bitch, and Bellamy's sharp intake of breath indicates that. So does the way he jerks away from her which, by the way, also hurts a little.

"Nice." Now there's blood, a thin damp trickle on his forehead. Bellamy's tone goes a little too sharp to be conversational as he pushes his wrist against the cut, again. "Thanks. Real sweet. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Hold still, childish," she says, severely, "I am cleaning it."

There are a lot of things wrong with Gwenaëlle, frankly, and her ability to make helping someone somehow the least appealing thing that she could do in a moment is just one of a wide variety. But she does, after that initial burst of male ego correction, restrain herself only to actually doing as she's just said and not poking him in the wound to see if he makes another noise. Restraint turns the gesture brisk - not gentle, firm enough to be efficient without causing him any (more) undue discomfort.

She mops the thin trickle of blood with her handkerchief and stands back, when she's satisfied.

"You're welcome, ser...?"

Blithely.

"Yeah, you don't clean wounds with your finger." In case she was wondering. She's too matter-of-fact for him to escape, and she follows that jabbing with some real honest cleaning after all, but that doesn't stop Bellamy from complaining at her as she does that brief work. "Not unless you're the world's worst healer."

He resists the urge to touch the cut again after she's stood back. it's not bleeding now. Great. Better shape than it was a second ago, which means it's probably about the same as it was when she got here in the first place. Real helpful.

Maybe a little helpful.

"You gonna shove that finger somewhere else if I decide not to answer?" Just in case, he follows it up with: "Bellamy. You?"

Since he preempts necessity by answering - she doesn't, smiling back at him sunny and untrustworthy. Sleek prettiness like hers is usually trouble; she is no exception to that rule, at even the briefest glance.

"Gwenaëlle," she says, and then, because he isn't that cute, "Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin. I only arrived, from Halamshiral."

And it's a loaded thing to talk about Halamshiral, right now, which is probably why she - doesn't.

"Are you part of the military, here? The Inquisition forces?"

Yes, she's just ignoring his critique of her incredibly selfless gesture of aid.

Halamshiral, Orlesian, lady. These salient points stand out from the rest. Bellamy keeps up with current events as best as he can. He's always been better with history. Never been to Orlais but knows what Orlais is, just like he knows what ladies are about. Snap judgements are sometimes unfair, but they work like a kind of shorthand where it counts.

Then again, ladies, by reputation, don't usually swan around digging fingers in your cuts under the pretext of offering selfless aid, so maybe he should adjust his perception. Or maybe she's an exception.

"Lady Gwenaëlle." He puts a little stress on her title, since she'd pointedly included it. That helps him from coming off as completely sincere, as does the way his accent flattens all the musicality out of her name. She should probably shorten it. "I'm not. You didn't come all this way looking for a contingent for hire, did you?"

An exception to many rules, most of them at least superficially about the supposed delicacy of her kind; Gwenaëlle is simultaneously a great deal more fragile than she seems and as hard and sharp as tempered steel. She prefers to be seen the latter, for as much as some former lovers have accused her of playing to the stereotype when it suits her.

(She isn't above much, when it suits her.)

Her expression is droll when she lifts the hand with the anchor shard in it, turning the back of her hand toward him to better display it. "I did not."

--come here by choice at all.

Edited 2016-03-30 02:02 (UTC)

Oh.

He doesn't recoil. He looks from her hand, with its embedded shard, to her face. This isn't a 'so what', or anything, even if it might come off like that. It's more remeasuring. Assumptions realigned.

And maybe only a little bit of pity, none that she'll be able to read. Rifts are such bullshit.

"You know they don't know what they're doing yet." The Inquisition. He raises his chin in a short nod to encompass all of Skyhold. "Not to take way any hope, they're probably your best bet, all of that. Bet you had plenty of time to think about it on your way here. There's people falling out of the sky. You think you get to go first, or are you planning to sit around waiting?"

Rifts are absolute bullshit. So is the fact that with the injuries she suffered (the scarring that creeps out of the neckline of her tight-laced gown is still raw and new), she'd been too weak to fight her belongings being packed around her, being carried to the carriage and put in it whether she liked it or not. The physician had tended to her dutifully, and recommended she see a mage healer upon arrival, which she'd done -

That her father had handed her into the carriage from his own arms had been not much comfort when she spent the entirety of that short journey from her bedroom to said carriage loudly and eloquently arguing to be put down, and not sent away, and why was he doing this, he was the worst father, why was he being so cruel and unreasonable and the worst -

His answer presupposes that she had any input in the decision, any belief that this is where she should be. Gwenaëlle's short, sharp laugh might not be enough on its own to disabuse him of that, but she says, dryly, "I wouldn't worry. Whatever hopes you might crush, I don't think my lord father can hear you from Orlais. And, besides, I am sure he'd take it as much into account as anything I had to say on the matter of what I might plan to do."

It's not quite a smirk, what his mouth does. What she's laughing at isn't his to laugh at, and it's not like he knows the context. A guess at it is about the best he can do. But there's something about her sharpness in that moment that Bellamy likes. Probably he'll come to dislike it. At the moment, the angry victim of circumstance thing is easy to feel a kinship with. Not that he's bitter, just that there's a lot of shit that's happened.

He shifts, folds his arms over his chest and juts his heels in against the pavement as he lets his stance unfold, legs stretched out in front of him. Getting comfortable.

"So what do you plan to do?"

Most highborn ladies in a gown like hers, with a face like hers, probably would be better at playing victim. But since he's realigning his expectations of her, he might as well give her space to expound on them. And, speaking of space, he jerks his head to the right, indicate the empty space beside him.

If she so deigns, that is.

As obviously and unreasonably hard done by as she is - and she is perfectly able to expound in great detail on that subject - Gwenaëlle is not temperamentally suited to flinging her hand to her forehead and sinking onto the fainting couch in the hopes someone will save her. For one thing, she doesn't trust that anyone would; there's no relying on people. A girl must learn to do for herself.

(This from a woman who can count the occasions she's dressed herself alone on her hands, yes, there are gaps in her philosophy she doesn't see.)

On the journey to Skyhold, she had her fill of sulking in a corner, wishing someone would do something about her terrible situation - now she's here, and the only person who cares about what happens to her next is her. Acutely aware of that, she only purses her lips for a moment before she decides that while that is hardly the courteous invitation that her station merits, she might as well accept it. Her skirts flounce as she sits, and Katell will probably despair later of the way the fabric snags where she sits, and how it drags in the dust of the courtyard, but that isn't Gwenaëlle's problem.

"Well," she says, making a small production of sharing great confidences - "First of all, I shan't presume to make great sweeping decisions about what I shall do based on having been here all of a day or two. I'll observe."

Information is valuable. She doesn't have much else to leverage, in the end; she needs to learn more before she can position herself effectively.

"Well," he echoes, in a similar tone, playing along and not actually, despite what it might sound like, mocking her, "yeah. You gotta observe."

Without meaning to, Bellamy is finding that he kind of likes Lady Gwenaëlle. Bitterness and sarcasm can be refreshing, or at least something he can identify with. And she did drag her giant dress in the dirt to sit beside him on a chilly stone wall. That counts for something, even if she is, probably, a highborn bitch under all of that.

He holds up one finger for her benefit, counting these off. "First step. Then what. Or do I have to ask you that in another month?"

Not even very far under that, let's be honest; she wouldn't even deny it. She is what she is and she plays the hand dealt her with aplomb, cards close to her chest to hide that which might lead to a more nuanced view of who and what she is. Let people think they know her. Let them think so and not look closer, and leave her alone.

"I haven't decided," she says, frank. "You'll be shocked to know, I'm sure, that all of this is rather outside of my - not quite my milieu." Too much the educated poet to just say wheelhouse when she can use a prettier word, yes.

After a moment, "I have been thinking I might write about it. People are curious."

Among other things. Curious - afraid. Hoping that this is the hope they need, that the Inquisition will survive the death of its greatest symbol to the faithful. Hoping that it can do what it sets out to - that they aren't just following the herald's banner into the mouth of hell. Gwenaëlle's frank style and skeptical nature might prove more reassuring, ultimately than the words of someone more cloying and easier to impress.

"If I'm permitted. Obviously."

Milieu. Looking up over the roofs of the buildings around them, Bellamy mouths her chosen word to himself, amused. It's not shocking at all, of course. Nor is her use of the word itself. She looks like the kind of person that goes around saying milieu when there's other words that will do just fine.

"Write what about it?" It's a casual enough question, without any particular slant of interest. Total lie. His interest in reading isn't exactly a secret, but it's not expected of him. "News bulletins to get posted on message boards so everyone can read about life in Skyhold? Tips for living life with a shard jammed in your hand? Does it itch?", offhand, like that's any business of his. "Or just about the Inquisition. Getting into their inner sanctums might not be so easy. Even looking like you."

A compliment.

Edited (sighs typo) 2016-04-01 04:44 (UTC)

This time, when she laughs, it isn't so harsh a sound; it isn't that she can't be so prickly and unreasonable as to take offense at someone else's edge when they've already tolerated her company and her attitude in spite of getting poked in their tender places, it's just that ... you know, sometimes she isn't. Gwenaëlle being friendly looks confusingly similar to Gwenaëlle thinking about the different ways a human body can be broken down for parts, the differences subtle and mercurial.

"No - why would anyone who lives here need to know what it's like? And if I start writing about their inner sanctums, I absolutely will not get permission. No; make my observations and then share them. I've a publisher in Orlais. It wouldn't be a great difficulty to send manuscripts."

A potentially very useful resource for an Inquisition beset by rumours and in need of support, and a potential source of profit for Gwenaëlle, too. Or for the Inquisition, she supposes, if they insist or if she decides she's feeling exceptionally gracious.

She isn't feeling so gracious that she dignifies that inquiry about the shard.

"All the way in Orlais." He shakes his head in disappointment. "So we don't get the benefit of your observations, just because we're not Orlesian. Typical. We're here living it, yeah, but depending on how it's written? We're going to want to read it. If it's funny especially. Unless it's going to be some dry report, or just empy propaganda. Then I guess I wouldn't bother reading it no matter where it was published."

Throwing around 'a publisher in Orlais' isn't your everyday thing, but she's a lady of Orlais. Even if an occupation like writing isn't quite typical of ladies, it's a path that makes a certain amount of sense. More probable than just anybody getting a publishing deal in Orlais.

Bellamy leans his elbow on his knee and puts his chin in his hand, considering Lady Gwenaëlle like this, with a look to indicate he's measuring her up. (Again--a little more pleasantly this time, and a great deal more sarcastically. This is mostly for a joke.)

"If you've got a publisher, you've been published before," he guesses, which is not a totally subtle conclusion to draw. "What's your style?"

Edited (i hate myself for using repetitive icons and i'm sorry you have to suffer my pickiness ) 2016-04-04 20:08 (UTC)

"A manuscript published in Orlais has legs," she says, primly. "I'm sure that there's nothing stopping anyone in Skyhold from reading it, I only don't see why they would, especially if I've got to mind my words."

If. If she gets permission, that will go without saying; on the other hand, if the advisors deny her...well, they're going to save the world, supposedly, much too busy to stand over her writing desk and ensure she doesn't write anything and, say, keep it to herself for the time being. She'd quite like to envision a world in which she hasn't got to live in Skyhold with the fucking Inquisition, and in that markedly less rift-bothering future, she might perhaps share her significantly less edited version of accounts as a complete work.

But that's a thought she doesn't feel the need to voice - Bellamy is likable (...that might be news to other people who've met him), but Gwenaëlle isn't going to assume that means he wouldn't tell Ambassador Montilyet that she's trouble at the first hint it might serve him to do so. And she isn't, anyway, she's just - observant. In ways that some people might find inconvenient or rude. Sometimes.

"My father is a patron of the arts. I write about the works and the artists for him, sometimes. I suppose my style is 'truthful'."

True. Not the full truth, but a convenient one when she has absolutely no intention of outing her pseudonym without a tight leash.

(And if he thinks by 'truthful' she might mean 'someone did once cry', he's been paying attention.)

Considering her approach to tending his wound, Bellamy can absolutely guess at what she means by 'truthful'. Her truth probably came barbed, and honed to murderous points. More than sufficient enough to make artists cry.

Which is why he smiles.

"Hey, when that manuscript makes it back here from Orlais, on its legs, you can help me read between your polite lines." It's a kind of request. Maybe he's supposed to ask more nicely, with more flourishing, but if they're talking about truth, plain speech seems easiest. "Benefit of having you around is, you can tell me what you really meant. If it gets published."

Maybe when. Women who are so very self-possessed can usually get what they want. Women with connections, even more so.

"I never read much art critique. But I've always preferred the truth."

Tellingly, she doesn't take the time to dispute his if; she smiles at him, polished and untrustworthy, knowing. When. Now or however long it takes her to disentangle herself from this mess-- and if it's that, she abruptly decides, she will make a point of ensuring he receives a copy of his very own. She'll have to find out his full name and where on earth he's from between then and now, but these are details for later. She is as utterly confident in her ability to do it as she is in the inevitability of getting her way.

So she'll be vexed if he dies first.

"People often say," she says, in the tone of slightly critical observation. "A little more rare they actually mean it."

She's not wrong about that, in the very general. Nor is she wrong to be suspicious of how much Bellamy means it. People often say a lot. That's part of his problem with people.

Which means he meets her observation without flinching. "I've heard a lot of nice lies." He shrugs, one shouldered. Not much bothered, which might suggest that somewhere in the very recent past he was very bothered, but has taught himself not to be, or learned not to be. Or maybe his shrug is just a shrug. "And a lot of shitty lies, too. I prefer the truth to either of those. And I actually mean that."

Stress on the actually, mimicking her tone. He smiles, dryly, to show that there should be no hard feelings.

"I think I can take reading a few honest truths about the Inquisition. Hell, I think I'll enjoy it."

"That, I believe." He definitely seems like he'd enjoy it.

And the critical tone that lingers is softened - or just differently edged - by the playful way she pushes her shoulder against his before she rises, dusting off her skirts absently and ineffectively. (The worst of it is really at the hem, and there is neither anything she can do about that now nor indeed any inclination in her to fuss over it immediately. Katell will sigh over it, later, but they haven't the sort of mistress-and-maid relationship as to invite familiar scolding; Gwenaëlle in all probability hasn't had any kind of scolding and certainly not any earnest dressing down since the late Comtesse's passing.)

"What is your name? I don't believe you gave it."

Nor did she give hers, but in fairness, she's usually introduced by someone else. It's the done thing. Skyhold is all manner of new experiences.

i try my best to become poetry. i take a bath and stain the water with black ink.

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