It's good that he turns his attention elsewhere; she was beginning to feel the prickle of heat at the back of her neck, and if any color had risen beyond the edge of her collar or the shawl drawn about her, she would have been required to point out that it had nothing at all to do with anything and was merely a side effect of being liberally tossed around by the ocean. But he does and so Wysteria forgets that prickle of heat entirely. Whatever Val is shuffling around for can have nothing at all to do with her.
"Does she really? Do you suppose she may be poisonous?" with the utmost and entirely genuine interest. "I've finally managed to cultivate a selection of my fungus for Enchanter Smythe, and I'm certain she would be most grateful for other strange toxins. —Ruadh, are you sure you don't wish to be here with me?"
She pats the bunk's thin mattress encouragingly, though it appears to old mabari is quite dedicated to the security of the swaying deck as he acknowledges her with a mere wiggle of his stump tail and no more.
"There is a good chance of venom--although not all stings are venomous, it is a common phenomenon--for most stingers are quite small, and only irritating. Imagine, wasting such effort, only to be perceived as annoying! Not the desired effect at all. Though I am not sure that I would permit this Smythe a sample, if there is a sample to be had--you may know this person, but I do not, nor am I particularly interested in getting to know--"
The word ends in a grunt of effort. Something thuds against the bottom of the bunk, causing the whole thing to shake slightly. This likely will do nothing to entice Ruadh toward the mattress.
"--this person. And I would not want to cause any stress to Veronique, especially not for a stranger who could hardly appreciate her. In fact I shared this development with you only because I thought you capable of such appreciation."
Thud. She can feel the tremor through the bunk beneath her.
"I am appreciating the development. If I didn't appreciate it, I might simply remark 'Oh, how interesting' and be done with it. As for Enchanter Smythe, I have every confidence that she would also find Veronique perfectly interesting. She's a very thoughtful woman, and it would do you no harm to—"
Wait, no. She knows a better way to say this, and falls to rearranging the quilt on her lap while she does.
"—Enchanter Smythe is an accomplished alchemist. I would think you two might have much to talk about given your enthusiasm for the subject."
Val pulls himself from beneath the bed. His eyes are narrowed, again, with scrutiny and suspicion.
"I am known to be passionate on the subject, yes. When did Smythe join with Riftwatch? I do not know this name." Which is probably of little surprise, considering the small regard Val has historically had for his fellow members. He ducks back under the bed again and resumes his work.
"I suppose if she has such an interest, we might be able to make some manner of an exchange. Or rather, hold some manner of an exchange--which would not be unpleasant, for it is always difficult to find partners with which worthwhile conversations might be held--"
There is a little strain again on the last word as Val gives a great tug to something that is still hidden beneath the bed. The corner of another case emerges--narrower, cruder, built of simple wood.
If she leans forward to get a look at that crate's edge, then it's only by a very slight degree. And truly, who's to say for certain whether even that very slight degree is real or not? Perhaps it's merely a trick or the swinging lantern above them, or the natural effect of the ship rising and falling like a cork in a shaken washbasin.
Who can say!
"I rather enjoy talking to all sorts of people, myself. Whether they are entirely what you might consider worthwhile or otherwise. I find doing so makes it generally more likely to find these particular individuals with whom proper conversations can be held. Enchanter Smythe has been with Riftwatch for some time now, and I would estimate her to be highly accomplished in her field.
"Come now, you must recall her. She is the remarkably attractive woman. The one with the very fine cheekbones, and the full mouth. and the lovely ivory colored hair. She and the Provost are lovers."
—Seems, for some reason, like a very important follow up fact to the ones which preceded it.
Val plants his elbow on the corner of the case that is now showing as a result of all his effort. He puts his chin in his hand, head cocked slightly as he considers this new piece of information--and the others that preceded it, of course.
"I cannot say I recall her. But I do not spend a great deal of time staring into the faces of people and weighing their particular attractiveness. Ivory hair I might particularly recall, as an anomaly--unless she is quite old, which might explain the cheekbones--" He pulls one of his own cheeks in as demonstration. "Skeletal. When did they become lovers? I should think the Provost too busy provosting."
Enchanter Smythe is not, Wysteria thinks, very old and neither are her extraordinary cheekbones at all like skeletal. But there hardly seems to be any reason to the defend the point at this very particular interval and so she fails to.
"Last summer, I think. Not this one that we spent away. Last year's. You remember the tourney. I would estimate it was sometime near then."
This she says with some authority, Wysteria being fairly confident in the realm of most gossip and romantic gossip most of all. Meanwhile, her eye has wandered to Val's elbow and the case on which it's set. It begins to wander back now, settling more or less on his face jammed where Val has jammed it into his palm.
"As for the rest, it's true that most people seem to put a great deal of effort into romantic pursuits whether they do so subconsciously or not. I suppose it would be unfair to expect Mister Stark—why the Provost," she corrects, lest Val not realize that Mister Stark is the Provost. "To commit every minute of the day to his work. Your hair has grown very long, by the way."
He looks up at that, as if he might be able to see his own hair. Truthfully he very nearly can. The fall of it is quite near to his eyes, and Val can just see it on the very edge of his sight.
"I have been underground where it was very dim, as you must surely recall. I am surprised that I am not completely unrecognizable. There are creatures in the very deep parts of the earth that are entirely white and eyeless. Had I lingered overlong in Orazammar, would I have become one of them? Would I be permitted my three rooms in your little house if I were to grow to be eyeless? It would be much worse than having hair slightly longer than is fashionable."
Things can, after all, always be worse. Val drums his fingers thoughtfully against his own cheek.
"I have never had any trouble whatsoever with committing to every usable minute of my day to my work. You need hardly correct yourself, I know the Provost is your friend Mister Stark. There's no need for such formality. Last summer! That is quite a romance. I suppose they might be next married. Or have they no interest? Or," he gestures between the two of them, "have they no compelling legal reason?"
"I believe that even if they cared to be married—which I'm not sure that they do, which is evidently hardly the worst thing anyone has done in Thedas—, they might run into some legal difficulties what with the Enchanter being a mage and them being generally barred from marrying still. Technically Rifters aren't even meant to be married, even one with compelling legal reasons. Hence the current difficulty faced by your solicitor and mine. But no, I rather suspect they've little interest in the whole formality, as you said. Mister Stark"—all right, fine—"Has said nothing on the subject to me in any case. And if he's said something to any mutual friend, I'm relatively certain said friend would manage to fail to divulge it if they thought it might be in any way sensitive or secret. Or merely out of habit."
Wysteria's lone hand migrates absently back to her own hair drawn forward across her shoulder. She begins once more to comb through it with her fingers, not restless just—
Requiring some occupation.
"You and I and our respective work ethics are entirely different from what is ordinary. So obviously the length of your hair or the quality of your eyesight means very little with respect to the rooms."
Obviously.
"And even if it were a concern," she prattles on, picking a snag free. "I could hardly—" A short pause. Abrupt, as if for the first time in some moments Wysteria's attention has caught up with her mouth and discerned it might say something she'd not fully approved of.
"Well. It isn't one. And it's a silly hypothetical to begin with."
"Oh--" Airily, Val waves a hand. "Certainly our solicitors will work it out in the end. That is what they are for, yes? And to not fulfill their very reason for being--imagine! They would expire of shame. And leave us to plan their funerals. Very gauche. I hate funerals."
Val again drums his fingers against his cheek. It isn't hollowed out any longer, but very regular and normal, with the sand-grit feeling of stubble he has been too underground to much tend to.
"I think it is an important hypothetical to be considered. One never knows what might happen, especially when one is with Riftwatch. What if there were some passing event that left me in such a state of being? We should be foolish then not to have discussed it in advance. I am, of course, happy to hear that I am permitted three rooms, now, but I should like to hear the rest of what you were going to say, Madame."
Two things occur at once: Wysteria frowns. Wysteria flushes. It's a very automatic sort of frown, the manifestation of which she doesn't seem to have much control over at all. A wrinkle forms between her brows. Her mouth grows very thin. As for the flush—the less said about it, the better. What can really be observed from heat crawling up the back of one's neck and into the face anyway?
A few fierce turns of fingers through hair eventually produces—
Val again drums his fingers against his cheek, thoughtfully. He remains where he is, posed with his elbow leaning against the crate, looking at Wysteria. The little wrinkle upon her forehead, the pink in her cheeks.
"Well!"
He sits back abruptly and gives the top of the rough case a smack. Ruadh's ears turn forward, pricked with interest at this new and striking sound.
"I had thought to save this but I am growing tired of waiting for that moment." A grunt, as he resumes pulling at the case. Their little cabin is quite narrow. If they wanted to take all of their things out from beneath the bed, they would have to open the door and use the hallway as a sort of staging area. Fortunately this case is likewise quite narrow, and--once it has been pulled free--just fits in the space between the door and the bed itself.
So rarely does he relent without being distracted by some other, more compelling argument, that for a moment she finds herself in the clumsy position of abandoning the half dozen half considered forms of bait she'd been in the process of assembling. For she will not say anything so stupid to Valentine de Foncé as, 'It would be only fair to remain considerate, given all the work of your physician friend and how you've said nothing at all on the dreadful subject of The Arm.'
Instead—
"A knife?" Her hand moves automatically toward her waist, and then she recalls that she had removed the chatelaine which so commonly lives there before clambering into the narrow little bed. "There, on the hook beside the door. There is a knife with my things."
Pleased, Val slaps his hand against the top of the case. It is a very ringing endorsement. He leans over to seize hold of Wysteria's things, as so indicated, hanging there on the hook beside the door. The cabin is very narrow so it is not too far a reach, but the hook is rather off the floor and so he has to crawl atop the case. It is a sturdy thing and hardly creaks beneath him.
The ship does give a very sudden heave in that moment, and Val loses his moment of triumph as the force pushes him against the wall, face-first, with a loud dull thud.
It is not a particularly concerned exclamation. 'Impatient' might be a more accurate categorization as Wysteria catches herself against the same sudden heave, planting her hand automatically there at the edge of the narrow bunk to keep from spilling out of it.
"Shdnkl," Val says, through his distorted face. He smacks his free hand against the wall and shoves himself back. The ship lurches again, but he already has an arm braced, so he manages this time to save himself from another fall. Ruadh has raised his head, ears turned forward, eyes focused with (perhaps?) concern. More concerned than Wysteria, certainly.
"Say nothing more," Val says, curtly, to both observing parties. A faint pinkness is already beginning to rise up on his skin, discernible even in the inconsistent lighting of their quarters. He pushes away from the wall and scrambles--somewhat awkwardly--off of the case before another lurch truly breaks his face.
"As I was saying," as if he had been interrupted, "I had thought to save this to present to you at some later date. You know how it is, when one has something that begs to be presented. To leave it secreted away is like clutching a burning coal with one's bare hand: unbearable."
With the knife, he begins chaotically slashing at the cords that have been wrapped around the case to hold it closed.
She might, really, have indeed thought of absolutely nothing more to say on the matter of Val's face becoming intimately acquainted with the bulkhead. Save perhaps that he ought to be more careful about how he plays this game of delaying and protesting over every little thing lest one day he actually hurt himself.
(No, she would never say that. It would serve him right.)
But when presented with the option of either scoffing with some high, thrilled pleasure at the mysterious contents of the case actually having been intended for her or paying very close attention to the unexpected tinge of embarrassment lurking under the dismissal—
Well.
Ruadh may follow instruction perhaps well, but Wysteria de Foncé generally is less reliable in these matters.
Pop, pop, pop, go the cords under the sharp knife's edge. It's a field knife and she keeps it in good working order, particularly when she is traveling like they are now. One never knows when a kidnapper might need to be stabbed.
"I do know. You remember how I brought you It in the field, of course. It wouldn't have done for it to sit on some work table finished waiting for you to do your work and come all the way back to Kirkwall."
This is a sweet thing to say to him. She knows it is because it's intentionally selected. And also because it's true, but what does that matter.
"Your shirt collar has been turned up in the wrong direction."
He turns his head as if he might be able to see over his own back, to the offending shirt collar--then down toward his shoulder, but the collar is still not visible.
"It has not been," he decides. "It is a fine collar, surely. And what does it matter! There is this," as he smacks the top of the case, now free of its binding cords. The knife is still in his hand and it adds an extra dull thud. "This is much more interesting. Well do I recall the It--and my first beholding of It! And I would not say that this," and the knife thuds again with the impact of his hand, "is at all comparable, for how could it be? Though the It was hardly a gift for me, was it. All the same, I am glad you are familiar with the feeling: the anticipation of the unveiling. Which--"
He throws aside the knife with certain carelessness, and seizes hold of the case's lid. It is opened without any real effort at all on his part. The interior is full of wood shavings.
Val sits back. He puts one hand to the back of his shirt collar, feeling at it, to see if it is indeed turned wrongways.
"In truth, I cannot imagine the grip the It would have had upon you. How you managed to keep at all discreet about It! I myself would never have managed, never! I would have told the first person I saw."
If he twists his face just so, maybe she will see some mark on him left by the bulwark, she is thinking (no what end? To tease him, surely), but this is more or less forgotten as Val flings her knife casually away. Wysteria makes a noise of rebuke and bristles as the little instrument clatters off into the swinging shadows at the edges of the room.
Ruadh has once more lifted his nose from his paws, his much battered ears and canny eye cocked with some interest toward the wood shavings slipping free of the stuffed case's edge. Even very clever, very patient dogs are not entirely immune to the impulse to snuffle at the edge of things that aren't necessarily their business.
"Yes, well. That is the difference between us, Valentine," Wysteria says, flicking back the edge of her blanket at last so she may kick her legs out of the narrow bunk and shimmy to it's edges with relative security despite the sway of the ship about them. From under the hem of her skirts, her stockings are very red.
"I am entirely discrete. Why, if it weren't for the important work we do in the Research division, I imagine my next best place would be with Scouting. Nearly anyone can be a spy, you know."
(Further evidence of her good sense: she neglects to actually name Byerly as her example.)
Comb and shawl and blanket left to their own devices, Wysteria bends to help herself to picking through the wood shavings.
"Nearly. For it is as you say, that is the difference between us. You might join Scouting and take up all the little intricacies of spy work and subterfuge. Whereas I would be a miserable spy."
Val flips his collar so that it is correctly laid. He also takes this opportunity to press his cheek into his shoulder. The sting of the impact, the blow to his pride: these are not eased by this action. Nor does the action cause further harm.
"And miserable besides. I have read that some spies remain in one place, on an assignment of some sort, for years--decades--why, I grow restless if I am asked to remain in place for an hour, never mind a year! I would simply pass away. You would have to burn my corpse in the most interesting place you could think of to make up for it."
There are a great many wood shavings. Wysteria's hand within them causes a good amount to spill over the side of the case and scatter like crude autumn leaves upon the floor of their little cabin. Some of them even reach Ruadh, who will find his patience somewhat rewarded, delivered right beneath his nose. For Wysteria, there is a shape within the shavings, nestled deep in the case. Its edge is very solid and rough. There is no mistaking the feeling of unpolished stone.
"But I do think you might make a spy." Val removes his cheek from his shoulder and settles himself. He puts his back to rest against the side of the bed, folds his arms across his chest, displaying a manner entirely devoid of any interest in assisting with the ongoing excavation efforts taking place just before him. "You would get yourself invited to some function, purely upon the strength of your own conviction and verbosity. Once there, you would talk a great deal and confuse everyone. No one would know which part to pay attention to. And you would listen to, let us say, a little less than half of what everyone was saying to you, and from that you would collect one or two interesting pieces of information that might be suitable to your purpose. In fact I can picture it all very perfectly."
There is a noticable pause here in the scattering of wood shavings and Wysteria's attempts to unearth The Object hidden inside them. For a split second, a kind of silence falls in the cabin—excepting, of course, the groan of the timbers and the sway of the overhead lamp and the soft soft of Ruadh taking various filaments of packing wood into his jowls to chew and slobber over. Wysteria, bent nearly double off the edge of the bunk in order to paw about inside the case, has shifted her attention to look directly at Val.
"Do you really think so?"
It's a very genuine question—so achingly pleased that only after does she think any better of it. The realization of her own eagerness turns a flush up the back of her neck. Happily, it's concealed by the abundance of loose curly hair and the collar of her shirt, but she can feel the hot burn of it.
Val casts a look back at her. Well: over at her, really, as Wysteria is leaned over the side of the bed. And now they are looking at one another, with the light from the lamp overhead thrown madly by the rocking of the ship that they together are upon, sailing home. In Kirkwall, two carts will be secured to carry their things, hers to her little mansion and Val's to the Gallows. And immediately the next morning Val will forgo breakfast and will go to board the ferry back into Kirkwall, and walk to the little mansion in Hightown where he will let himself in and find Wysteria somewhere within. And they will start to argue.
"Mademoiselle. I never say things that I do not mean. I should hope that by now you would know so obvious a thing of me."
They cannot remain like this. The cabin is small. Ruadh is eating wood shavings but will soon look up. Val refolds his arms, making a show of obstinately settling himself in, and taps twice against the side of the case with his heel.
"Now be useful and look within this case! I am growing impatient again."
No. She does as she's told. It's a rare instance of being bid with protest, the impulse to argue swallowed up without notice in the opening twinge of silliness behind her ribs. It's true that he is very faithful to his conviction. Also, there is no reason to be so pleased with his assessment. She knows very well what she is capable of. It should hardly matter that he agrees. And she shouldn't wonder, abruptly, whether she might have left some work unfinished in Orzammar and perhaps she'd been very hasty in hurrying them back out into the daylight and across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall. Never mind how eager she is to have her machine built in the dwarven forges delivered into Tony's hands. A slightly more moderately paced return would hardly have done anyone any harm.
(She had carefully prepared three arguments to greet him with when he'd first arrived in Orzammar. She'd been very happy with those too.)
Wysteria obediently closes her hand back about the rough edged object and draws it up out of the case's packing.
The object is revealed to be a very ugly statue. Dense, broadly carved, and heavy. Upon inspection, the subject of the ugly statue is further revealed to be: humanoid. The body is a thick stub, limbs fused to the torso. Its bare feet (the square toenails!) are rendered by a few simple lines. One arm is kept at its side, while the other curves uncannily around to its back, where it clutches a large smith's hammer.
The artist cared more about its head. It is larger than the body, freakishly so, with eyes shaped like large ringed almonds. They are gathered so close together they are nearly joint, and set above a nose which begins very flat at the bridge before tapering down to a short tip--once sharp, now worn to a crumbled stub by time. A single slash makes up an unimpressed mouth.
The glory is in its crown. Two large geometrical cogs are positioned over where the ears would be set. From their center, rings of studs radiate out. Over the rough rock brow, three narrow bands of those same studs bridge between the cogs, a barrier between the face and the top of the head, from which are raised a series of square shapes. Artfully, deliberately placed, it is clear that they used to be something, but again, time has done its work, so that now they are of different heights and sometimes even widths.
The stone is unpolished, unpainted, and rough. A few wood shavings cling to its sides, caught on the raw stone.
Val has looked around again. His arms are still folded. He is beaming.
To say that Wysteria deflates like a stuck balloon would be exaggerating. That would require her to have thought far enough ahead and to have come up with some imagined idea as to what might be contained in the box in order to have had her expectations be so dashed.
So, no. She doesn't do that. But there can be no mistaking her bafflement over the hunk of rock lodged heavily there in her hand.
(Nearby, Ruadh licks up another tongue-ful of wood shavings on the not quite sly. The sound of his heavy jowls fails to be entirely subtle.)
"Oh," she says. "Could you not find any of the vases you were after?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"Does she really? Do you suppose she may be poisonous?" with the utmost and entirely genuine interest. "I've finally managed to cultivate a selection of my fungus for Enchanter Smythe, and I'm certain she would be most grateful for other strange toxins. —Ruadh, are you sure you don't wish to be here with me?"
She pats the bunk's thin mattress encouragingly, though it appears to old mabari is quite dedicated to the security of the swaying deck as he acknowledges her with a mere wiggle of his stump tail and no more.
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The word ends in a grunt of effort. Something thuds against the bottom of the bunk, causing the whole thing to shake slightly. This likely will do nothing to entice Ruadh toward the mattress.
"--this person. And I would not want to cause any stress to Veronique, especially not for a stranger who could hardly appreciate her. In fact I shared this development with you only because I thought you capable of such appreciation."
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"I am appreciating the development. If I didn't appreciate it, I might simply remark 'Oh, how interesting' and be done with it. As for Enchanter Smythe, I have every confidence that she would also find Veronique perfectly interesting. She's a very thoughtful woman, and it would do you no harm to—"
Wait, no. She knows a better way to say this, and falls to rearranging the quilt on her lap while she does.
"—Enchanter Smythe is an accomplished alchemist. I would think you two might have much to talk about given your enthusiasm for the subject."
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"I am known to be passionate on the subject, yes. When did Smythe join with Riftwatch? I do not know this name." Which is probably of little surprise, considering the small regard Val has historically had for his fellow members. He ducks back under the bed again and resumes his work.
"I suppose if she has such an interest, we might be able to make some manner of an exchange. Or rather, hold some manner of an exchange--which would not be unpleasant, for it is always difficult to find partners with which worthwhile conversations might be held--"
There is a little strain again on the last word as Val gives a great tug to something that is still hidden beneath the bed. The corner of another case emerges--narrower, cruder, built of simple wood.
"Surely you can agree with this, ma puce."
no subject
Who can say!
"I rather enjoy talking to all sorts of people, myself. Whether they are entirely what you might consider worthwhile or otherwise. I find doing so makes it generally more likely to find these particular individuals with whom proper conversations can be held. Enchanter Smythe has been with Riftwatch for some time now, and I would estimate her to be highly accomplished in her field.
"Come now, you must recall her. She is the remarkably attractive woman. The one with the very fine cheekbones, and the full mouth. and the lovely ivory colored hair. She and the Provost are lovers."
—Seems, for some reason, like a very important follow up fact to the ones which preceded it.
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Val plants his elbow on the corner of the case that is now showing as a result of all his effort. He puts his chin in his hand, head cocked slightly as he considers this new piece of information--and the others that preceded it, of course.
"I cannot say I recall her. But I do not spend a great deal of time staring into the faces of people and weighing their particular attractiveness. Ivory hair I might particularly recall, as an anomaly--unless she is quite old, which might explain the cheekbones--" He pulls one of his own cheeks in as demonstration. "Skeletal. When did they become lovers? I should think the Provost too busy provosting."
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"Last summer, I think. Not this one that we spent away. Last year's. You remember the tourney. I would estimate it was sometime near then."
This she says with some authority, Wysteria being fairly confident in the realm of most gossip and romantic gossip most of all. Meanwhile, her eye has wandered to Val's elbow and the case on which it's set. It begins to wander back now, settling more or less on his face jammed where Val has jammed it into his palm.
"As for the rest, it's true that most people seem to put a great deal of effort into romantic pursuits whether they do so subconsciously or not. I suppose it would be unfair to expect Mister Stark—why the Provost," she corrects, lest Val not realize that Mister Stark is the Provost. "To commit every minute of the day to his work. Your hair has grown very long, by the way."
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"I have been underground where it was very dim, as you must surely recall. I am surprised that I am not completely unrecognizable. There are creatures in the very deep parts of the earth that are entirely white and eyeless. Had I lingered overlong in Orazammar, would I have become one of them? Would I be permitted my three rooms in your little house if I were to grow to be eyeless? It would be much worse than having hair slightly longer than is fashionable."
Things can, after all, always be worse. Val drums his fingers thoughtfully against his own cheek.
"I have never had any trouble whatsoever with committing to every usable minute of my day to my work. You need hardly correct yourself, I know the Provost is your friend Mister Stark. There's no need for such formality. Last summer! That is quite a romance. I suppose they might be next married. Or have they no interest? Or," he gestures between the two of them, "have they no compelling legal reason?"
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Wysteria's lone hand migrates absently back to her own hair drawn forward across her shoulder. She begins once more to comb through it with her fingers, not restless just—
Requiring some occupation.
"You and I and our respective work ethics are entirely different from what is ordinary. So obviously the length of your hair or the quality of your eyesight means very little with respect to the rooms."
Obviously.
"And even if it were a concern," she prattles on, picking a snag free. "I could hardly—" A short pause. Abrupt, as if for the first time in some moments Wysteria's attention has caught up with her mouth and discerned it might say something she'd not fully approved of.
"Well. It isn't one. And it's a silly hypothetical to begin with."
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Val again drums his fingers against his cheek. It isn't hollowed out any longer, but very regular and normal, with the sand-grit feeling of stubble he has been too underground to much tend to.
"I think it is an important hypothetical to be considered. One never knows what might happen, especially when one is with Riftwatch. What if there were some passing event that left me in such a state of being? We should be foolish then not to have discussed it in advance. I am, of course, happy to hear that I am permitted three rooms, now, but I should like to hear the rest of what you were going to say, Madame."
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A few fierce turns of fingers through hair eventually produces—
"It wasn't important. That's why I omitted it."
no subject
"Well!"
He sits back abruptly and gives the top of the rough case a smack. Ruadh's ears turn forward, pricked with interest at this new and striking sound.
"I had thought to save this but I am growing tired of waiting for that moment." A grunt, as he resumes pulling at the case. Their little cabin is quite narrow. If they wanted to take all of their things out from beneath the bed, they would have to open the door and use the hallway as a sort of staging area. Fortunately this case is likewise quite narrow, and--once it has been pulled free--just fits in the space between the door and the bed itself.
"Have you a knife?"
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So rarely does he relent without being distracted by some other, more compelling argument, that for a moment she finds herself in the clumsy position of abandoning the half dozen half considered forms of bait she'd been in the process of assembling. For she will not say anything so stupid to Valentine de Foncé as, 'It would be only fair to remain considerate, given all the work of your physician friend and how you've said nothing at all on the dreadful subject of The Arm.'
Instead—
"A knife?" Her hand moves automatically toward her waist, and then she recalls that she had removed the chatelaine which so commonly lives there before clambering into the narrow little bed. "There, on the hook beside the door. There is a knife with my things."
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Pleased, Val slaps his hand against the top of the case. It is a very ringing endorsement. He leans over to seize hold of Wysteria's things, as so indicated, hanging there on the hook beside the door. The cabin is very narrow so it is not too far a reach, but the hook is rather off the floor and so he has to crawl atop the case. It is a sturdy thing and hardly creaks beneath him.
The ship does give a very sudden heave in that moment, and Val loses his moment of triumph as the force pushes him against the wall, face-first, with a loud dull thud.
no subject
"Oh really, Valentine!"
It is not a particularly concerned exclamation. 'Impatient' might be a more accurate categorization as Wysteria catches herself against the same sudden heave, planting her hand automatically there at the edge of the narrow bunk to keep from spilling out of it.
Now he's just being ridiculous.
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"Say nothing more," Val says, curtly, to both observing parties. A faint pinkness is already beginning to rise up on his skin, discernible even in the inconsistent lighting of their quarters. He pushes away from the wall and scrambles--somewhat awkwardly--off of the case before another lurch truly breaks his face.
"As I was saying," as if he had been interrupted, "I had thought to save this to present to you at some later date. You know how it is, when one has something that begs to be presented. To leave it secreted away is like clutching a burning coal with one's bare hand: unbearable."
With the knife, he begins chaotically slashing at the cords that have been wrapped around the case to hold it closed.
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(No, she would never say that. It would serve him right.)
But when presented with the option of either scoffing with some high, thrilled pleasure at the mysterious contents of the case actually having been intended for her or paying very close attention to the unexpected tinge of embarrassment lurking under the dismissal—
Well.
Ruadh may follow instruction perhaps well, but Wysteria de Foncé generally is less reliable in these matters.
Pop, pop, pop, go the cords under the sharp knife's edge. It's a field knife and she keeps it in good working order, particularly when she is traveling like they are now. One never knows when a kidnapper might need to be stabbed.
"I do know. You remember how I brought you It in the field, of course. It wouldn't have done for it to sit on some work table finished waiting for you to do your work and come all the way back to Kirkwall."
This is a sweet thing to say to him. She knows it is because it's intentionally selected. And also because it's true, but what does that matter.
"Your shirt collar has been turned up in the wrong direction."
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He turns his head as if he might be able to see over his own back, to the offending shirt collar--then down toward his shoulder, but the collar is still not visible.
"It has not been," he decides. "It is a fine collar, surely. And what does it matter! There is this," as he smacks the top of the case, now free of its binding cords. The knife is still in his hand and it adds an extra dull thud. "This is much more interesting. Well do I recall the It--and my first beholding of It! And I would not say that this," and the knife thuds again with the impact of his hand, "is at all comparable, for how could it be? Though the It was hardly a gift for me, was it. All the same, I am glad you are familiar with the feeling: the anticipation of the unveiling. Which--"
He throws aside the knife with certain carelessness, and seizes hold of the case's lid. It is opened without any real effort at all on his part. The interior is full of wood shavings.
Val sits back. He puts one hand to the back of his shirt collar, feeling at it, to see if it is indeed turned wrongways.
"In truth, I cannot imagine the grip the It would have had upon you. How you managed to keep at all discreet about It! I myself would never have managed, never! I would have told the first person I saw."
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Ruadh has once more lifted his nose from his paws, his much battered ears and canny eye cocked with some interest toward the wood shavings slipping free of the stuffed case's edge. Even very clever, very patient dogs are not entirely immune to the impulse to snuffle at the edge of things that aren't necessarily their business.
"Yes, well. That is the difference between us, Valentine," Wysteria says, flicking back the edge of her blanket at last so she may kick her legs out of the narrow bunk and shimmy to it's edges with relative security despite the sway of the ship about them. From under the hem of her skirts, her stockings are very red.
"I am entirely discrete. Why, if it weren't for the important work we do in the Research division, I imagine my next best place would be with Scouting. Nearly anyone can be a spy, you know."
(Further evidence of her good sense: she neglects to actually name Byerly as her example.)
Comb and shawl and blanket left to their own devices, Wysteria bends to help herself to picking through the wood shavings.
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Val flips his collar so that it is correctly laid. He also takes this opportunity to press his cheek into his shoulder. The sting of the impact, the blow to his pride: these are not eased by this action. Nor does the action cause further harm.
"And miserable besides. I have read that some spies remain in one place, on an assignment of some sort, for years--decades--why, I grow restless if I am asked to remain in place for an hour, never mind a year! I would simply pass away. You would have to burn my corpse in the most interesting place you could think of to make up for it."
There are a great many wood shavings. Wysteria's hand within them causes a good amount to spill over the side of the case and scatter like crude autumn leaves upon the floor of their little cabin. Some of them even reach Ruadh, who will find his patience somewhat rewarded, delivered right beneath his nose. For Wysteria, there is a shape within the shavings, nestled deep in the case. Its edge is very solid and rough. There is no mistaking the feeling of unpolished stone.
"But I do think you might make a spy." Val removes his cheek from his shoulder and settles himself. He puts his back to rest against the side of the bed, folds his arms across his chest, displaying a manner entirely devoid of any interest in assisting with the ongoing excavation efforts taking place just before him. "You would get yourself invited to some function, purely upon the strength of your own conviction and verbosity. Once there, you would talk a great deal and confuse everyone. No one would know which part to pay attention to. And you would listen to, let us say, a little less than half of what everyone was saying to you, and from that you would collect one or two interesting pieces of information that might be suitable to your purpose. In fact I can picture it all very perfectly."
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"Do you really think so?"
It's a very genuine question—so achingly pleased that only after does she think any better of it. The realization of her own eagerness turns a flush up the back of her neck. Happily, it's concealed by the abundance of loose curly hair and the collar of her shirt, but she can feel the hot burn of it.
(Like a coal, he'd said.}
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"Mademoiselle. I never say things that I do not mean. I should hope that by now you would know so obvious a thing of me."
They cannot remain like this. The cabin is small. Ruadh is eating wood shavings but will soon look up. Val refolds his arms, making a show of obstinately settling himself in, and taps twice against the side of the case with his heel.
"Now be useful and look within this case! I am growing impatient again."
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No. She does as she's told. It's a rare instance of being bid with protest, the impulse to argue swallowed up without notice in the opening twinge of silliness behind her ribs. It's true that he is very faithful to his conviction. Also, there is no reason to be so pleased with his assessment. She knows very well what she is capable of. It should hardly matter that he agrees. And she shouldn't wonder, abruptly, whether she might have left some work unfinished in Orzammar and perhaps she'd been very hasty in hurrying them back out into the daylight and across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall. Never mind how eager she is to have her machine built in the dwarven forges delivered into Tony's hands. A slightly more moderately paced return would hardly have done anyone any harm.
(She had carefully prepared three arguments to greet him with when he'd first arrived in Orzammar. She'd been very happy with those too.)
Wysteria obediently closes her hand back about the rough edged object and draws it up out of the case's packing.
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The artist cared more about its head. It is larger than the body, freakishly so, with eyes shaped like large ringed almonds. They are gathered so close together they are nearly joint, and set above a nose which begins very flat at the bridge before tapering down to a short tip--once sharp, now worn to a crumbled stub by time. A single slash makes up an unimpressed mouth.
The glory is in its crown. Two large geometrical cogs are positioned over where the ears would be set. From their center, rings of studs radiate out. Over the rough rock brow, three narrow bands of those same studs bridge between the cogs, a barrier between the face and the top of the head, from which are raised a series of square shapes. Artfully, deliberately placed, it is clear that they used to be something, but again, time has done its work, so that now they are of different heights and sometimes even widths.
The stone is unpolished, unpainted, and rough. A few wood shavings cling to its sides, caught on the raw stone.
Val has looked around again. His arms are still folded. He is beaming.
"It is wonderful. Yes?"
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That is certainly a word.
To say that Wysteria deflates like a stuck balloon would be exaggerating. That would require her to have thought far enough ahead and to have come up with some imagined idea as to what might be contained in the box in order to have had her expectations be so dashed.
So, no. She doesn't do that. But there can be no mistaking her bafflement over the hunk of rock lodged heavily there in her hand.
(Nearby, Ruadh licks up another tongue-ful of wood shavings on the not quite sly. The sound of his heavy jowls fails to be entirely subtle.)
"Oh," she says. "Could you not find any of the vases you were after?"
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obscures date stamp with confetti (but drop if this is 2old)
wow get a load of all this confetti
🎉🎉🎉
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