Val's eyes narrow. He was quite prepared to argue. This has become a tactic of hers, suddenly making an offering that might be a kindness. Like a man facing down a wild animal, he stays quite still.
"I might find a use for another room. But you hardly require my company."
Val rests his chin on the edge of the bunk. Its border has a slight lip, common to ship's accommodations, presumably designed to protect slumbering passengers from tumbling out of bed. His eyes stay narrowed as he continues to consider Wysteria, his wife, in a particular state of less-dressed, with the aforementioned tumble of her unbound and partly uncombed hair, and her shawl settled comfortably and rather matronly around her small shoulders. The ship's lantern makes interesting shadows around her. She could be the subject of a mundane painting.
Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?
"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."
Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.
"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."
That long, studious pause prompts some urge to squirm. Happily, the boat is doing so much of that on her behalf that even if she we're to shift a little, or to self consciously rearrange the blanket across her knees, or to feel at all tempted to withdraw the question on account of him not answering it promptly enough— Well, she would hardly notice it herself. Certainly no one else could.
In any case, the whole sensation of being so aware of herself sitting there against the bulkhead, and of being looked at, and how ridiculous she must appear evaporates promptly given the proper motivation.
"Two rooms," Wysteria repeats to underline the rapid shift in scope from none rooms to that. But it's mild as far as checks go; it isn't even accompanied by a disdainful scoff.
"If you feel it necessary to have your letters and papers and other mail and so on there, then I'm relatively confident a side table could be found to stack it all on. There is, as you know, a surplus of furniture to hand on the site."
Yes, indeed. It would in fact serve the Arrangement perfectly well. But more importantly—
"In fact, that would be preferable. Then I can be certain that you will read my notes, rather than letting them molder unattended in your Gallows pigeonhole."
His huffed breath ruffles the ends of his hair. It is rather too longish to be fashionable now, and puts Val solidly in the category of a category of man inattentive to standards. But when one is beneath the earth--hundreds upon hundreds of miles, if not thousands--where there is no one of any real consequence to do any seeing, one is certainly permitted a certain amount of indifference to style. Or at least this is the argument that Val has been making while in Orazammar. Now that they are above-ground, he should likely arrange for a visit to a barber, or hack at it himself at some point along the journey. There must be a pair of scissors somewhere about the Windlass.
"They hardly molder. I see them eventually. It is that I so rarely have cause to review the contents of the little holes--things of no particular consequence are left there--do not squawk, I am not speaking of your notes, I am speaking of all the other silly little Riftwatchy notes, about silly little Riftwatchy things. Occasionally I have taken all of the contents straight to my workroom and used it as kindling. It makes for very fine kindling. I think it is the parchment that they use. Cheap stuff, it burns well, which is the kindest thing that can be said of it. In any case, yes, if two rooms and a side table from your great collection of unused and rather antiquated furnishings might be secured for me, I could see how the change to accommodation might be very," hm, he makes a flighty gesture, as if trying to stir the correct word out of the air itself, "suitable, we shall say. Not at all dissatisfying. If it is amendable to you, mademoiselle, as the lady of the house."
When Val raises his eyebrows, they are nearly hidden by the overgrowth of his hair. He really must see a barber.
Indeed, he ought to. Sitting there on the floor of the cabin, and in the general sort of state of disarray required by long travel both overland and overseas regardless of how fashionable or attentive a person might be, he is beginning to look suspiciously rakish. Between it and all the scruff on his cheek, one might almost be reminded of a particular dream had a very long time ago where he or she or cumulatively Riftwatch had believed his hair might touch his collar.
What had that dracolisk's name been?
Well, it hardly matters. She is not being reminded of it, meaning the dream or any of its contents, and so there's no point in chasing that stray thought round in circles.
"Madame," she corrects him instead. Maybe that will lower his eyebrows by the degrees necessary to make them entirely visible again. As for the rest— "Surely your study of Veronique would benefit from more frequent observation. And this way I could hardly be held responsible if she and the goat were to come to a disagreement. I have some interest in protecting myself from the liability of caring for your ant, you see, and suspect that if I were to raise the subject with my solicitor that it would cause more confusion than he can easily manage."
The Windlass rises and falls. Ruadh, with his great jowly nose face propped on one paw and the taste of chicken a passing dream on his heavy tongue, observes them from under his drooping eyelids. It would be easy to mistake what Wysteria says next as merely a natural extension of this business of liability and animals and so on that she's only just finished prattling on about; but surely not even the mabari makes that mistake, and Val is arguably more clever than the smartest of Ferelden's favorite dogs.
His eyebrows do lower to a visible point as a smile pulls at his mouth. The muscles that move these parts of the face are not connected, but these two things happen so seamlessly that it gives the illusion of connection.
Very abruptly then, Val sits back, both removing his chin from the edge of the bed and removing Wysteria from the closest scrutiny. He has to duck in order to rummage in that space beneath the bunk, where cases and chicken bones and other important items are stored. His voice is rather muffled.
"Far be it from me to cause any additional confusion to your solicitor! Mine once told me that the man appears to be quite confusable. Or perhaps he was speaking of himself. It is difficult to say, I only half listen to him. Well: to both of them, really. And I should want nothing to happen to Veronique, of course--though she is most capable of defending herself. Do you know, I think she may have some manner of stinger!"
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."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 05:19 am (UTC)"I might find a use for another room. But you hardly require my company."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 08:04 am (UTC)She has such a wealth of friends and companions, both to hand and easily addressed through written correspondence.
Sat there on the narrow bunk, Wysteria gathers her knit shawl about her.
"I'm asking if you should like to continue this close association that we've been made familiar with these past weeks."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 07:05 pm (UTC)Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?
"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."
Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.
"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-17 12:23 am (UTC)In any case, the whole sensation of being so aware of herself sitting there against the bulkhead, and of being looked at, and how ridiculous she must appear evaporates promptly given the proper motivation.
"Two rooms," Wysteria repeats to underline the rapid shift in scope from none rooms to that. But it's mild as far as checks go; it isn't even accompanied by a disdainful scoff.
"If you feel it necessary to have your letters and papers and other mail and so on there, then I'm relatively confident a side table could be found to stack it all on. There is, as you know, a surplus of furniture to hand on the site."
Yes, indeed. It would in fact serve the Arrangement perfectly well. But more importantly—
"In fact, that would be preferable. Then I can be certain that you will read my notes, rather than letting them molder unattended in your Gallows pigeonhole."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-18 01:19 am (UTC)"They hardly molder. I see them eventually. It is that I so rarely have cause to review the contents of the little holes--things of no particular consequence are left there--do not squawk, I am not speaking of your notes, I am speaking of all the other silly little Riftwatchy notes, about silly little Riftwatchy things. Occasionally I have taken all of the contents straight to my workroom and used it as kindling. It makes for very fine kindling. I think it is the parchment that they use. Cheap stuff, it burns well, which is the kindest thing that can be said of it. In any case, yes, if two rooms and a side table from your great collection of unused and rather antiquated furnishings might be secured for me, I could see how the change to accommodation might be very," hm, he makes a flighty gesture, as if trying to stir the correct word out of the air itself, "suitable, we shall say. Not at all dissatisfying. If it is amendable to you, mademoiselle, as the lady of the house."
When Val raises his eyebrows, they are nearly hidden by the overgrowth of his hair. He really must see a barber.
"Is it, mademoiselle? Amendable?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-18 01:59 am (UTC)What had that dracolisk's name been?
Well, it hardly matters. She is not being reminded of it, meaning the dream or any of its contents, and so there's no point in chasing that stray thought round in circles.
"Madame," she corrects him instead. Maybe that will lower his eyebrows by the degrees necessary to make them entirely visible again. As for the rest— "Surely your study of Veronique would benefit from more frequent observation. And this way I could hardly be held responsible if she and the goat were to come to a disagreement. I have some interest in protecting myself from the liability of caring for your ant, you see, and suspect that if I were to raise the subject with my solicitor that it would cause more confusion than he can easily manage."
The Windlass rises and falls. Ruadh, with his great jowly nose face propped on one paw and the taste of chicken a passing dream on his heavy tongue, observes them from under his drooping eyelids. It would be easy to mistake what Wysteria says next as merely a natural extension of this business of liability and animals and so on that she's only just finished prattling on about; but surely not even the mabari makes that mistake, and Val is arguably more clever than the smartest of Ferelden's favorite dogs.
"Yes, I suppose it is."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-19 01:03 am (UTC)His eyebrows do lower to a visible point as a smile pulls at his mouth. The muscles that move these parts of the face are not connected, but these two things happen so seamlessly that it gives the illusion of connection.
Very abruptly then, Val sits back, both removing his chin from the edge of the bed and removing Wysteria from the closest scrutiny. He has to duck in order to rummage in that space beneath the bunk, where cases and chicken bones and other important items are stored. His voice is rather muffled.
"Far be it from me to cause any additional confusion to your solicitor! Mine once told me that the man appears to be quite confusable. Or perhaps he was speaking of himself. It is difficult to say, I only half listen to him. Well: to both of them, really. And I should want nothing to happen to Veronique, of course--though she is most capable of defending herself. Do you know, I think she may have some manner of stinger!"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-19 01:54 am (UTC)"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.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-24 01:12 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-24 02:28 am (UTC)"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."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-30 01:51 am (UTC)"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
Date: 2022-11-30 06:57 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2022-12-01 12:51 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2022-12-01 03:31 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2022-12-01 05:09 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2022-12-01 05:56 am (UTC)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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Date: 2022-12-02 04:10 am (UTC)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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Date: 2022-12-02 04:46 am (UTC)A few fierce turns of fingers through hair eventually produces—
"It wasn't important. That's why I omitted it."
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Date: 2022-12-07 05:28 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2022-12-07 06:37 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-01-04 02:11 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2023-01-04 04:16 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2023-01-06 04:43 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2023-01-06 05:35 am (UTC)(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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Date: 2023-01-07 09:34 pm (UTC)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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