Toodleroodle von Skroodledoodler (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doneisdone) wrote2016-03-30 12:32 am
doneisdone) wrote2016-03-30 12:32 am
IC Inbox
[Correspond at your own risk.]
[ A sharp breath. Maybe it’s agreement; maybe it isn’t.
Somewhere, Maker knows where, Gervais Vauquelin is dreaming of a ring on her finger. Unflappably calm. Unshakeably even. And so little of it by choice. Some day, Maker knows when, he may ask her. And those people, they’ll have a choice then: Those people so far away.
Her grip tightens on the axe, lets it drop. ]
I am, [ Where were those words? Teren is somewhat distracting. ] I mean to say,
[ She isn’t sure what she meant to say at all. She tips her head back towards Teren’s hand, and tries not to feel as though this, too, is betrayal. ]
What have we got?
[ last time was weird bruh ]
Somewhere, Maker knows where, Gervais Vauquelin is dreaming of a ring on her finger. Unflappably calm. Unshakeably even. And so little of it by choice. Some day, Maker knows when, he may ask her. And those people, they’ll have a choice then: Those people so far away.
Her grip tightens on the axe, lets it drop. ]
I am, [ Where were those words? Teren is somewhat distracting. ] I mean to say,
[ She isn’t sure what she meant to say at all. She tips her head back towards Teren’s hand, and tries not to feel as though this, too, is betrayal. ]
What have we got?
[ last time was weird bruh ]
[If it is, there's plenty of opportunity for Wren to call it off. Teren is still standing behind her, winding a strand of hair around one long finger, hanging a bit closer and, of course, as tall as she is, looming a bit.
There's a definite amusement radiating from her as the Templar becomes tongue-tied, and before too long, Teren's dark fingertips are tracing Wren's jawline.]
Our own sort of power, [she thoughtfully, yet firmly decides,] which they know well to fear.
There's a definite amusement radiating from her as the Templar becomes tongue-tied, and before too long, Teren's dark fingertips are tracing Wren's jawline.]
Our own sort of power, [she thoughtfully, yet firmly decides,] which they know well to fear.
[ There's yet a desk in the corner, her tunic draped over its scarred surface. There's enough heavy debris in here to drag before the door. There are hands on her and Teren's saying something dreadfully dramatic and if she read it in a book she'd laugh and somehow it's working for her now,
But: ]
Do I get to touch you this time?
[ She murmurs, with a slight lift of her eyebrows. Sure. Go ahead and look a gift horse in the mouth. ]
But: ]
Do I get to touch you this time?
[ She murmurs, with a slight lift of her eyebrows. Sure. Go ahead and look a gift horse in the mouth. ]
No, [Teren says easily, without having to think about it. Her grip tightens, pulling Wren's hair a little more firmly, not enough to cause much pain.]
And this is something you want?
[It's a general question, before anyone proceeds. The words are spoken in a detached and businesslike fashion, but there's a hint of challenge to them, almost a dare. You know you do.]
And this is something you want?
[It's a general question, before anyone proceeds. The words are spoken in a detached and businesslike fashion, but there's a hint of challenge to them, almost a dare. You know you do.]
Yes,
[ Her breath catches slightly, and if this isn't —
— If this isn't perfect, it's here. If Teren isn't who she wishes this were with, not really, well. The world doesn't run on wishes, and she still wants this. She could do worse than high cheekbones, and fine-smelling hair, and problems she's not expected to solve. She could do worse. It's not as though there's exactly a line out the door.
If this isn't ideal, it's still a script she knows. Beggars and choosers, ]
If you think you can handle it.
[ Her breath catches slightly, and if this isn't —
— If this isn't perfect, it's here. If Teren isn't who she wishes this were with, not really, well. The world doesn't run on wishes, and she still wants this. She could do worse than high cheekbones, and fine-smelling hair, and problems she's not expected to solve. She could do worse. It's not as though there's exactly a line out the door.
If this isn't ideal, it's still a script she knows. Beggars and choosers, ]
If you think you can handle it.
[In a modern setting, Teren's expression would communicate a deadpan 'lol'. Instead, she just smirks, confident that it's fine because Wren can't see it, and gives her hair a twist to pull her head down toward the nearest surface.]
Right then, pretty thing. [She holds Wren's head firmly, pressing her to bend forward at the waist, and takes a final swig of the wine before reaching to set it down over on the Templar's other side. Her free hand begins to trail down Wren's back, testing for reactions.]
Is it further violence you require, or calm? [She's here to help.]
Right then, pretty thing. [She holds Wren's head firmly, pressing her to bend forward at the waist, and takes a final swig of the wine before reaching to set it down over on the Templar's other side. Her free hand begins to trail down Wren's back, testing for reactions.]
Is it further violence you require, or calm? [She's here to help.]
[ A lifetime of throwing herself bodily into danger has left Wren somewhat less than sensitive; the occasional lump of old scar’s easily felt beneath the thin cloth.
Still, she tenses at the small of her back, seems to be working not to press herself up into the touch. One palm braces against the desk. ]
I just want to feel it. [ She works her jaw around the press of wood. ] All of it.
[ Violence, then. She wouldn’t take her up on it if she hadn't already gotten this much of the day's aggression out, if she weren't quite certain nothing will escalate — that Teren could handle anything that did.
(You never quite lose that awareness. It doesn’t matter that she wants this, that they’ve both agreed to it. There’s always going to be that instinct, however distant: All the different ways to break a hold.) ]
Still, she tenses at the small of her back, seems to be working not to press herself up into the touch. One palm braces against the desk. ]
I just want to feel it. [ She works her jaw around the press of wood. ] All of it.
[ Violence, then. She wouldn’t take her up on it if she hadn't already gotten this much of the day's aggression out, if she weren't quite certain nothing will escalate — that Teren could handle anything that did.
(You never quite lose that awareness. It doesn’t matter that she wants this, that they’ve both agreed to it. There’s always going to be that instinct, however distant: All the different ways to break a hold.) ]
[Teren can relate. And even if strength isn't her physical forte, it's unlikely Wren would be able to tell by the sudden crack of Teren's hand on her rear, taking the invitation and expressing it on the first available target.
Her left hand remains knotted in the Templar's hair as she repeats the gesture several times, then stops, trailing her fingertips along the strike zone, beginning to venture near what is likely to be their eventual target.]
Her left hand remains knotted in the Templar's hair as she repeats the gesture several times, then stops, trailing her fingertips along the strike zone, beginning to venture near what is likely to be their eventual target.]
[Teren does the thing and leaves without comment. Hey, the wine's still there!]
Are you ignoring me and the plethora of advice I may have on your new boon companion?
He could be an excellent buddy.
You could name him Ser Haystack.
Ser Druffaluppa.
Ser Bellow-the-belt.
...I like that one, actually.
Ser Bellow-the-belt.
...I like that one, actually.
You can't escape this. You can only postpone it.
Edited 2017-07-26 06:02 (UTC)
Teren.
Teeeeeeeeeeren.
Teeeeeeeeeeren.
You'd stopped talking. I was just making sure you hadn't died by druffalo trampling.
Too busy for one of your favorite Wardens? One of your favorite mages, if not your actual favorite mage?
- Warden von Skraedder,
I can only presume that your letters to me thus far have gone astray; I recommend disciplining your young mail boys, as they are obviously inattentive to their duties. I have enclosed something that may assist you in ensuring your future responses to my missives reach me.
I pray this note finds you well, and look forward, as ever, to hearing from you.
Your dear
𝕭ENEVENUTA
( Enclosed, on a clean and separate piece of parchment: Benevenuta's mailing address, in huge block letters, circled and underlined. Bitch did you forget where she lives. )
[The returning letter isn't hasty, per se, because even when under duress, Teren isn't rash. But she does respond, in her careful, unpolished lettering, with a smattering of grammatical errors and incorrect capitalizations resulting from learning to write well into her adulthood.]
Benevenuta,
I am sorry for failing to write. I suppose I'd thought you wouldn't want me to, which is to say perhaps I've been a Fool, which comes as no surprise to me or likely you either.
I have been well. Mostly the usual Wardening rubbish, darkspawn, uncovering treacheries, prying dwarfs from beneath dying ogres, nothing that I imagine would interest you. Our branch of the Inquisition has relocated to Kirkwall, where I live with the others in a great ugly stone building in the aptly-named Gallows. I would sleep outside instead, but having determined that this place is more than a little Haunted perhaps I will not press my luck so boldly.
A couple Venatori have arrived recently, I want nothing to do with them but I imagine you would have fun with them. It would seem I have also acquired a Druffalo, who will not go away. His name is Boots. My hope is that he will someday step on Oghren and Rid us of him, but in the meantime I will settle for butting Howe with his head into a Mud puddle and staining his breeches. I suppose if ever Boots outlives his usefullness we can just Eat him.
Having outlived my Own usefullness in many ways I am fortunate not to be Livestock.
I hope you and your mother are well. I have enclosed a Comb which I found in Hightown for your pretty hair. It is no proper appology but I hope it will be enough for now.
Yours Always,
Teren
Benevenuta,
I am sorry for failing to write. I suppose I'd thought you wouldn't want me to, which is to say perhaps I've been a Fool, which comes as no surprise to me or likely you either.
I have been well. Mostly the usual Wardening rubbish, darkspawn, uncovering treacheries, prying dwarfs from beneath dying ogres, nothing that I imagine would interest you. Our branch of the Inquisition has relocated to Kirkwall, where I live with the others in a great ugly stone building in the aptly-named Gallows. I would sleep outside instead, but having determined that this place is more than a little Haunted perhaps I will not press my luck so boldly.
A couple Venatori have arrived recently, I want nothing to do with them but I imagine you would have fun with them. It would seem I have also acquired a Druffalo, who will not go away. His name is Boots. My hope is that he will someday step on Oghren and Rid us of him, but in the meantime I will settle for butting Howe with his head into a Mud puddle and staining his breeches. I suppose if ever Boots outlives his usefullness we can just Eat him.
Having outlived my Own usefullness in many ways I am fortunate not to be Livestock.
I hope you and your mother are well. I have enclosed a Comb which I found in Hightown for your pretty hair. It is no proper appology but I hope it will be enough for now.
Yours Always,
Teren
Edited 2017-08-22 07:07 (UTC)
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