Third floor of the mage tower, towards the back. There's a disused classroom.
[ The Maker doesn't smile on wastefulness. He doesn't smile on fuckall, but Wren can readily concede there aren't enough resources in the world to spare upon the catharsis of every perceive slight.
But not all the furniture of the Gallows can be reclaimed or resold. Some is too damaged for anything save firewood, and with an axe happily in hand —
The sounds of splintering wood are likely directions enough. ]
[This seems worth some concern, but also piques Teren's curiosity. Well well.
She arrives around half an hour with a jug of wine, which she begins to uncork with her teeth as she enters the room. If Wren is still beating on the furniture, Teren takes a seat and enjoys the show. If Wren is taking a break, the bottle is offered to her wordlessly.]
[ She takes a swig and passes it over, wipes her mouth along the back of a sweaty hand. ]
Merci.
[ Wren's distantly aware that leaning on an axe in her undershirt looking hungry for blood isn’t the ideal image to project — for the Chantry, for the Inquisition, for her own shambling reputation.
But fuck it. They’ve both seen worse of each other. ]
Care for a turn?
[ She lifts her brows to the axe, a glance back to Teren. She’s stronger than the first impression of bony arms would give (a decidedly blurry memory, that). It seems only fair to offer. ]
[Teren takes a seat on a broken chair and swigs thoughtfully from the wine, considering Wren's words.]
Sounds a lot, [she decides.] For what it's worth, your hearing seems perfectly serviceable, seeking revenge is among the more lucrative pastimes I've found, and nosing into situations which don't concern you is really just part of being a woman who talks.
[ Maybe two bigger axes. She shakes her head, mutters. ]
The Champion. The Queen. The Empress. The Herald. The pissing Divine and every unlucky Chantry sister that raised their sorry hides,
[ Thwack. ]
And the moment that I lift my voice, I am being excessive.
[ She picks a scrap of wood from her hair, flicks it onto the heap. Surely, this isn’t excessive at all! ]
If you’ve tits then you need be temperate, still, everyone’s fucking mother. [ Thwack. ] Men in their thirties! With rank and command, and laudable passion,
[Teren finds herself watching Wren, pensive and sipping from the wine, as calm as the other woman is outraged.]
Yet their passion leads to their deaths, or those of others, [she muses, rising to her feet and crossing to stand behind the Templar.] King Cailin, Grand Duke Gaspard. Maferath. Hessarian. [Still holding the wine, she toys with a bit of Wren's hair, a gesture that could be doting or have a different meaning entirely.]
Andraste was burned alive by the men she loved. Still, it's she who stands exalted in the chantries. The fools don't know what they've got until it's too late.
[ 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. ]
[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 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. ]
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.]
[ 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, ]
[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.]
[ 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.) ]
[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.]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-06-28 07:37 am (UTC)Allow me to put on my good gloves.
no subject
Date: 2017-06-29 08:25 pm (UTC)[ The Maker doesn't smile on wastefulness. He doesn't smile on fuckall, but Wren can readily concede there aren't enough resources in the world to spare upon the catharsis of every perceive slight.
But not all the furniture of the Gallows can be reclaimed or resold. Some is too damaged for anything save firewood, and with an axe happily in hand —
The sounds of splintering wood are likely directions enough. ]
no subject
Date: 2017-06-29 10:39 pm (UTC)She arrives around half an hour with a jug of wine, which she begins to uncork with her teeth as she enters the room. If Wren is still beating on the furniture, Teren takes a seat and enjoys the show. If Wren is taking a break, the bottle is offered to her wordlessly.]
no subject
Date: 2017-06-29 11:33 pm (UTC)Merci.
[ Wren's distantly aware that leaning on an axe in her undershirt looking hungry for blood isn’t the ideal image to project — for the Chantry, for the Inquisition, for her own shambling reputation.
But fuck it. They’ve both seen worse of each other. ]
Care for a turn?
[ She lifts her brows to the axe, a glance back to Teren. She’s stronger than the first impression of bony arms would give (a decidedly blurry memory, that). It seems only fair to offer. ]
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 03:58 am (UTC)Not for me, [she declines,] I hate splinters. But by all means, don't let me stop you. [She gestures back to the axe.]
What's got a bee in your bonnet, then?
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 05:54 am (UTC)[ She swipes a stray curl aside, frowns at the remains of a shelf like it’s insulted her personally. ]
I am going deaf, seeking revenge, and attempting to hide my many wrongs over a situation which does not concern me —
[ I mean. The hiding things part, yeah, but that's hardly relevant. She hefts the axe, slams it down upon a bench. Boards crack, ]
— Always the same bloody bullshit.
[ That this probably clarifies absolutely nothing, wellp. ]
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 06:13 am (UTC)Sounds a lot, [she decides.] For what it's worth, your hearing seems perfectly serviceable, seeking revenge is among the more lucrative pastimes I've found, and nosing into situations which don't concern you is really just part of being a woman who talks.
[She takes another drink.]
A bigger axe might be in order.
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 06:39 am (UTC)[ Maybe two bigger axes. She shakes her head, mutters. ]
The Champion. The Queen. The Empress. The Herald. The pissing Divine and every unlucky Chantry sister that raised their sorry hides,
[ Thwack. ]
And the moment that I lift my voice, I am being excessive.
[ She picks a scrap of wood from her hair, flicks it onto the heap. Surely, this isn’t excessive at all! ]
If you’ve tits then you need be temperate, still, everyone’s fucking mother. [ Thwack. ] Men in their thirties! With rank and command, and laudable passion,
[ Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. ]
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 06:51 am (UTC)Yet their passion leads to their deaths, or those of others, [she muses, rising to her feet and crossing to stand behind the Templar.] King Cailin, Grand Duke Gaspard. Maferath. Hessarian. [Still holding the wine, she toys with a bit of Wren's hair, a gesture that could be doting or have a different meaning entirely.]
Andraste was burned alive by the men she loved. Still, it's she who stands exalted in the chantries. The fools don't know what they've got until it's too late.
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 07:15 am (UTC)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 ]
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 07:27 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2017-06-30 08:03 pm (UTC)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 subject
Date: 2017-07-01 02:26 am (UTC)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.]
no subject
Date: 2017-07-01 04:30 am (UTC)[ 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.
no subject
Date: 2017-07-01 04:41 am (UTC)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.]
no subject
Date: 2017-07-01 05:12 am (UTC)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.) ]
no subject
Date: 2017-07-01 05:19 am (UTC)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.]
no subject
Date: 2017-07-01 05:27 am (UTC)and then as the rolling stones would say PAINT IT BLACK blah blah blah ]
no subject
Date: 2017-07-01 05:29 am (UTC)