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[inagutterson]

{sending crystal | notes & letters | personal visits}

Note: I work Mon-Fri and I'm basically away 11 hours a day but I do tags in gdocs and I try to do a round a night. Timezone is GMT.

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[limier]

Your lady.

[ Flatly. She buries her face in her hands, wheezes laughter. ]

The Lady Vauquelin — [ wheeze ] — the — Gigi.

[ Names not to be repeated outside this room, and yet, ]

You robbed Emeric Vauquelin, [ Her head lifts, to stare in faint wonderment at her fingers. Another bubble of laughter escapes. Alright. The excessive quantity of wine's starting to hit. ] The father of my lady. Maker.

[inagutterson]

[Pausing in his carving - this is going to last, it wouldn't do to half-arse a nug arse after all - he almost swallows his tongue because Gigi.]

No one ever called her that! She sprang out into the world The Lady Vauquelin as you say, sharp-tonged, sharper-witted, smarter than anyone knows what to do with. [It's not the clumsy adoration of someone that fancies her, he's known her too long. Plus he sprawled himself out with his brother in a bear pelt in her room that one time.]

I went to check up on him. Inform him of Asher's passing when they were so close. Took his brandy. His silverware. Tried to speak to m'lady in her rooms to see if she wanted anything she didn't have and to know what shade of purple the dress I was trying on was because I looked ravishing. Then he walloped me. I escaped in my chariot. [A keg. Pulled by twenty nugs. As you do.] Might've let the whole Inquisition hear the whole thing. Including the bit where he was firing at me with a crossbow and missed. Every. Single. Shot.

Don't know why his shirt was open? I think that was my fond farewell? We'll always have the estate, I don't know.

[limier]

Gigi,

[ She confirms, through a feeble attempt at solemnity. It's ruined by the laughing — turned coughing — turned laughter again.

Gwen is sharp, certainly. Prickly, too. Has anyone ever known what to do with her? Wren's inclined to guess there have been successes, small things; taken together, they might show more of the girl than she wishes seen.

But they will not be. She's too skilled at separating the herd (and Maker, isn't it ever a lot of them) of would-be protectors.

Or, you know, Wren's just at the stage of drunk where she's overconfident in her assessments. Could she suplex a bear, in Hardie fashion? Certainly not. Is she presently willing to try? Questions best left unanswered. ]

His shirt was open, [ She deliberates, considers her limited knowledge of the man, ] Because he is Emeric Vauquelin. I am more shocked, Monsieur, that your gown stayed upright. Surely your bosom must have heaved with romance.

[inagutterson]

Don't! I love her, I can't hear this-- this slander!

[Says the dwarf who was the upper half of the 'bear' who went to visit her quarters, nearly knocking over the furniture that one time. And the one who would read her bulletins with his own additions to the Boneflayers when everyone was up here but this is too much.

It makes the wine come out his nose.

He doesn't know what had her so upset last year but he did spend time outside her doors guarding them, sliding a guilty letter under because he wrote to someone else saying he was worried.]

One day it's going to arrive. If I believe in the Maker and Andraste very hard they'll fill it out. Need to believe in both equally or I'll get lopsided and then it'll never stay up. [This is how bosoms work y/y?] So what you're saying is I need to go back and try again, see for myself if this really is how Emeric does things.

[limier]

Very true, [ She grabs her own boob, in an entirely sober and appropriate manner, ] It is why I've only the one.

[ So. There's that. Wren holds her tit a moment longer, expression briefly distant, snaps out of it and reaches down for the bottle again. Moving on. ]

Employ caution, when you return — imagine, should your courtship continue, the difficulty of adopting my lady.

[inagutterson]

One of them's real.

[Two. One boob and one figure. Because she was whatever the Avvar were before they were the Avvar (taller, dirtier, smellier, very hairy: basically a bear of a woman wearing a goat on her head). So.

At least you don't do the dwarf thing Wren.]

How do I woo Bruiser and Crusher. I'd be better at getting rid of the unsuitables in her life. I'd just talk to them. [Five minutes with Yngvi and sane men would run screaming.]

[limier]

The other's a sock.

[ You jam your hand inside it and flap about, and it looks as though it's speaking. She imagines that's how the Divines do it. ]

Really — Even the elf?

[ Wait. Oops. She waves her hand in a never-you-mind gesture, ]

[inagutterson]

What-- no. No. No.

[Say it ain't so Wren. He's going to just take that bottle and become one with it to help him better scheme how to--

But no. She wouldn't betray him in such a fashion. Would she?

(He's possibly attempting to say portions of this aloud. With the bottle pressed to his face. Wine everywhere. Very attractive. Very drunk. This is also why dwarves don't dream: think of all the terrible Thranduil-murdering dreams he would dream.)]

[limier]

No,

[ She agrees, sprawling down to prop herself upon elbows. Then. Scooches aside a little, to account for the new wine-spit puddles coming off Yngvi. ]

No, you are right, I said nothing.

[ Convincing. Nailed it. The master liar gives up, ]

I would hope he makes an honest woman of her, but it will go better for them both should they refrain.

[ Orlais could forgive the scandal of an affair with a foreign elven demon — the foreign elven demon being (reportedly) handsome enough. But to marry one? Maker. ]