inbox.

[staysail]

Comments

[hassaran]

[ it's been several days of silence after their jaunt into the mountains, and since news came of the attack in Minrathous. half of the Gallows are moving out through one means or another to meet those fleeing the city. ]

Darras. I'm leaving for Tevinter. I thought you should know.

[ in case she doesn't come back, though she isn't particularly worried about that possibility. (she still hasn't met the rest of the people on this mission; the worries will come then.) ]

[staysail]

[Darras--who is also going Tevinter, and has been picking up his sending crystal on and off again for nearly two hours now, debating sending a similar message, after a day of getting that far--says,]

Why?

[wait, no, he knows why, because she's Yseult, because this is not what she does, but it is in her, participation, group efforts, selflessness--and the sour side of selflessness, the side that lets her submit to the will of direction--]

With which one, I mean. Which approach.

[There's a part of him that is glad to hear her voice, a part that he holds down, brutal.]

[hassaran]

I'm back, but I'm turning right around again for Minrathous to help free the captured agents.

[ A pause, the line still open as she hesitates. It seems like overkill but also woefully insufficient at the same time. She bites her lip and says it anyway. ]

If I don't return, there's a letter in the locked drawer of my desk here. I know you can't read it yourself but I don't know how else to do this.

[staysail]

[Nothing kills the confidence, Darras might say, like someone saying there's a letter in the locked drawer of my desk. A particular coldness comes into Darras' chest, not unlike the feeling he'd had when he'd heard that first rumor of Taviano.]

If it's bad enough that you're directing me there, [he starts, when he replies. If it's bad enough, don't go. He stops himself, before he gets there, because if the worst happens, and happens for true--not just rumors, assumptions, messages unsent, but for true, final, for good and all--then the last conversation ought not to be an argument.]

Where are you now?

action

[hassaran]

"We want to blend in," Yseult is saying as the tailor makes a few final adjustments, "And quality will signal wealth even more clearly than flash. You'll look at home in any ballroom, no matter how fine, and without being easy to pick out as 'the fellow over there in red, dressed like a pirate.'" She brushes a bit of thread off the shoulder, and straightens the collar, looking over Darras's shoulder at the mirror in front of him. "Trust me."

There's none of his favorite red and gold in the outfit she's chosen, instead charcoal and a deep midnight blue and the occasional hint of dove grey that's shot through with silver thread for the faintest of glitters, her one consolation. It's more layers than anyone would prefer to wear in this weather, but there's no avoiding that, and it's clear she's done her best to choose the least and lightest fabrics, silks and linens and fine cottons, and all of it (now) expertly tailored to flatter.

She smiles at him in the mirror, encouraging, and then whispers behind his ear: "Do you hate it? I think you look-- good."

[staysail]

"Hate's not the word for what I'm feeling," Darras grouses, as he tugs at the front lapel of the jacket. The linen has a crispness to it that he associates with sailcloth, and a particular toothiness that rubs against the hand. But it's not unpleasant, is the thing. He tries the other lapel, finds it the same. Drops his hand and looks back at himself, reflected in the mirror, with Yseult smiling at him over his shoulder.

"Can't be too critical of it if you like me in it." A mighty allowance. He lifts one arm to study the cuff of the coat, the silver threads winking like the veins of a river on a moonlit night. The tailor sits back on his heels and begins collecting his tape measure and thread and all, with the professional deafness of a man who has learned to ignore any conversation going on over his head.

Darras meets Yseult's eyes in the mirror. A frown pulls at his mouth. "Why's it blue?"

crystal, a respectful length of time post-nevarra.

[cozen]

You know—

[ Introductions are for wusses. ]

—I wanted to get you a gift, for Satinalia, but I realized everything I thought I knew about you was really something I knew about about Yseult.

good thanks

[staysail]

[Luckily he doesn't know many Orlesians.]

Does this mean the silk robe wasn't from you, or it was from you but meant for Yseult? 'Cos it's really comfortable. Don't know if I can give it up now.

crystal

[hassaran]

If you get back before I do, please ignore the pile of cuffs in the bathtub.

[staysail]

Right.

[the... what]

Does 'ignore' mean don't ask any questions as well, or...

post val chevin adventures;

[katabasis]

[In one of those multitudes of narrow little dockside public houses, not so different from the one they first made some dubious acquaintance in, Flint sets a bottle on the table of which Darras is currently in possession. He has two cups in hand on loan from the bar - cheap, chipped, and of suspect cleanliness -, but sets neither down.]

Opposed to company?

[This in reference to the empty chair.]

[staysail]

[Of course you notice when a shadow falls on your table, especially in a public house of middling repute. And of course you notice a bottle set down on your table--and of course you look up to see the source of both of these things--all of which Darras does. When he marks the source as Captain Flint, he sits back in his chair a little.

Well.]

Enjoy company, usually. Even bad company, if it comes with a drink.

[He waves a hand at the empty chair opposite him, and tucks away a little book he'd been pouring over prior to the interruption.]

action

[hassaran]

[ She is braiding her hair at the little dressing table in the bedroom, and watching him in the mirror as he paws through the wardrobe. ]

I'm going back to Tevinter next week. We've discovered the location of a prisoner the enemy is anxious to keep locked away.

[staysail]

[He's halfway in the wardrobe when she discloses that bit of her schedule, her words slightly muffled by the walls and the clothes that hang around him. Darras meets her gaze in the mirror over his shoulder.]

What prisoner?

pre-jungle, post-flint

[hassaran]

[ Yseult looks up from the letter she's writing as Darras enters, dabbing the nib of the pen against the inkwell. ] You're back late, [ she notes idly, dashing off the looping Y of her signature and setting the page aside to dry.

There is a tumbler of dark rum with a slice of lime floating in it, and she picks it up for a sip as she shifts to lean back in her desk chair, looking him over. Something in his entrance has pricked at her attention and her head tilts, trying to identify it but failing. ]

What've you been up to?

[staysail]

[He shrugs off his coat as he comes in, closing the door behind him with his foot. Rosana had lifted her head from her paws when she'd heard him in the corridor. Now she leaps down and stretches, gracefully, before she trots over to greet Darras. He slings the coat over a chair pushed against a wall and crouches quick to chuck Rosana beneath her chin.]

I had the strangest meeting, [he says to Yseult, and shoots her a little grin.] You'll not guess what about.

crystal.

[cozen]

Do you know how to make any Rivaini food?

—I suppose all food becomes Rivaini food, if you make it.

[staysail]

That's a very good point. Never thought of it that way.

In addition to that, yeah, I can make some foods particular to Rivain. Or most popular, at least. Have you got a craving?

waves hand at time

[hassaran]

[ Yseult bolts the door after Flint and turns back to the room, flicking an additional shirt button or two free and tugging her collar wide in delayed deference to the heat. Her hair is gathered up in one hand and held atop her head as she settles back on the couch, glass--still chilled by the magical ice cubes--pressed to her neck. ]

I can't believe you began your first real meeting with 'they're not under a rock, they're behind it'.

who's time

[staysail]

[Darras lifts his head from the cushion and frowns at his effortlessly beautiful wife.]

You didn't like that?

crystal, idk when

[hassaran]

[ He's been at sea for a week or two, and she off on some mission, out of crystal contact for a few days until now. ]

Hello. Any chance you're coming past Hercinia soon?

idk when more than ever

[staysail]

[Surprised and pleased to hear her voice, Darras answers quickly--]

Yes, as a matter of fact. Now just what makes you ask?

[hassaran]

[ The night after they wake from the dream finds Yseult working late. It's by now a familiar sight, her ensconced on the end of the sofa nearest the fire, a glass of wine on the side table and a pile of reports in her lap. Far more unusual, though, to find her attention wandered into the flames, the stub of her pencil forgotten behind an ear.

They'd talked about it in the morning, of course, but in the broadest strokes first--enough to confirm--and then in a rush to remember as much as possible in case it faded as dreams often do. Yseult cross-legged in their bed with a notebook on her knee, scratching out pages of notes on places and people and every passing reference they could still call to mind. Easy to set aside the relatively small matter of a non-existent child when there are world-ending Gates to consider.

Harder to set aside altogether. She looks up when Darras enters, not the sudden snap return of awareness but a slow pull away, reeling attention back in to cast instead toward him and smile in welcome. Reports in her lap are remembered, but only long enough to be set aside, and the wick in the lamp beside her turned down lower, casting the room into a more pleasant late-evening dim, too dark to easily read by but not so much he won't see her set a palm on the couch beside her in invitation. ]

[staysail]

[He comes over and kisses her before he takes the seat that she's silently offering. His cloak and coat he leaves beside the door, still dripping with chilly rainwater. His boots are left behind too. The carpets are better than rushes for the warmth, and they feel better underfoot. Darras smells of rain and the sea, mostly, and tastes of the same when he leans down to kiss her, fingers tipping up her chin.

Once that's done to satisfaction (at least, for the moment), Darras sits heavily beside Yseult with a sigh.]

Anything good?

[The reports. He nods to them, inviting--gossip, maybe. Venting. Whatever she likes.]

crystal. backdated to early june, before news of missing persons has hit.

[propulsion]

Hello, Darras— Rivain?

[ Squints at paperwork. What is that, like Johnny New York? Anyway. ]

This is, uh. Tony Stark. You got a minute? It's about the Scoutmaster, and. Where she's at, in her life, right now.

[staysail]

[Darras--picturing Yseult drawing a slashing sign over her neck, do not say too much--says,]

Sat on the sofa in her office, I'm thinking. Usually where she's found this time of day.

crystal, backdated.

[cozen]

Darras?

[ It's late. Yseult and Flint are missing, but if there's an army moving into Hasmal, no one's informed Riftwatch yet. Darras could be asleep. It's likely enough for Bastien's voice to be quiet, and unlikely enough that he goes right on ahead with what he wanted to ask: ]

Do you really not know where she is? You don't have to tell me where, if you do, but...

[staysail]

I don't.

[Darras is awake--has been awake, will continue to be awake.

Before, he had thought--three times, actually--about contacting Bastien, who is his friend. But then what would he say, even to a friend? Even now anything he might want to say has already bled away. His hand is very tight around his crystal, though of course that won't translate in any audible way.]

I know where she was. That's as much as I have.

crystal / whenever darras is in kirkwall in late stage modplot

[hornswoggle]

Understanding there is a significant number of things requiring our attention at the moment that won't be neglected, I think it's time we spoke about our shared interests. Don't you?

[staysail]

[Darras, in the Gallows, feeling very shut-in with all the world out there--with Yseult, out there--]

I've not heard anything. [In case Silver thought there might be something going on behind the scenes. He looks over to the empty sofa where Yseult could be found after working. A glass of wine, a tired smile. She didn't trust Flint. They've disappeared, together. There's a line that could be drawn between those points.] I assume the same's true for you.

[hassaran]

They return one evening an hour or so after the late summer sunset, in the lull between ferry traffic heading for a night out in the city and that returning from one. Yseult sends a runner ahead, one of the handful of servants to carry the message directly to Darras while gossip spreads through the rest of the tower: Alive, whole, back on the island. She'll join him shortly.

What the detour is from dock to suite she doesn't specify, but it can't be more than half an hour, including the time to climb the stairs. It's not to bathe--she arrives dust-spattered, with dirt beneath her nails and a bit of straw accidentally woven into her braid. The clothes she wears are not her own, and there's a tear in one knee and another at a shoulder. But there's no sign of injury in how she moves, entering the room and shutting the door quietly behind her, sliding the bolt in the lock. No hesitation in embracing him when he inevitably steps near. Her smile is tired, but warm with relief. "Hello."

[staysail]

Alive, whole, back on the island. When they were at home--their home--and Darras was waiting for Yseult, there were a thousand tasks with which he might occupy himself. There was always a rotten patch of roof to replace, or a shutter that needed mending, or a branch that needed chopping. Fetch fish for supper, water for the washing, unearth the locked chest that had the linens.

In the time that he has known she was alive, what has Darras done? In the time that shortly could happen, what has Darras done? Thought, mostly, that he ought to go and look for Yseult and find her right away. Scour Kirkwall for her. Kiss her. There is nothing more important to him than finding her, but finding her before was impossible. With today's news, he thinks he might find her in Kirkwall; he thinks he won't find her in Kirkwall if she does not want to be found. She has, after all, some reason for sending ahead a runner, whose message was met first by Darras closing the door in her face and then, a moment later, met a second time by Darras opening the door again and grabbing her by the arm and demanding more information. Where, and why, and where, and when there was nothing to be learned, he'd shoved her away and went to put on his boots.

He still has his boots on when Yseult opens the door. The sound of it opening startles him, even if it shouldn't. And she's there when he turns around, and her arms open to him when he steps in close and pulls her in, tightly, and she fits precisely the same way that she did before, and will later, forever.

He tucks his nose into her hair. He doesn't say anything. What is there to say right now?

after val chevin

[hassaran]

Her justifying work in Antiva isn't as onerous as he fears. They change ships in the capital, spend the night in one of the nicer inns within walk of the quay. She packs up a few things and disappears for a few hours that afternoon, but is back in time for a meal before they sail on the evening tide. They reach the village just before dawn, and catch a ride on the back of a wagon most of the way up the hill, hopping off to cover the last sleepy half-mile on foot. At the first real sight of their cottage, its whitewashed walls pink-gold in the rising sun, Yseult slides her arm through Darras's and grips his wrist, picking up the pace.

Madame Barella and her husband have taken good care of the place in their absence and clearly received Yseult's letter in good time because they find it freshly swept and aired, with wood stacked in the hearth and clean linens on the bed, some bread and cheese in the larder. Yseult heads across to throw the front shutters open and then circles back more slowly, dragging fingertips across their headboard, the top of a chair, the edge of a bookshelf, the rack hung with dried flowers and herbs.

When her meandering path returns to Darras she slips an arm around his waist and presses her temple to his chest, saying quietly, "I never meant to stay away so long."

[staysail]

It is always warmer in Antivia. The wind off the sea has a fair distance to travel, so that by the time it reaches the cottage it is usually found to be a breeze. That's what drifts in the windows when Yseult opens the shutters: a breeze, sweet with the smell of the soil and the grass even in winter. It smells like home.

Darras is stood at the hearth, adding fresh tobacco to the box that they keep there for their store. He turns as she approaches, which means she can easily fit herself to him. He closes his arms around her, and tucks the empty tobacco pouch between a small stack of books and the box there on the hearth.

"We could've come back much earlier, of course." He kisses the top of her head. "But what really matters is we're home now."

mod plot prequel

[hassaran]

[ Yseult has been taking advantage of the current respite from the nightmares that have plagued Kirkwall for ages now, forcing herself to forego the usual extra hours of work late into the evening and the rising well before dawn in favor of an actual full night's sleep more nights than not. After months of deprivation she sleeps deeper now, enough that it takes the heavy pounding of a fist on the outer door to jolt her awake where once the sound of footsteps in the hall, of knocks on other doors, might have been enough on its own.

And there's a muddled grogginess as she rolls out of bed and onto her feet and heads out into the office, pulling on a dressing gown as she does. A muffled conversation takes place at the door before it shuts again and she returns with brisker step, calling ahead of her, voice still thick and hoarse with sleep: ]

Darras, wake up.

dont look at me

[staysail]

[If Yseult has been taking advantage, Darras has been fully exploiting. He has begun forgoing late nights for early sleep, and then, on the other side, sleeping well past an acceptable hour. But it's deserved, surely, after all they've been through.

He doesn't stir at the knock at the door. When she leaves the bed, he pulls the blankets to his side of the bed and continues to sleep. The conversation that ensues is too muffled to wake him, and when she comes back into the room, he manages to continue to sleep--though at the sound of his name, his nose wrinkles, and he turns onto his side to burrow deeper into the mattress and deeper into sleep.]