They know enough. I couldn't find a way to tell them I was named vice-admiral of Riftwatch, and, as vice-admiral, was going t'be signing us up to work with Riftwatch, and living in the Gallows without also mentioning you.
[The background noise has changed throughout that response, from exterior (open air, voices in the distance, the sift of the ocean against the ship and the snapping of the sails) to interior, further limited by the sound of the cabin door closing.]
A little, [ she admits, but she sounds more like she's rolling her eyes at herself than anything. ] I assumed you might have to tell them something to explain it.
[ Her background noise is minimal, the occasional voice or clop of hooves loud enough to sneak, muffled, through a window. ]
Now they might understand you turning down other women in port. I don't hate that.
Oh, now, I always got out of that easily enough. After a certain hour of the night, no one's paying any mind to anyone but themselves and whatever they've found as their amusement. And that's the perfect time to leave the tavern.
Though I admit, this way's a bit more straightforward. Involves less walking through alleyways.
Mmm. [ The tone of this sound in the back of her throat hasn't forgotten that for a number of years he did not always get out of that, but is willing to otherwise let it go. ]
Cleaner boots. How far out are you? Should I make plans for dinner?
Well, now, would we be eating at the surprise location that'll be revealed to me once I'm ashore? 'Cos if so, I'd have to say in. As for baths, I could stand one, but I'm not horrible. Yet.
Alright. In then, at the surprise location that remains a complete and total mystery.
There are a few places nearby I like. I can put in an order on my way to meet you so we don't have to suffer my cooking. Are you in the mood for anything in specific?
Not fish. Squid or shellfish, something of that sort, that'd be fine, but no fish. Nothing dried. Hot food, lots of flavor and spices--not the sort that covers up how there's no taste to what's underneath, but proper spice, all the way through--do they have that in Herencia?
[ She meets him outside the tavern when he arrives, stepping up from behind to slip her arm through his and turn their steps down the road. The Harp & Harpoon is a bit on the rowdy side for her taste, just a convenient landmark, she explains.
The day is grey and blustery and growing greyer by the minute as the sun sets, but what little light there is Hercinia's whitewashed buildings reflect, glowing softly in the dusk. The city spreads up steep hillsides, but the streets she leads them down wind more gently upwards, and into a neighborhood just alongside the noise and grime of the port--bustling more quietly and cleanly. A covered basket is collected from a small restaurant with a pretty view and an older woman who smiles at Yseult with recognition. Another block or two upwards, and she stops in front of a neatly whitewashed building several stories tall, flowers spilling out of groundfloor window boxes.
She passes off the basket and brings out a set of keys, flashing Darras a quick little smile as she shoulders open the heavy wooden door to reveal a sturdy wooden staircase. ]
[Darras, having taken a step back to look up at the building, taking in its face, is still within range to take the basket from her when she offers it--and to smile back, when he catches sight of her smile.]
Is that a warning or a challenge?
[He's much as when he's come home to the cottage fresh from the sea, smelling of salt and damp, less trimmed in his hair and his beard--but the same underneath it all, especially in the little glint that his smile makes.]
Both? Neither? It's only three flights. I'm sure you're up to it.
[ She pockets the keys and throws the lock again behind him before leading the way up the stairs, past the doors to three other quiet flats before they reach the one that must be hers. There's nothing to mark it out, no name or number, just a plain brush mat in front of the door on which she wipes her feet.
Lamp light spills out as she opens it, toeing off her boots and nudging them against the wall before stepping aside to let him follow. Inside is the same pristine white as the exterior, the ceilings higher than those on the lower floors and gently arched. She leads him right into the main room, a small kitchen where she indicates he can set down the basket. She slips out of her coat, and holds out a hand for his. ]
I'll hang these up. Do I need to say make yourself at home?
[ There are fresh flowers in a small blue glass vase at the center of a table only big enough for two, situated beneath windows that must look out onto the sea when it's not dark and foggy. There's a fire flickering in the hearth on the far wall and she's left a book about Orlesian history sitting on the low, soft couch beside it. More books line the shelves set into the wall above. ]
[Darras hands off his coat. He'd already taken off his boots, following her lead. Now he moves to examine the room and its spare but comfortable contents, the shape of the life that Yseult has lived here.]
It looks like you, [he says, as he's looking over the books on the shelves with a glancing interest.] The room. You like it here, enough to have made a life.
The books on the shelves run the gamut, but many are fiction or history, tales of adventure and intrigue of all kinds. Interspersed among them are a few of the sort of small baubles accumulated during a life of travel. Colored glass, a set of little bowls of hammered copper, small stone carvings, a decorative knife.
She pads back in, lingering in the doorway for a moment watching him look around before going to unpack the basket. ]
I've lived here since I was eighteen. The landlady looks after it for me when I'm gone.
[He repeats it with amusement, genuinely pleased at the thought.]
Barely more'n a baby. What name does she know you by, so I don't spoil things?
[He trails his fingers over the spines of the books as he walks along the shelf, admiring them--and the knick-nacks, one after another, ending with the knife. This he picks up, carefully, looking it over.]
[ Another day she might debate the notion that she was anywhere near so young at eighteen, but today she just watches him with a small, crooked smile, before returning to unpacking dishes. The food is steaming hot and the smell of meat and spices mingles with the wood smoke from the fire as she uncovers bowls and platters. ]
Isabel. I thought keeping the same first sound would make it easier. Come eat.
[He looks down the flat of the dagger at her, first--then raises it to salute with, a brief touch at his temple.]
At your invitation, Isabel.
[And he flourishes, then, elegant, and bows--sets the knife back where it was (nearly where it was, a little off, maybe, but not on purpose) and comes over to the food.]
Smells amazing. Can I have a kiss, first? As a blessing on the food?
[ She smiles at the salute and doesn't notice (or at least doesn't care) about the minute misplacement of the knife. Close enough. She does step around the counter to meet him. ]
Of course. I should have done that first. [ She slides hands up his chest to catch at his collar and pushes up onto her toes to kiss him. Once a firm press of lips and then again, slower and sweeter and arms curling around his neck. She draws it out, a minute, two, and then sets back down on her heels and draws away with a faint air of reluctance. ] Better?
[He'd slipped his arms around her as soon as she'd stepped in close, and he leaves them where they are, not quite interested in releasing her just yet. Even if the food does smell good.]
I like this. Can we live here? Still keep our positions, and all, I'm not about to abandon it all yet--but this instead of an office? Think of it.
[ She has no objection to that, resting hands on his chest and leaning back against the counter, near enough that it's just a shift of her weight not a pull away from his arms. ]
I wish. If this were Kirkwall we might manage it. But we can come back. It's an easier trip than the cottage. [ She rubs the heels of her palms into his clavicle and smiles at the floor before looking up through her lashes. ] I'm glad you like it. I've thought about bringing you here for a long time.
Mmm. [It's an agreeable hum. Darras loosens his arms around her just a little, so that she can lean comfortably back.] Now, I could agree to that. If not full-time living.
[He leans forward so he can kiss her, quick, one more time.]
I'm glad you did bring me. I like it. Seeing it. It's like seeing you, in a way. The cottage is yours as well and all, by now, but this is different than that.
I know. [ She smiles as she smooths his collar unnecessarily. ] That's why you're the only person I've ever brought here.
[ She leans up to steal one more kiss, then slips away to collect plates and cutlery. ] I told Mrs. Lalakis what you said you wanted and it smells like she understood. Let's eat by the fire?
[He turns to consider the food, uncovering dishes or opening packages or whatever he has to do to get a better smell of the food. And then he'll carry over at least some of it, following after her.]
It smells better'n anything I've smelled in weeks. I'm grateful to Mrs. Lalakis for her understanding.
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[The background noise has changed throughout that response, from exterior (open air, voices in the distance, the sift of the ocean against the ship and the snapping of the sails) to interior, further limited by the sound of the cabin door closing.]
D'you hate that?
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[ Her background noise is minimal, the occasional voice or clop of hooves loud enough to sneak, muffled, through a window. ]
Now they might understand you turning down other women in port. I don't hate that.
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Though I admit, this way's a bit more straightforward. Involves less walking through alleyways.
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Cleaner boots. How far out are you? Should I make plans for dinner?
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We'll make Hercinia before nightfall if the wind holds. Too late for dinner?
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Not at all. Would you rather eat in or out? How badly do you need a bath?
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There are a few places nearby I like. I can put in an order on my way to meet you so we don't have to suffer my cooking. Are you in the mood for anything in specific?
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Not fish. Squid or shellfish, something of that sort, that'd be fine, but no fish. Nothing dried. Hot food, lots of flavor and spices--not the sort that covers up how there's no taste to what's underneath, but proper spice, all the way through--do they have that in Herencia?
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Yes, we can do that. It sounds good on such a dreary evening, though I am fond of the fish.
I need to run a few errands before you arrive. I'll see you in an hour or two?
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[He's very pleased to have made her laugh, though--a sort of reward of its own.]
I'll be there, aye. Enjoy your errands.
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[ She meets him outside the tavern when he arrives, stepping up from behind to slip her arm through his and turn their steps down the road. The Harp & Harpoon is a bit on the rowdy side for her taste, just a convenient landmark, she explains.
The day is grey and blustery and growing greyer by the minute as the sun sets, but what little light there is Hercinia's whitewashed buildings reflect, glowing softly in the dusk. The city spreads up steep hillsides, but the streets she leads them down wind more gently upwards, and into a neighborhood just alongside the noise and grime of the port--bustling more quietly and cleanly. A covered basket is collected from a small restaurant with a pretty view and an older woman who smiles at Yseult with recognition. Another block or two upwards, and she stops in front of a neatly whitewashed building several stories tall, flowers spilling out of groundfloor window boxes.
She passes off the basket and brings out a set of keys, flashing Darras a quick little smile as she shoulders open the heavy wooden door to reveal a sturdy wooden staircase. ]
I'm at the top.
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Is that a warning or a challenge?
[He's much as when he's come home to the cottage fresh from the sea, smelling of salt and damp, less trimmed in his hair and his beard--but the same underneath it all, especially in the little glint that his smile makes.]
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[ She pockets the keys and throws the lock again behind him before leading the way up the stairs, past the doors to three other quiet flats before they reach the one that must be hers. There's nothing to mark it out, no name or number, just a plain brush mat in front of the door on which she wipes her feet.
Lamp light spills out as she opens it, toeing off her boots and nudging them against the wall before stepping aside to let him follow. Inside is the same pristine white as the exterior, the ceilings higher than those on the lower floors and gently arched. She leads him right into the main room, a small kitchen where she indicates he can set down the basket. She slips out of her coat, and holds out a hand for his. ]
I'll hang these up. Do I need to say make yourself at home?
[ There are fresh flowers in a small blue glass vase at the center of a table only big enough for two, situated beneath windows that must look out onto the sea when it's not dark and foggy. There's a fire flickering in the hearth on the far wall and she's left a book about Orlesian history sitting on the low, soft couch beside it. More books line the shelves set into the wall above. ]
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[Darras hands off his coat. He'd already taken off his boots, following her lead. Now he moves to examine the room and its spare but comfortable contents, the shape of the life that Yseult has lived here.]
It looks like you, [he says, as he's looking over the books on the shelves with a glancing interest.] The room. You like it here, enough to have made a life.
no subject
The books on the shelves run the gamut, but many are fiction or history, tales of adventure and intrigue of all kinds. Interspersed among them are a few of the sort of small baubles accumulated during a life of travel. Colored glass, a set of little bowls of hammered copper, small stone carvings, a decorative knife.
She pads back in, lingering in the doorway for a moment watching him look around before going to unpack the basket. ]
I've lived here since I was eighteen. The landlady looks after it for me when I'm gone.
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[He repeats it with amusement, genuinely pleased at the thought.]
Barely more'n a baby. What name does she know you by, so I don't spoil things?
[He trails his fingers over the spines of the books as he walks along the shelf, admiring them--and the knick-nacks, one after another, ending with the knife. This he picks up, carefully, looking it over.]
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Isabel. I thought keeping the same first sound would make it easier. Come eat.
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At your invitation, Isabel.
[And he flourishes, then, elegant, and bows--sets the knife back where it was (nearly where it was, a little off, maybe, but not on purpose) and comes over to the food.]
Smells amazing. Can I have a kiss, first? As a blessing on the food?
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Of course. I should have done that first. [ She slides hands up his chest to catch at his collar and pushes up onto her toes to kiss him. Once a firm press of lips and then again, slower and sweeter and arms curling around his neck. She draws it out, a minute, two, and then sets back down on her heels and draws away with a faint air of reluctance. ] Better?
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[He'd slipped his arms around her as soon as she'd stepped in close, and he leaves them where they are, not quite interested in releasing her just yet. Even if the food does smell good.]
I like this. Can we live here? Still keep our positions, and all, I'm not about to abandon it all yet--but this instead of an office? Think of it.
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I wish. If this were Kirkwall we might manage it. But we can come back. It's an easier trip than the cottage. [ She rubs the heels of her palms into his clavicle and smiles at the floor before looking up through her lashes. ] I'm glad you like it. I've thought about bringing you here for a long time.
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[He leans forward so he can kiss her, quick, one more time.]
I'm glad you did bring me. I like it. Seeing it. It's like seeing you, in a way. The cottage is yours as well and all, by now, but this is different than that.
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[ She leans up to steal one more kiss, then slips away to collect plates and cutlery. ] I told Mrs. Lalakis what you said you wanted and it smells like she understood. Let's eat by the fire?
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It smells better'n anything I've smelled in weeks. I'm grateful to Mrs. Lalakis for her understanding.
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