inbox.

[unshut]

(crystal | written | action)

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[unshut]

Let me fetch a coat and I'll meet you presently. Which walk do you favor?

[bouchonne]

Too late an evening already to go into Kirkwall proper, I fear. So perhaps we might walk by the water?

[unshut]

A good coat then. I'll see you at the ferry slip and we can make our way round from there.

[bouchonne]

I'll bring a flask of whiskey, to ensure our blood doesn't freeze.

[unshut]

Clever lad.

[And, just as expected, she is there at the slip when he arrives - a slim figure in the moonlight, draped in a dark cloak and looking properly (and appealingly) mysterious with accents of drifting tobacco smoke curls and the burning ember of a pipe in the dark.]

[bouchonne]

You always seem so much taller than you actually are.

[ He's dressed fetchingly enough himself. The Ambassadorial salary suits him - he's always had excellent (if slightly outrageous) taste in clothing, but now his budget actually supports the fine fabrics he wants to use. He smiles as he joins her. ]

You shall have to teach me the trick of it, someday.

[unshut]

Do I? I had no idea.

[From the shadow of her cloak's hood, she smiles at him without tipping her face up first. It does something pleasant with her cheekbones and eyelashes, which—if the mugging, all eyebrows, look that follows is any indication—she knows.

With a low laugh, Fitcher caps the pipe and tucks it jauntily behind her ear. Shall we? asks the tip of her head as she turns to meander.]

You've been busy.

[bouchonne]

[ He steps to put himself between her and the waterline, to block the wind, and offers her his arm as he follows. ]

Dreadful thing. I wish someone had warned me how utterly exhausting it was to be not-idle. I've never done it before, and it really is not to my taste.

[unshut]

[The offered arm is gamely accepted.]

You must find some corner of it pleasant. I doubt anyone could force you to hold the position.

[bouchonne]

No, you're quite wrong. I am being forced.

[ His expression is pained. ]

Yseult, our scoutmaster, she's fed me a poison, and unless she administers the antidote each night, I will perish. "Remain our diplomat-in-chief," she says, "or I shall withdraw this tincture, and your life shall be forfeit."

[unshut]

[She clucks her tongue, and with her free hand pats his arm.]

How fortunate we are to have such a clever master of intelligence.

[bouchonne]

How unfortunate we are to have such a ruthless one! I could be just lounging about low places in a drunken haze. Instead, here I am.

[unshut]

And yet one version of you is surely much better for fighting a war, I think. Not that I begrudge you your lounging, [she assures him, dropping the put on version of arch rhetoric for a moment in favor of a smile.] May you return to it as swiftly as you're able.

[bouchonne]

The dream.

[ A fond sigh. And then, with a slight sideways glance - ]

And you? Found yourself any mischief lately?

[unshut]

Me? Byerly, I am a devout old woman who copies reports for eight hours a day. I am the steadfast picture of sobriety. —Which I trust is what you will say should anyone from Kirkwall come calling for me insisting that I owe them money. They must have the wrong woman all together.

[To say she is breezy about it would be a lie, for Fitcher's voice is too low for such a thing. But the easiness of the joke is there in the curve of her mouth and the dismissive tip of her head.]

No. Very little, all things considered.

[bouchonne]

Thank the Maker.

[ His smile back at her is rather conspiratorial. ]

You could make terrible trouble for us if you so chose, I suspect. - And I would never call you old.

[unshut]

And yet I am. I consider it one of my finest qualities, you know.

[Certainly a rare one. All things considered. She cheerfully pinches the back of his hand.]

But I wouldn't expect you to understand such a thing.

[bouchonne]

[ With a false simper: ]

Because I am so fresh and youthful?

[ He feels older every day. Thirty-six. ]

[unshut]

[The smile she gives him in reply is warm, though here there is some measure of reserve. Something like that, but consider more seriously—]

And because it is something like a matter of professional pride, and you and I have been employed very differently, I think. A bird doesn't appreciate what a fish does.

[bouchonne]

Which of us is the bird, in this case, and which the fish?

[unshut]

You know I can't stomach being on the water.

[She wrinkles her nose.]

Though come to think of it, I'm no lover of heights either. Perhaps a scorpion and a housecat would be a better analogy, hm? You do like to be scratched behind the ear.

[bouchonne]

Madame. I am shocked.

[ He shakes his head at her. ]

Here I am, a good Fereldan fellow, and you're not even tempted by dog?

[unshut]

Give my creativity some credit, Messere! [is all matching mock outrage.]

Anyway, you are far too nimble to be a hound. I'm afraid you must accept the offense to your patriotic sensibilities.

[bouchonne]

And insufficiently noble. I suppose a slinking creature of the night suits me well.

[ And, easily: ]

Better by far than scorpion suits you. Honestly.

[unshut]

[She hums, the line of her chin rising with her eyebrows.]

Do you have a better suggestion?