Yes, yes, all right. I suppose I have been fully reassured that I may include whatever I like. Although I'm afraid I may have to be rather abstract about the particularities of the research. From Orzammar to Kirkwall is a very long way for a letter to travel unmolested, and I've been instructed to be mindful of the potential of sensitive information falling into the wrong hands. So I apologize in advance for being more opaque than ordinary.
My packet leaves on Friday morning. I'll come to collect Ruadh from you then.
[Which is more or less a representative description of Wysteria's reception of him come week's end.
She's visible from a formidable ways off, perched as she is on some outcropping of the great mountain of luggage and cargo being steadily swung up onto the Guillemot by the packet's handy crew. More notable still is the broad brimmed, slightly floppy straw traveling hat with a bright blue ribbon wound about it and tied under her chin in a remarkably large ribbon. From this auspicious perch, it's very easy to make out a mabari shouldering his way through the dockyard traffic. And where one travels, the other surely follows—]
Ah, there you are Mister Ellis! [She raises her hand to flag his attention (as if she doesn't have it already).] I was beginning to think I might miss you!
There is no suppressing the fond amusement in his expression upon surveying her, even from some distance. And with Ruadh parting the crowd, there is a delay of mere minutes before Ellis has made his way to the foot of her perch.
Ruadh sets to sniffing a circle around the bottom of the crates and packages. Ellis looks up at her, thumbs hooking into his pockets.
"I wouldn't miss your send off."
Though it is inevitable that guard duty delayed him on this day, when there was such a particular demand on his time.
With a great shifting of skirts and careful assessment of her chosen descent route, Wysteria (in her very sensible, much battere field boots), picks her way gingerly down from her lookout post. If going down is slightly more treacherous than scaling up had been, no trepidation makes itself known in her appearance. With a last decisive hop and a jangle of chains from the chatelaine pinned at her waist, she touches down on the dock.
"I trust my companion has made himself ready for travel."
"All this? Good gods, no!" Her laugh is bright and high, a genuine peal. Seemingly automatic and without thinking, Wysteria leans partly down to pat Ruadh on his broad back as he snuffles about the edges of her skirts.
"No, I've just the two trunks there. You see, those. They're the ones we pulled out of the attic some months ago. I'd thought to back a whole other case with more dresses, but I rather suspect I'm unlikely to find my way to any parties so thought it best to forego. I find it best not to travel with more boxes than one has hands to hold on to, lest they wander off while you're not looking."
The pat is all the encouragement needed for Ruadh to finish his circuit of inspection and sway his weight against her hip, satisfied with both Wysteria's attention and the results of his work.
"Have you put any weapons into one of those chests?"
"I've the parasol Mister Stark gave me"—the one with the trim little sword hidden in its handle, not that Wysteria has ever had much practice stabbing much of anything with it—"And my field knife. Though I'll be traveling with a party, and expect no trouble to come to us. See there, the pair in the leather cuirass. They're two of my traveling companions in addition to Smith Vanderak's cousin."
Wysteria raises her hand from patting Ruadh's big block head to point out two dwarves in leather armor on the boat's deck, a man and a woman, overseeing the transfer of goods from the dock to the hold. Their prudent collection of knives and hatchets are visible from a distance, as are their prominent tattoos. Carta? Hard to say from a distance. Surely not.
Wysteria's hand returns to Ruadh once more between the ears.
Subjected to Ellis' scrutiny, both dwarves seem to past muster. Enough so that Ellis doesn't cross the dock to press them specifically on their ability. (The tattoos do not go unnoticed, but that is an objection to raise at another time. Perhaps when Wysteria has returned.)
Beneath her hand, Ruadh's head lolls upward encouragingly.
"You always reassure me of that," Ellis tells her, and does not remind her of the variety of kidnappings. Or the mission where her shard nearly killed her. But they are both on his mind.
And it all has been perfectly well, otherwise she wouldn't be standing here now would she? Some might say that Wysteria has, definitively, never been entirely wrong a day in her life.
"I would like to, yes. I have hopes that the work with Vanderak will produce some interesting possibilities that I think Aldrich would find— well, quite foolish, I'm sure. But also interesting, and I should like his opinion on one or two things before I pursue them too seriously."
Here, she drops her voice to a parody of a hush—not too quiet, lest it be entirely lost on the scuffle of the dock, but hopefully not so clear as to carry.
"You remember that dream with the flying ships, of course." Of course he does. "—So if you've any message to deliver, I would be most happy to deliver it for you."
Flying ships. Of course he remembers. Of course Wysteria plans on making such a thing her particular project, now that she's managed her gun.
"Only that he should offer you tea," Ellis says. "Before he starts pressing you about the details."
The last time Aldrich offered Ellis anything, it was when Ellis was still mostly bandage and his armor was in ruins. He forcibly rejected the concept of social niceties long before either of them were born.
"And that he should give you whatever help you need," as an almost unnecessary addition. Aldrich would grumble, but Ellis can't imagine he'd turn her away.
There is something in that request which makes the line of her smile flex with amusement. It doesn't quite manifest into a laugh, but it's clear that the impulse is there, bright behind the eyes.
She is not laughing at him. Not really.
"How enduringly selfless you are, Mister Ellis. No souvenirs, no special requests from my correspondence, the loan of your dog, and the good will of your friend. One of these days, I will successfully trick you into asking for something you want and I'll be very pleased with myself over it."
But lest they linger over this outright threat unecessarily—
"You will take care of Mister Stark while I'm away, of course."
The attention given to her in this moment, observing all the brightness in her face, the widening of her smile—
It shifts something in his expression. Brief, finding no purchase, only a passing, tender thing that comes and goes almost helplessly in response. He is so fond of her good cheer, even if some aspect of it comes at his expense.
"Aye," is easy reassurance, deferring away from the topic of any possible thing Ellis might want. (It catches in his throat, held in check still.) "And Mr. Dickerson. And the chickens, and any other animals I might find alongside them."
Theoretically only the goat and the dog. But who can say what else might end up in residence?
There will, in fact, soon be a giant ant of the Donarks moving into most permanent residence there in the second cellar largely dug in Ellis' absence, nearing completion now finally now that the ground has unfrozen enough for the pair of dwarven contractors hired to finish the work. But Veronique has for some time been such a forgone conclusion in her mind that the matter of the ant's introduction to the chickens and goat and various dogs and indeed even Ellis or Mister Stark slips her mind entirely in favor of horror and dismay.
"If I come back from Orzammar and find a cow, or a gaggle of geese, or a big fat pig that you don't mean to turn immediately into bacon in the side garden, I will be very cross with you!"
She balls up her fist, but gets only as far as threatening to drum him on the chest with it. You—!
"Come now, have you any notes for me with respect to your friend? I told you I know nothing at all about dogs."
(Nevermind that Déranger has taken to sleeping at the foot of her bed, and will no doubt spend the rest of the summer in the morose state of having to put up with the sub-optimal company of various people more dull than the screeching young lady she ordinarily takes such care in herding.)
This minor show of outrage only manages to be endearing. (Ellis is adept at distinguishing a show of temper from the real thing.) The smile that comes is muted, quieted due to proximity of her departure, but present.
Between them, aware of the shift in conversation topic, Ruadh huffs and butts his head against Wysteria's hip. Leans all his weight against her thigh, licking his chops. Ellis resists the urge to kneel down to him.
"He'll help you," is what he says instead, which Ellis clearly feels is a reassuring statement. "He'll need chicken livers. Fish will do, on the voyage. Bones to gnaw on in the evenings. He likes an egg, from time to time."
A refined palate.
"And he'll like to accompany you, wherever you're going."
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[ hearing, reading. ]
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My packet leaves on Friday morning. I'll come to collect Ruadh from you then.
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Would you let me see you off?
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[ And so, it's settled. ]
I'll be by later. For the chickens.
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[Which is more or less a representative description of Wysteria's reception of him come week's end.
She's visible from a formidable ways off, perched as she is on some outcropping of the great mountain of luggage and cargo being steadily swung up onto the Guillemot by the packet's handy crew. More notable still is the broad brimmed, slightly floppy straw traveling hat with a bright blue ribbon wound about it and tied under her chin in a remarkably large ribbon. From this auspicious perch, it's very easy to make out a mabari shouldering his way through the dockyard traffic. And where one travels, the other surely follows—]
Ah, there you are Mister Ellis! [She raises her hand to flag his attention (as if she doesn't have it already).] I was beginning to think I might miss you!
hauls prose in here
There is no suppressing the fond amusement in his expression upon surveying her, even from some distance. And with Ruadh parting the crowd, there is a delay of mere minutes before Ellis has made his way to the foot of her perch.
Ruadh sets to sniffing a circle around the bottom of the crates and packages. Ellis looks up at her, thumbs hooking into his pockets.
"I wouldn't miss your send off."
Though it is inevitable that guard duty delayed him on this day, when there was such a particular demand on his time.
"Will you come down to me?"
Doing the lord's work
With a great shifting of skirts and careful assessment of her chosen descent route, Wysteria (in her very sensible, much battere field boots), picks her way gingerly down from her lookout post. If going down is slightly more treacherous than scaling up had been, no trepidation makes itself known in her appearance. With a last decisive hop and a jangle of chains from the chatelaine pinned at her waist, she touches down on the dock.
"I trust my companion has made himself ready for travel."
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Close in as she ascends, returning to his sides while Ruadh circles her, sniffing along her hem. Aware of being discussed, and unconcerned with it.
"Aye, he's ready," Ellis answers. "And I can assume it's a journey he's made before."
All roads lead to Orzammar for a Warden, sooner or later.
"Is all this yours?"
Could Wysteria fill an entire ship with equipment? Yes.
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"No, I've just the two trunks there. You see, those. They're the ones we pulled out of the attic some months ago. I'd thought to back a whole other case with more dresses, but I rather suspect I'm unlikely to find my way to any parties so thought it best to forego. I find it best not to travel with more boxes than one has hands to hold on to, lest they wander off while you're not looking."
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"Have you put any weapons into one of those chests?"
Ha, ha. (But really.)
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Wysteria raises her hand from patting Ruadh's big block head to point out two dwarves in leather armor on the boat's deck, a man and a woman, overseeing the transfer of goods from the dock to the hold. Their prudent collection of knives and hatchets are visible from a distance, as are their prominent tattoos. Carta? Hard to say from a distance. Surely not.
Wysteria's hand returns to Ruadh once more between the ears.
"So all will be perfectly well."
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Subjected to Ellis' scrutiny, both dwarves seem to past muster. Enough so that Ellis doesn't cross the dock to press them specifically on their ability. (The tattoos do not go unnoticed, but that is an objection to raise at another time. Perhaps when Wysteria has returned.)
Beneath her hand, Ruadh's head lolls upward encouragingly.
"You always reassure me of that," Ellis tells her, and does not remind her of the variety of kidnappings. Or the mission where her shard nearly killed her. But they are both on his mind.
"Do you plan to see Aldrich while you are there?"
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"I would like to, yes. I have hopes that the work with Vanderak will produce some interesting possibilities that I think Aldrich would find— well, quite foolish, I'm sure. But also interesting, and I should like his opinion on one or two things before I pursue them too seriously."
Here, she drops her voice to a parody of a hush—not too quiet, lest it be entirely lost on the scuffle of the dock, but hopefully not so clear as to carry.
"You remember that dream with the flying ships, of course." Of course he does. "—So if you've any message to deliver, I would be most happy to deliver it for you."
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"Only that he should offer you tea," Ellis says. "Before he starts pressing you about the details."
The last time Aldrich offered Ellis anything, it was when Ellis was still mostly bandage and his armor was in ruins. He forcibly rejected the concept of social niceties long before either of them were born.
"And that he should give you whatever help you need," as an almost unnecessary addition. Aldrich would grumble, but Ellis can't imagine he'd turn her away.
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She is not laughing at him. Not really.
"How enduringly selfless you are, Mister Ellis. No souvenirs, no special requests from my correspondence, the loan of your dog, and the good will of your friend. One of these days, I will successfully trick you into asking for something you want and I'll be very pleased with myself over it."
But lest they linger over this outright threat unecessarily—
"You will take care of Mister Stark while I'm away, of course."
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It shifts something in his expression. Brief, finding no purchase, only a passing, tender thing that comes and goes almost helplessly in response. He is so fond of her good cheer, even if some aspect of it comes at his expense.
"Aye," is easy reassurance, deferring away from the topic of any possible thing Ellis might want. (It catches in his throat, held in check still.) "And Mr. Dickerson. And the chickens, and any other animals I might find alongside them."
Theoretically only the goat and the dog. But who can say what else might end up in residence?
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"If I come back from Orzammar and find a cow, or a gaggle of geese, or a big fat pig that you don't mean to turn immediately into bacon in the side garden, I will be very cross with you!"
She balls up her fist, but gets only as far as threatening to drum him on the chest with it. You—!
"Come now, have you any notes for me with respect to your friend? I told you I know nothing at all about dogs."
(Nevermind that Déranger has taken to sleeping at the foot of her bed, and will no doubt spend the rest of the summer in the morose state of having to put up with the sub-optimal company of various people more dull than the screeching young lady she ordinarily takes such care in herding.)
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Between them, aware of the shift in conversation topic, Ruadh huffs and butts his head against Wysteria's hip. Leans all his weight against her thigh, licking his chops. Ellis resists the urge to kneel down to him.
"He'll help you," is what he says instead, which Ellis clearly feels is a reassuring statement. "He'll need chicken livers. Fish will do, on the voyage. Bones to gnaw on in the evenings. He likes an egg, from time to time."
A refined palate.
"And he'll like to accompany you, wherever you're going."
Which is perhaps the biggest imposition.
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