The prosthetic strapped to her shoulder is in irritating distraction in this moment—she is very aware of it as it's squashed slightly between them where, had she her left arm still, she would simply throw that one gamely across his shoulder in much the same fashion as her right one has been. But there is nothing to be done for it and as obtrusive as it might be in these close quarters, it's generally simpler to put the inconvenience out of her mind when presented with the reward of tightening her remaining arm about Ellis and squeezing him with the kind of enthusiasm that borders on comedy.
Yes, she's going to miss him too. And he had truly best take care; she may be the one traveling, but Riftwatch is hardly known for its bodily security even when one is based here in Kirkwall. Who is to say what work he'll be committed to, or what skeletons will come crawling out of the sea, or where Corpyheus will turn should Starkhaven's defenses collapse in the weeks she's due to be away.
For a great deal of her life, worry (the real, legitimate sort) has been as foreign to her as most languages—a thing which other people may practice, but something she has had little reason to bother with. It seems there is something to be said for being forced to learn a thing by being repeatedly exposed to it.
And someone is shouting her name, saying, 'Madame de Foncé! Where is she? Madame de Foncé! Your husband will be here when you get back! I insist that you—'
Wysteria laughs, a bright peal of good humor as she bows back from the press of his face against her neck. She bends far enough back in the circle of his arms to laugh again and pat his cheek before moving to extricate herself entirely.
"Yes, yes. All right! Be well, Mister Ellis. Best of luck with Mister Dickerson. Should you think of anything you do want from Orzammar, please send word and—oh—" She'd nearly forgotten her traveling case there at the foot of the pile of miscellaneous baggage.
"Come, come Ruadh. Oh, and," she is walking partly backwards as if the impatient dwarven merchant waiting at the top of the gangplank is reeling her in with a hook and line, having to raise her voice the farther she gets away from Ellis there in the dock. "I promise to let you and Mister Stark know should anything unexpected happen—"
And so on and so forth, until she at last is hollering 'Goodbye, take care!' from the railing of the Guillemot.
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Yes, she's going to miss him too. And he had
truly best take care; she may be the one traveling, but Riftwatch is hardly known for its bodily security even when one is based here in Kirkwall. Who is to say what work he'll be committed to, or what skeletons will come crawling out of the sea, or where Corpyheus will turn should Starkhaven's defenses collapse in the weeks she's due to be away.
For a great deal of her life, worry (the real, legitimate sort) has been as foreign to her as most languages—a thing which other people may practice, but something she has had little reason to bother with. It seems there is something to be said for being forced to learn a thing by being repeatedly exposed to it.
And someone is shouting her name, saying, 'Madame de Foncé! Where is she? Madame de Foncé! Your husband will be here when you get back! I insist that you—'
Wysteria laughs, a bright peal of good humor as she bows back from the press of his face against her neck. She bends far enough back in the circle of his arms to laugh again and pat his cheek before moving to extricate herself entirely.
"Yes, yes. All right! Be well, Mister Ellis. Best of luck with Mister Dickerson. Should you think of anything you do want from Orzammar, please send word and—oh—" She'd nearly forgotten her traveling case there at the foot of the pile of miscellaneous baggage.
"Come, come Ruadh. Oh, and," she is walking partly backwards as if the impatient dwarven merchant waiting at the top of the gangplank is reeling her in with a hook and line, having to raise her voice the farther she gets away from Ellis there in the dock. "I promise to let you and Mister Stark know should anything unexpected happen—"
And so on and so forth, until she at last is hollering 'Goodbye, take care!' from the railing of the Guillemot.