heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

While the complaint is taken seriously (the line has been observed, and Ellis won't tread over it again) the scolding draws a burst of laughter from him anyway as he is obligingly nudged back into the churn of dancers. It's a barn dance, the kind that necessitates weaving turns in time, but at a less frenetic pace.

Not necessarily conducive to conversation, but still—

Well, there is little that stops Wysteria from conversing.

"Forgive me," is easily offered, however sincere the reaction to his offense. The smile hasn't faded as he takes up her hand in his own, right hand glancing along her waist to settle at a respectably middling point. "And advise me how I should make it up to you."

Apart from the dancing, which is something due to her now.

Said in bits and pieces in the snatches of moments where they're close enough to be in contact and to speak over the sound of the rambunctious fiddle and drum while they wind along their various lines—

"I will have to think it over. It is an audaciously bold thing and can't be taken lightly, sir. And you, so pleased with yourself over. I wish you could see your face; your expression is utterly unrepentant. Forgive you," she mutters. Really.

"Maybe I will make you buy me something quite extravagant before we leave Markham. Or demand that you refer to me only by some silly term of endearment, if you're so keen for the whole world to know your business." Adopting a gruff tone in a very poor imitation of him: "'Now my dove, remember to open the vent before experimenting with the caustic soda.'"

"Here's the trouble," Ellis tells her, when he's more or less certain she's finished. "I was planning on doing all of those those things."

Maybe not the endearments. Or maybe not that particular endearment. It doesn't sit right, but in time something will fall into place, and it will likely be so quietly offered that it might not be noticed.

Not that he says any of this. After they've broken apart, looped, and returned again, he continues, "But I am sorry."

Which might be the end of Ellis' contributions, but after a passing round of hand clapping and revolving amongst their fellows, he returns to her with a clarification—

"Only to have embarrassed you. Never to have kissed you."

She can think of no other time when she might be so sincerely thankful for those moments where their conversation is interrupted. It is so much easier to absorb so much pleasantness when it comes along in drips and drabs, punctuated by a whirl of dancers and clapping hands and stopping feet. If he were to say all of it at once--and in the midst of so many people no less--, her face would go such a sustained shade of scarlet that onlookers might grow concerned she was overexerting herself.

As it is, the flush is kept to a perfectly manageable level. It is no more suspect that one might expect dancing to yield (if the young lady weren't so quite accustomed to vigorous work such as hiking all throughout Kirkwall and the surrounding Free Marches, to say nothing of the many long journeys taken by foot throughout jungle and desert in the name of Riftwatch's work).

She is even level headed enough to reply, quite primly indeed, with "Be that as it may, I choose to hold my forgiveness in reserve Mister Ellis." Breaking apart again to serpentine past the dancers to their immediate rights— "In fact," says insists when they join hands again. "You have this evening done me wrong twice over. First making a scene and now undermining my requests by insisting they've already been guaranteed? It's very bad form, sir."

As Ellis lifts their hands, high enough for the adjacent pair to duck through before he circles Wysteria, he manages to school his expression into seriousness. Some bright amusement lingers around his eyes, impossible to completely dispel, but it's a fair approximation of someone concerned about his transgressions.

"No allowances for my Fereldan sensibilities?" is a question with an easily guessed answer. He can hear the ghost of Absolutely not even before he finishes. "Or for honesty when we're considering my penance?"

The flash in her eyes following him round must confirm his suspicions all on its own without, "The first I can give no credit at all, Mister Ellis. But you make a fair point with respect to the second. I suppose it is honorable in a very crude sort of way to beg for a more fair punishment if what I've proposed isn't severe enough."

She offers her hand to have it caught, and then they're off—rollicking down the formed column of dancers.

"What do you believe would be more adequate?"

Nothing is said for a time, as the last weaving rounds between columns ends and the fiddler ends on a squeak of strings. The drummer behind him gives a few experimental, thudding beats before they strike up again and the dance floor breaks between those scattering towards the bar and newcomers wedging themselves into the newly cleared space.

"I don't know," Ellis admits, taking her hands and drawing her back to him. It doesn't sound as if a waltz is forthcoming, but he spins her in a little, improvised box step. He's learned where exactly to set his hand at the bend of her spine, a good middling position, carefully unobjectionable. "What if I give you a promise? I embarrassed you, so later, after we've danced and drank and walked our way back together, you ask me something that will embarrass me."

The way she instantly brightens and then shutters it suggests something has come immediately to mind. In an effort conceal it, Wysteria adopts a strictly cool demeanor and tips up her chin so she might imperiously reply, "That will be sufficient, yes. So long as my other earlier demands are indeed also guaranteed, of course."

The cold fixture of her expression slips just a little, corner of her mouth twitching toward a laugh that she channels instead squeezing his hand as they integrate themselves into the new set of dancers on the floor.

She will only have another drink or two, Wysteria decides, as she must keep her wits about her and make the most use of this leverage he has gifted her.

So, a successful offering. He thinks again of her very serious warning, I'm going easy on you, Mr. Ellis, and considers that she might not go so easily on him when they make it back to their lodgings.

"Of course," he agrees, no hesitation over the assurance because he'd meant what he'd said to her. All of those things were easily promised. Wysteria had claim on more than that, even if she'd yet to realize the full extent of it.

No endearment yet. It will come to him.

The second reel is set to a lighter tune, involves more trading away of partners than the first. Ellis trades Wysteria for a student with ink-stained fingertips who he trades for a tall woman in bright silks and so on and so on, faces blurring together and one eye always on Wysteria's progress around the assembly until the drum-beat brings them back together in time for the ending of the song.

His fingers lace through hers, fond stroke of his thumb hidden by the position of their hands. Ellis keeps a polite distance between them as he questions, "Another?"

Not the end of the evening, but checking that she's still keen to dance, rather than hoping to sit for a moment and catch her breath.

Another indeed, and this too is a boisterous loping thing though they're never required by it to separate—merely to romp between and about the other partners on the floor in a more or less predictable pattern that is simple, she suspects, entirely to encourage a kind of reckless speed. She holds on to him almost for dear life, actually flush now from the effort as they whirl about to the encouraging shriek of the fiddle and a whistle or two from the sidelines. It makes her laugh, first just once and then a great, bright flashing peal of it which rises and falls breathlessly but never fully stops.

No, when they return to their lodgings she will almost certainly prosecute him to the full extent of her abilities.

When the song ends—punctuated by a fiddle flourish and an excitable drumroll—only to immediate transition into yet another rollicking song, Wysteria groans in good natured defeat.

"You know, I suspect it might be the only pace at which they know how to play."

"Let's give them a little time, and see if they tire themselves out."

It stands to reason they'll do at least one waltz. Perhaps when the hour grows later, and the exuberance of the patrons wears down, grows less receptive to the speeding thud of the drum urging them on. Ellis frequents a very different kind of establishment when he's on the road, but he can't imagine the habits of both dancers and musicians are any different.

His hand spreads across her back, just beneath her shoulder blades.

"Go there, by the open doors. I'll meet you after I've gotten something for us to drink."

Which turns out to be two cups, one water, and one of the same beer she'd brought out to him earlier. He weaves from far side of the bar through the impatiently waiting would-be drinkers and the spillover of dancers bouncing off the dance floor to return to her, assuming to find her more or less where he'd propelled her to.

Wysteria is indeed waiting as directed, tucked in by the wall just inside the open barn doors. She is standing with her hands folded at the small of her back, catching her breath in the warm glow of the high lamplight. She is yet a little flush, especially pink in comparison to the robin's egg blue of her bodice and the cream of her high collared shirt, and she is not alone.

In the minutes it's taken Ellis to fetch a pair of drinks, some sandy haired young man who must be—if the cut of his coat is any indication—a student has engaged her in conversation. They are chattering along, in good spirits. He says something. She laughs, bright as a bell and—

"Oh Mister Ellis!" She sways forward, extending a hand as if to draw him in with it. "Serrah Walden was just complimenting our turn on the dance floor. Isn't that right?"

Serrah Walden, who is slightly narrow in every direction but quite tall to make up for it, lifts his cup and after a moment smiles politely in greeting. "So I was."

Wysteria takes the cup of beer with cheery thanks, and takes an appreciative drink from it.

"Mister Walden was saying he is a rather poor dancer himself, and that he always desired to learn otherwise. Shall I lend you my Mister Ellis, sir? He is a perfectly fit teacher."

They laugh again then, Walden's wandering eye clearly in pursuit of an exit strategy.

Serrah Walden has a few inches of height on Ellis. It's marked quickly, alongside the cut of his jacket and the easy, careless swing of his arms, the flash of soft palm.

He made Wysteria laugh. That's noted too.

Her hands draw him in, and Ellis comes to a halt closer than he needs to be. It's a different kind of close than the way he sometimes stands with her, alert to incoming threats and the need to step quickly between her and an incoming knife. This is some quiet familiarity, maybe an easier missed signal than Ellis' first instincts would have been (a hand at her elbow, set gently at the nape of her neck) but there's no need to make Wysteria uncomfortable.

"I'm at her service," Ellis tells him, eyes very steady on Walden. A beat of scrutiny resolves as he raises the remaining cup and says to Wysteria, "I've water as well," in the same breath as his head turns to her, gaze breaking from his study of their newfound acquaintance.

"Water," she scoffs, all good cheer as she takes another sip from the beer.

"I wouldn't dare impose on your lady's generosity then," Walden insists. The man has a charming smile, quick and lopsided. His attention flicks from Ellis to Wysteria— "Though should your Mister Ellis tire and you find yourself at loose ends..."

He smile flexes, almost apologetic. Wysteria, stood in very close to Ellis' elbow (or vice versa) laughs in reply.

"I will take it under consideration, sir. But it is quite against his character. Isn't that so, Mister Ellis?"

She tips her face up to him, the line of her mouth quirking wide.

Had he not been soundly admonished once already this evening, Ellis might have leaned down to meet her. The impulse diminishes to a small, crooked pull of a smile, grip flexing on the cup of water to stave off looping a hand around her waist. The intent is there, even if it comes to nothing. There's a line somewhere with Wysteria, drawing sharply between what is and isn't allowed in public. Ellis doesn't want to trip over it again, especially not in front of Walden.

It's not lost on him that Walden might be perfectly nice. Maybe even better suited than he is for Wysteria. The hot burn of that knowledge flares up in the back of his head, smolders as he looks back to Walden.

"Aye, it is."

Delivered seriously, or at least, in a staid enough manner to be exaggerated by the environment they're standing in. He wonders just what it is Walden studies, whether or not it's something that would hold Wysteria's attention.

"But it's early yet. I shouldn't rule out the possibility," he allows, more for Wysteria's benefit than Walden's. Maybe Wysteria wants to dance with someone else. Ellis isn't going to warn off her prospects any more than he already has done.

Edited (words) 2021-04-06 04:01 (UTC)

Something in her face flickers, a very brief pinch of her brow that forms and is gone again as quickly as it first appeared. And then she turns her attention back to the rather tall Mister Walden, all smiling and good cheer.

"As the gentleman said. I will fetch you should I find myself without a partner, sir."

She takes a drink of beer all but through her smiling teeth. And in reply Mister Walden flicks a glance between them, adopts his most courteous smile and tips his head. He must be a clever kind, to recognize both a dismissal and an opening so long as he doesn't press.

"Of course. I'll be just there loitering should you need me. Miss Poppell." He nods to Ellis. "Mister Ellis."

And then Mister Walden, he of superior height, is gone. Wysteria's smile lingers for a half beat before being ruthlessly stripped away. She looks to Ellis, something fiery in the point of her attention.

"Really, Mister Ellis."

Was what the wrong thing? It must have been, even if Ellis can't divine exactly what aspect of it fell short of Wysteria's expectations. With Walden's retreat, he's free to turn fully in towards her. On the way to cupping the tin of water in his opposite hand, his fingers graze her wrist, more or less unnoticeable beyond the two of them.

His eyebrows raise, questioning.

"Don't you raise those eyebrows at me. How dare you make me seem so undefended." There is a certain waggishness in it, and to the small way she turns her wrist from his drifting to fingers so she might turn and give his knuckles a little slap. But neither is she fully joking, if the tell tale wrinkle at the corner of her mouth is any indication.

She takes a swig from her cup, shooting a glance in the general direction which Mister Walden had disappeared in, and then pivots back toward Ellis with the faintest realignment of the angle of her shoulders.

"Never mind it. I know you meant nothing by it. Or that it is only a difference between Thedas and other places."

"You're not undefended."

But that's speaking in the very literal sense of the word, not necessarily the same as what Wysteria means now.

The pause that comes after, filled with the stomp of boots on floorboards and someone shouting in time to the thudding of the drum, is space for Ellis to study her face.

Untangling the impulse to step aside is a complicated task. It's likely not meant to be done in a venue like this, if it's done at all.

"You wouldn't have been insulted if I'd been more forceful with him?" is a complicated question too. Or it feels complicated to Ellis, in the moment.

She opens her mouth, breathes in a hitch of air to answer immediately--then pauses, her gaze flitting away and then down into her cup. It's a split second of indecision. Would she have been?

"Well." Maybe. she might have bristled just a little. But perhaps only in the moment. "I hardly expect you to drop everything to drag the man out and fight him in the yard. But a firm word," she resolves. "No, I don't believe that would have been amiss. Unless you truly have no preference on the subject."

She glances back up at him and frowns to cover some spark of embarrassment.

"But I should hope that you do."

"I do."

His hand shifts along the side of the cup, grip breaking to reach for her wrist and skim his fingers along the back of her hand.

"But I trust your decisions."

A truer sentence: I trust you.

"And I wouldn't begrudge you a dance with someone else, so long as you dance the rest of them with me."

She scoffs. But for all that it is a loud, skeptical sound and despite the distinct roll of her eyes as she shifts her attention from him back toward the dance floor, it's clear that he's said the right thing. That she's pleased. No matter that she says, "Really, Mister Ellis. You are quite ridiculous."

With a secondary prim sniff, she drinks further from her cup.

No rebuttal. Ellis smiles instead, letting the conversation lapse while his fingers graze once more up and down the back of her hand before he leaves off.

"Do you think the musicians can be bribed?" he asks instead. What he'd like to ask is if she'd care to go back to their rooms. Her room, his room. The specifics of it don't matter. It's only for the pleasure of being able to touch her without checking himself, and maybe kissing her, just once, before they sleep. But it's early, and Ellis knows without asking that Wysteria intends to dance more.

And so, the consideration of a bribe. Or at least, a heartfelt request from a man whose sweetheart would prefer not to dance another reel just yet.

"I believe all artists can be bribed, Mister Ellis. It is the mark of their trade," she says, settling close against the wall. The clatter of the drum and the stamping of feet across the dance floor is very loud. A woman out there is laughing in the arms of her partner, her dark hair loose and flowing prettily behind her as she's run round.

"The question is only how high their price is, and how many people before you had the idea and have beaten you to making requests."

Wysteria looks to him, holds his gaze for a moment, and then pointedly drops her attention to where she has tucked her spare hand between the small of her back and the wall. Her fingertips are just there, waggling invitingly. Well. If he should care to touch her hand, there are ways to be discreet—

And then her attention drifts back toward the dance floor, the assembly in the hall, and musicians and the dust drifting down from the rafters.

Yes, he does care to touch her hand. A slight smile warms his face as he takes the smallest step forward, reaches to lace their fingers together, neatly out of sight.

"I should have made my demands when we first arrived."

His thumb runs gently over her knuckles as he looks away from her to study the musicians. Which of them would be the better prospect? The fiddler's tunic is very fine, so perhaps he's the sort who needs the extra coin more than his partner.

"I'll know better next time," Ellis says, though he should point out, "It's easier, when it's Bastien we're asking."

More like: it's easier when they're dealing with people who know to be intimidated by Wysteria already.

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