transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[ It is about the time that she would have expected a sound knock at the door, though it isn't her intention to keep her guest waiting — it's merely that this house is really more of a mansion and it takes her a bit longer to clear the space from one side of it to the other, but gone is the carefully laced and buttoned woman from this morning, even if the length of her gown still swirls around her ankles with every step.

Instead, she's donned a different dress, arms and shoulders rendered bare by its cut with the theory that she may need to keep her hands free of any interference from long sleeves, her hair not quite as severely pinned of the back of her neck with a few rebellious strands drifting down already of their own volition. Idly, she smooths her hands over the sheer drape of her skirt and reaches for the door, slippers a quiet sweep against the floor when she steps back to reveal the new arrival standing on the front stoop. ]

Welcome.

[ She offers a smile this time, a note of fondness visible in it, and moves to afford the other woman space to enter. ] Please, come in. May I take anything for you?

( Oh.

Every time she beholds Miss Ives, as she now knows her to be, she seems an entirely different iteration of herself. A mystery woman thriving on instinct, an embodiment of propriety almost stern dignity, and now this more relaxed vision. The loose strands of hair are oddly tantalising, though she does not allow her gaze to linger overlong.

Unfastening a couple of ties, she’s able to slide her shoulder cloak away, holding it out to her host. )

Thank you. ( The sword she does not remove, though she indicates it with her hand. ) Is it agreeable to you that I remove this from my person only when we are in the correct room? I prefer it to be within easy reach, lest some matter take us by surprise.

( work work work )

Of course.

[ It is an impressive weapon, what she can determine of it from this angle, although it seems impolite to request a closer look especially while they're still occupying this space in the foyer; she will take the cloak, however, carefully folding it over one arm before moving to hang it up inside the hall closet for easy retrieval later on, and then steps back to stand in front of the other woman with a small gesture to the house itself. ]

It's rather a bit large for my tastes, but it actually belongs to a dear friend of mine, and when we contracted — well, it's been something of a relief to have so much space available when several of us occupy the residence now.

[ At last count, there are four who dwell here, including herself; she briefly weighs over whether to ascend the staircase leading up before electing to steer them into the drawing room instead. ]

Would you care for something to drink first, before we begin? We have tea, water, coffee. Stronger options. [ As if the tray of various decanters sitting a short distance away wasn't obvious enough on its own. ]

( It is a very strange thing, being here in the home of the woman who had been so long a mystery. A name and an address to go with the memories that were branded on her. Herian had wondered, briefly, if that would make their acquaintance somehow mundane, commonplace. It seemed a so silly a thought, now she is here.

She makes a sound of quiet amusement. )

Sincere apologies--

( Herian shakes her head as they walk, slightly embarrassed. ) Coffee is a far-flung luxury, in my world. It remains... so strange, for it to so commonplace a thing.

( She looks to the decanters, gaze lingering a moment before she looks back to the hostess. )

Have you wine? If that is not too great a presumption.

Edited 2019-10-30 10:43 (UTC)

I've never really preferred it, to be quite honest. It's not the drink of choice in my world. People tend to veer towards a stronger tea, though there are other avenues, of course.

[ She'll wait, not quite poised on the answer of whatever her guest will decide — but letting her attention linger in turn, perhaps an extra beat or two. ]

Do you have a preference for red or white? [ It isn't anything she must use great effort to secure; like many of the other rooms in this house, Dorian's wine cellar is nothing short of impressive and offers plenty of choice. The intent is to provide something that will aid in relaxation, and wine would certainly do the job. ]

I have not yet tried it. ( Faintly conspiratorial, she leans forward, as though a whisper were necessary for privacy, as though this were some great secret. )

Knights are not always so bold as we would wish it believed.

( Terrible, dangerous, fearsome coffee. A dread adversary, an outright danger. Faintly dramatised, Herian sighs. ) I tell myself it is wisdom, but alas.

( Alas, she fears she may be a coward, to withdraw from some possible clash with this terrible entity, coffee. )

Red, please.

Oh, but some of the stories must be rooted in truth.

[ For how many times had she fallen asleep after reading tales of brave knights and bold deeds, before she left her childhood behind and pursued darker narratives? Yet she'd always retained something of a fondness for the poets who wrote of recovered love and happiness achieved, a romantic even in her reading preferences.

She would never dream of encroaching on a warrior's space, especially one who still carries a weapon, but her skirts whisper as she shifts forward, fingers hovering in the air between Herian's sheathed blade and the curve of her hip. ]

You are bold when the occasion calls for it, I think.

[ And she nods in answer to the request, preparing to step over to the cart where she knows at least one bottle is always kept out for either company or the fellow occupants of this house. ]

Some.

( Her tone is ambiguous. By no means will she be clarifying which of the stories, oh no. That would surely not do.

As Miss Ives steps closer, Herian looks towards her. Wonders, briefly, if now is one such moment, only for her hostess to step away once more. A smile tugs very briefly, unseen, at the corner of her mouth. )

I've my moments, certainly. Though oft it seems that it is the outdoors that stir me most to action. To be under the watchful stars, mayhaps, sparks inspiration to great deeds.

The wilderness inspires all sorts of things in us.

[ She murmurs the answer almost like an afterthought, although there comes a moment when her gaze briefly lifts to hold onto the other pair while she reaches for the bottle; she's more than familiar with the adage that one should always let a good red breathe first, but patience has never been her strong suit.

She pours two, stopping at the halfway mark and then sets the bottle back down on the tray, carrying a glass in each hand before holding one out in offering and slowly sinking into a seat on the nearest sofa. ]

Permission, perhaps, to be bold.

( Accepting the wine with a quiet murmur of gratitude, Herian moves to the sofa as well. Her body is still bruised and painful, and sitting is not an act that can be carried out without her muscles making some protest, but she sees it through without betraying the spike of soreness. )

Mayhaps it reminds us of our true state. So much in our lives is... an artifice, constructed to keep us in check. Some aspects for the best. ( Others presumably less so, from her tone. ) We all of us rely on codes to govern us.

( A knight was hardly an exception to that. )

Do you oft rely upon permission, Miss Ives?

Edited 2019-11-01 19:52 (UTC)

[ The slight hesitation before the other woman moves to assume a seat beside her is something that does not escape her notice — and for the first time since Herian arrived, she begins to wonder exactly how much pain has persisted and what could have occurred to leave her in such prolonged discomfort.

The wine will help, to an extent, depending on how much of it she consumes, leaving the body in more of a relaxed state to accept touch, but the state of injury won't become apparent until they're in a more private place to enable removal of more layers. ]

Roles we are meant to play. Or ones that have been assigned to us, whether we agree with them or not.

[ She breathes a small laugh, considering the contents of her glass for a moment, and then lifts the cup to her lips for a measured sip. ]

I suppose in some cases, it may be better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

( Whether we agree with them or not. Aye, that was a matter she knew well. When she and Natasha walked each others dreams - if that could be considered a dream and any less than the truly nightmarish - she had been sharply reminded of choices rended from her. So too had she learned that of the other, a matter that had weighed on her since. They knew so much of each other while, in the same moment, knowing nothing at all. Carefully, as though it were some fragile ornament and not simply a thought, an abstract, Herian wraps the matter up to be set aside, gentle reverence demanding it be given its own time and not considered too lightly or fleetingly in the midst of other matters.

And still there was the matter of this place for consideration. By virtue of nothing at all, Miss Ives was marked by a line down her throat, where Herian was not. Society seemed to hold very different a meaning to many here, but she was raised in such a structure, rank and birth had mattered. She was a knight now, true, though it was the poorest slums that held her origins. Miss Ives was clearly a woman of nobility, and yet it is she who bares the mark to limit her?

For all that she keeps her expression carefully trained and even, the shift in mood is still, perhaps, apparent. )

Are you one inclined to obey, or defy?

( It may be overstepping. It could be flirtation, in their strange way, but there is a focus to how she asks, a watchfulness in considering Miss Ives reaction, her response, how she holds herself. )

inbox for duplicity;

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